Freedom's Pen

by Wendy Lawton

  The ship bumped something, and several women who’d been standing stumbled against the wall. After so long a time of movement, the ship stood still. It continued to rock on the waves, but it no longer moved through the water.

  Mixed with the shouts of tubaab on deck, Janxa could hear other sounds. She longed to go up on deck but didn’t dare. They heard the sounds of chains running through metal shackles as the men were being brought above deck. After what seemed like a long time, they were directed to go above deck as well.

  “Stay with me,” Janxa whispered.

  “I’m here,” Obour said, tightening her grip.

  The men looked sick—as if there was nothing but skin stretched over their bones. Janxa looked down at her arms. They were probably smaller than they had been when she left Africa. The trip had been hard and the food scarce. It had taken a toll.

  The ship had been tied to the wooden platform on the shore with ropes. A plank had been fixed from the ship to the platform. She heard the tubaab calling the platform a dock. After some new tubaab came up the plank to talk to the chief of the ship, they lined the men up and had them walk down the plank onto the dock. It wasn’t easy. Many of the men were weak and wobbly. She kept watching and squeezing Obour’s hand. If just one of the men fell off the plank, all the men chained to him would follow.

  It took a long time for the men to leave. Janxa saw the tubaab with the writing quill, making marks on his paper.

  Finally it was time for the women and children. Janxa was surprised to find herself wobbly as well. Even when she stepped on land, she felt like she was still on a rolling ship. Did this Boston pitch and roll like a ship?

  The sounds and smells nearly stopped her. People shouted out things in tubaab language. Carts pulled by horses rumbled in the street. She had seen a tubaab riding a horse when they walked with all the captives in Africa, but here horses were everywhere. She saw crates of chickens and other animals she didn’t recognize. And baskets piled with fish. She saw sacks of maize and rice piled on the dock.

  Bur everywhere she looked, she saw writing. As she and Obour followed the women, she saw it marked on the sacks of grain, on pieces of paper fixed to the sides of their huts and walls. She saw a stack of papers with so much writing it looked like ants pouring out of an anthill onto the paper.

  “I want to learn writing,” Janxa said aloud.

  “What’s writing?” Obour said. “Are you already talking tubaab talk?”

  Janxa turned around to take one last look at the ship that took her from Africa. All the people on the dock near the ship covered their faces with cloths. The people of Boston didn’t seem to like the smell of the ship any more than the slaves had.

  As Obour pulled her, urging her to catch up, something caught her eye. There on the side of the ship was writing. PHILLIS, it said. The same writing as Janxa had noticed on her crates. Could it be the name of the ship? Maybe the tubaab put the writing on the crates to match it to the writing on the ship. Then they could get the right crates to the right ship. What a useful thing, this writing.

  “Yes,” Janxa whispered, “I want to learn writing.”

  The Print of His Shoe

  Boston, Massachusetts, July 1761

  How long do you think we’ll stay in this place?” Janxa asked. She looked around the stone building. It was within sight of the slave ship that brought them from Africa. It reminded her of the holding place on James Island.

  “I do not know,” Obour answered, pulling on her ear. “Each day they take a group of us out of here.”

  “Where do you think they take them?” Janxa still sometimes worried about the rumors they’d always heard back in Africa.

  “Do you not know where they go?” One of the men who could speak both tubaab and Wolof spoke. He ‘d been brought in two days ago and explained that he was a slave who had displeased his master.

  “No,” Obour said.

  The man pointed at a paper with writing on it. “It says here that an auctioneer, John Avery, is selling us. Says we’re a parcel of likely Negroes.”

  “You can make out that writing?” Janxa moved closer to where the man was shackled by his feet to the wall. She touched the paper. “I want to learn writing.”

  “You mean you want to read.” The man said the word in tubaab.

  “Read.” Janxa repeated the word. “Now I can speak tubaab.” She couldn’t help smiling, even though she knew she was missing her two front teeth.

