Freedom's Pen

by Wendy Lawton

  “Why do you spend so much time writing about those who’ve died?” she would ask.

  Phillis never did explain it. How could she? How did you explain what you learned from a dead gazelle calf hanging from a tree or people being thrown off a slave ship because illness was suspected? Perhaps it had to do with losing your father, mother, and brothers when you were only seven years old. Whatever it was, Phillis had learned to see death as a gateway.

  She didn’t believe death was final. The Bible spoke clearly on that. Nothing made sense in life until you understood that. Death was the gateway to eternal life. As soon as Phillis heard about a death in her church or among their friends, she longed to comfort the survivors by trying to give them a glimpse of their loved one in eternity.

  Tonight was no different. She began to write:

  The blooming babe, with shades of death o’erspread,

  No more shall smile, no more shall raise its head,

  But like a branch that from the tree is torn,

  Fall prostrate, wither’d, languid, and forlorn.

  She put her pen down and blotted her words. She didn’t know if Lucy would accept her words. If only she’d be comforted. She dipped her pen again and kept writing:

  “Where flies my James?” ‘tis thus I seem to hear

  The parents ask, “Some angel tell me where

  He wings his passage through the yielding air?”

  Methinks a cherub bending from the skies

  Observes the question, and serene replies, “

  In heav’ns high places your babe appears:

  Prepare to meet him, and dismiss your tears.”

  Phillis kept writing long into the night. When she finally finished the elegy she recopied it, blotted it, folded it, and tied it with a black ribbon.

  Morning came too soon. Phillis woke with a tapping on the door. “Come in.”

  Lucy came in with a breakfast tray. Her eyes were swollen and she shuffled as she moved.

  “I did not expect you this day,” Phillis said. What a thoughtless thing to say, she thought. Lord, help me.

  “I didn’t know what else to do with myself.”

  “Lucy … I’m so sorry. I’m—”

  “Sadie told me you served last night and cleaned up so she could be with me.” Lucy folded her hands. Her head hung. “I wanted to say my thanks.”

  Phillis went over to the desk to get the elegy. “I wrote a poem for your James last night.” She held it out, but Lucy didn’t take it.

  “For my baby? You wrote a poem for our James?” Lucy sat down hard in the chair near the bed. “No one ever wrote a poem for a slave baby before, did they?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think of him that way.”

  Lucy was quiet for a long time. “Will you read it to me? I can’t read.”

  Phillis untied the ribbon and began to read. As she read, the tears ran down Lucy’s face, but she didn’t make a sound.

  When she finished, Lucy asked, “Read the line about heaven’s high places again.”

  Phillis read: “In heav’ns high places your babe appears: Prepare to meet him, and dismiss your tears.”

  “It is the most beautiful poem I ever heard.” She took a handkerchief out of her pocket and blotted the tears on her face and blew her nose. “This morning I woke up not knowing how I could live without my little boy. Now I know. We need to prepare to meet him.”

  Phillis tied the ribbon around the poem.

  “Will you tell me what I need to do to make sure I’ll be with James in heaven someday?”

  When Lucy left the room a while later, Phillis knew her prayers had been answered—not in the way she would have chosen, but she wasn’t about to start questioning God about why He did the things He did. Once you started that, you could keep going in circles forever.

  Why did God let James die? Why did God let tubaab capture her father and her? Why did her new country have to continue to struggle for the tiniest bit of freedom? Why did she still live as a slave, when she yearned for freedom?

  She could let those questions rule her life if she fixed on them.

  As she had come to know God, she discovered His love for her. Just as she always trusted her own father without questioning his actions, she needed to trust her heavenly Father.

  After nine years in the Wheatley house, she finally had a friend in Lucy.

  It was barely a fortnight after she read the elegy for Lucy’s son at his funeral that she had to begin another.

  As she came into the library one morning, she found Mrs. Wheatley holding a letter and crying. “The Reverend Whitefield died.”

  “But he was just here.” Despite his asthma, Phillis could sense his vitality.

  “He preached to a huge crowd in a field. He stood atop a barrel to be seen.” She wiped her eyes with the tip of her hankie. “The next morning he died. It was his lungs.”

  “What a loss for us, but what joy there must be in heaven.” Phillis knew she needed to find pen and paper.

  She spent the next days at her desk working on the elegy for this man she admired. When she finally finished it, she brought it down to Mrs. Wheatley and went to take a walk in the garden. How good it was for her grief to work it out on paper.

  When she came back inside, Mrs. Wheatley sat at her desk with the poem. “Can you make two more copies of the elegy?”

  “Yes. I shall do it now.”

  “I want to send it to the Countess of Huntingdon in London. Reverend Whitefield was her chaplain. Mr. Wheatley’s ship sails tomorrow, so I’d like to have it ready.”

  Phillis prepared the copies and gave them to Mrs. Wheatley. The act of writing the poem was her gift to the memory of a man she would never forget.

  Freedom at Last

  Boston, 1771

  Phillis!” Mrs. Wheatley’s voice had carried from the vestibule all the way to the attic.

  Phillis came running down the stairs. Mrs. Wheatley never shouted. In all the years Phillis had lived in the house, if she were needed, her mistress would send someone upstairs to summon her.

  Her heart thudded as she cleared the last step. “Are you ill?”

  “No, child. I didn’t mean to alarm you; it’s just that I have the most interesting news.” She held out a letter and waved it in the air like a flag. “This is from Selina Hastings, the Countess of Huntingdon, the London believer who worked on behalf of her chaplain, Reverend Whitefield.”

  