  He laughed. “The language is English, not tubaab. The word tubaab is the Wolof word for white men.”

  “English,” Janxa said. “Read English writing.”

  “Now those are the kind of words that can land a slave in trouble,” he said. “Maybe not so much in Boston as down South. If you want to learn to read, you better pray you stay in Boston or points north. Otherwise you don’t stand a chance.”

  “How did you learn to read English writing?” Janxa loved the way the words sounded. The more she said them, the more Obour pulled on her ear, worrying.

  “My first master owned a mercantile and wanted me to help him keep accounts, so he taught me to read.” He stretched his arms over his head and leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his neck. “He was happy I learned to read business papers and keep track of his accounts. He wasn’t so happy when I discovered books.”

  “So people buy slaves to help them work?” Obour asked, changing the subject. Many of the other Wolof-speaking slaves leaned in to listen.

  “Yes. Here in Boston most slaves help in the houses, some in the businesses. Outside the city and down South slaves are needed for field work.”

  “So what are books?” Janxa asked, ignoring the talk of slaves and work.

  The man reached behind him and pulled something out of his waistband. “Come closer,” he said. “This is a book.” He opened the skin covers, and it bloomed like a flower. “There is writing on every leaf.”

  Janxa put out her finger and touched a page. No wonder he called the writing papers “leaves”—they looked like delicate dried leaves. “Can you read the English writing?”

  He opened it to a page that fell open easily, and in a deep, resonant voice read, “The waters, indeed, are to the palate bitter, and to the stomach cold; yet the thoughts of what I am going to, and of the conduct that waits for me on the other side, doth lie as a glowing coal at my heart.” He stopped.

  Janxa stood silent for a moment. “Please read a little more.”

  He smiled and read, “I see myself now at the end of my journey; my toilsome days are ended. I am going now to see that head that was crowned with thorns, and that face that was spit upon for me. I have formerly lived by hearsay and faith; but now I go where I shall live by sight, and shall be with him in whose company I delight myself. I have loved to hear my Lord spoken of; and wherever I have seen the print of his shoe in the earth, there I have coveted to set my foot too.”

  “You must be a griot. I do not understand those English words, but that song is beautiful.” Janxa pressed her hands against her chest. “It calls up a longing deep inside.”

  He laughed. “I’m not a griot. They just call me Preacher. The words come from Mr. Bunyan.”

  “Who is Mr. Bunyan?” Janxa asked.

  “He’s the man who wrote this book. The name of the book is Pilgrim’s Progress.”

  “Books have names?” Obour asked.

  “Yes. There are many books, so, like people, they must have names so we can recognize them.” He closed the book, ran his hand across the cover, and tucked it back in his waistband.

  “I want to read Mr. Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress someday,” Janxa said.

  The man people called Preacher laughed again. “I think you will, little one. I think you will read and write.”

  Janxa put her piece of carpet on the floor and sat down. She took her finger and made marks in the dust. PHILLIS. “What does this say?” she asked.

  “It is a woman’s name, Phillis.” Preacher said the word by brushi
ng his teeth on his lower lip. It sounded soft to Janxa.

  “Phillis,” she repeated.

  “The name sounds too soft and gentle for the name of the slave ship that brought us to Boston,” Obour said.

  “You came on the Phillis?” he asked. “It’s not as bad as some. I helped unload it once. It’s not a tight pack—that’s a ship that packs double the slaves in the same space.”

  Obour gave him a look of disbelief.

  “I know the middle passage. I came to America when I was about your age. It’s always filled with horror and loss. It doesn’t change no matter how tight they pack it, but the death toll is heavier on a tight pack.”

  Janxa stopped listening, picked up her carpet, and moved to the other side of the room.

  “What’s the matter with your friend?” Preacher asked Obour.

  Janxa saw Obour hesitate before answering. “She doesn’t want to remember.”

  Preacher had been right. They were to be sold, and John Avery, the auctioneer, did the selling. On a warm morning, Janxa, Obour, three men, and two women were taken out of the room in which they’d been waiting.

  Two English-speaking slaves came and rubbed them with oil, just like Maamanding used to rub the little boys with palm oil. The oil here did not smell like palm oil, though. The man called John Avery lined all of them up on a platform. All around them people talked tubaab. No, Janxa corrected herself—it was English they spoke. Much of the talk was loud and rude. John Avery kept pointing and poking and speaking fast. Sometimes people asked to see inside one of the slaves’ mouths and to run hands down their arms and backs. Janxa turned her head so she wouldn’t see.

  The men sold first. Janxa closed her eyes after she saw the first man unshackled from the others and led away with a rope like a goat.

  “Stay with me, Obour,” Janxa whispered. Her chest heaved as she tried to breathe.

  “Don’t do this now, Janxa.” Fear colored Obour’s voice. “Relax. Remember what Faja said. Think about home.”

  Janxa took her piece of carpet and pressed it to her chest. Think about home, about Africa. She remembered the excitement caused by the arrival of the griot and his stories. Breathe slowly. She remembered longing to create praise songs herself—how she wanted to become a griot. She tried to mouth the words to the praise song she had written:

  From your mother’s side you walked.

  You feared not the predator.

  You walked in trust.

  You never knew, you never saw, you never felt.

  I hold the memory of you forever.

  She repeated the words over and over in her mind and slowly her breath returned.

  She saw a well-dressed woman pull on her man’s sleeve and point to Janxa. Her breath caught again. She pulled her carpet closer to her body to cover herself. Don’t do this. Be strong. Breathe.

  The man asked a question in English, and the auctioneer answered. It went back and forth. The auctioneer called the man John Wheatley.

  Janxa tightened her grip on Obour’s hand.

  After much talk, John Wheatley took a pouch out of his clothing and handed silver coins to the auctioneer, who pushed Janxa toward the man. Since Janxa would not let go of her friend, Obour trailed behind her.

  The auctioneer yelled something at Obour and yanked her away, pulling Janxa off balance. Another man came forward with money. He must have asked the price for Obour, because he ended up handing coins to the auctioneer for Obour.

  The two girls stood close together as Janxa’s new master, John Wheatley, greeted Obour’s master.

  “They are friends,” Obour whispered as she squeezed Janxa’s hand. “We will not have to say good-bye forever.”

  “You must learn to read English,” Janxa said as Obour’s master began moving away. “I will send you writing.”

  Janxa watched her friend walk down the dock until she couldn’t see her any longer.

  The woman, her new master’s wife, wrapped a shawl around Janxa and helped her get into the cart they called a carriage. Janxa could feel kindness in her touch. It confused her. This was not how slaves were treated in Africa or on the ship.

  Everything was strange—the way the woman smelled, the feel of the carriage, the people—everything.

  The woman spoke to John Wheatley and then to Janxa. Janxa couldn’t understand what she said. How would she know what to do until she learned English? The woman repeated the question more slowly and a little louder. Janxa heard a familiar word—name. The tubaab who did the writing on the ship used this word when he was making marks for each slave.

  Janxa smiled. “Name,” she repeated.

  The woman knitted her brows together, and then her face eased. She put her hand on her chest. “Mrs. Wheatley,” she said.

  Janxa understood. This woman was Mrs. Wheatley. Janxa pointed her hand toward the woman. “Mrs. Wheatley,” she repeated. “Missus” sounded so soft, just like this woman.

  The woman said something else to the man and then looked back at the dock where the ship was still tied. She smiled and pointed to Janxa. “Phillis,” she said.

  Janxa looked back at the slave ship and shuddered. She could smell the stench of it from this distance. Naming had been so important among her people. It made sense to have a new name for a new life—but Phillis?

  She put her finger down on the seat beside her and traced the name Phillis, starting with the first mark P and tracing until the last mark. “Phillis,” she said and put her hand on her chest.

  Mrs. Wheatley’s eyes opened wide. She said something to John Wheatley, and he stepped down from his seat and came back to where Janxa sat.

  She tapped her finger on the seat where Janxa had made the mark and said, “Phillis.”

  Janxa traced the marks again and said “Phillis.”

  John Wheatley stood silent for a moment before he began talking to Mrs. Wheatley. He climbed back up on his seat, and the driver flicked the reins and started the carriage moving.

  Janxa considered her new name. Instead of thinking about the ship, she would think about writing every time she heard her new name. She longed to learn writing and to learn to read all the writing in Boston. She wanted to read a book. She wanted to read Mr. Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress.

  In this America she was Phillis. She reached her hand down to make sure her piece of carpet was still beside her. While she lived in Boston, she would not think of herself as Janxa again. She would save that name for her family—for Africa. Maybe someday she would find her father or see her mother and brothers again. Then she would be Janxa. She wondered if the griot had already made a song for Janxa. She might never know.

  But she didn’t think there were any griots in America. If Phillis were to be remembered, she’d have to make the song herself. Maybe she could make the song with writing.

  Neither Fish nor Fowl

  Boston, 1762

  Phillis had lived with the Wheatleys for more than a year when the Tanners, Obour’s master and his family, came to visit from Newport. Phillis had been looking forward to the day for more than a fortnight. The Tanners had arrived late the night before. They brought some of their own slaves to help with the work. Obour was one of them.

  Phillis hadn’t dared go to sleep that night. She knew it would take time for the Tanner party to make their way to Boston on a schooner and then pack everyone in hired carriages for the ride to the Wheatley house.

  The candle in Phillis’s room had burned low by the time she heard a knock at her attic door. The Wheatley housekeeper, Lucy, opened the door and said, “The missus says this girl is to sleep in your room.”

  Obour walked in, dropped her bundle on the floor, and ran to hug her friend. Both girls talked at once. Lucy looked at the two of them, put a hand on her hip in disgust, and left the room. She closed the door a little too loudly.

  “You have a room to yourself with a fire and candles?” Obour walked around the room touching everything. “I can’t believe my eyes.”

  Phillis un
derstood the unspoken comparison—from the wretched slave ship to the Wheatley mansion. Sometimes she had to pinch herself as well.

  They talked until they could no longer keep their eyes open. By the time they crawled into bed, they still had more questions for each other.

  “Don’t you need to go help the cook or help prepare the dining room?” Obour paced. They’d had breakfast brought up to them on a tray that morning by a sulky Lucy. Obour carried the tray down to the kitchen and tied an apron around her waist. The cooks were out picking fresh vegetables in the kitchen garden.

  “No,” Phillis said. “I don’t have many household duties.”

  “What do you do all day long?”

  “Mary Wheatley tutors me, and I study.”

  “That is strange.” Obour shook her head.

  “I know. Sadie, our cook, keeps saying, ‘It’s just not fitting.’” Phillis wagged her finger, mimicking the cook. “I’ve given up trying to figure out what is and is not fitting. When I first came here, I didn’t understand a thing. And it wasn’t just the language—the ways were so different.”

  “I know,” Obour said. “Wasn’t it hard trying to work out what we were supposed to do when you couldn’t understand a single word of English?”

  “Everything seemed so strange. It was another world. Can you imagine what I thought when the carriage pulled up to this house?”

  In Africa, Phillis had seen only huts and the stone holding cells of James Island. When they had walked down the plank at the Beach Street Wharf in Boston, she had seen her first brick building. But to have the carriage pull up at the portico of one of the finest mansions in Boston … well, it left her stunned. Phillis found she had trouble catching her breath again. She ended up gasping for air.

  She didn’t understand the words then, but now she understood that Mrs. Wheatley was worried about her breathing. She remembered one word, asthma.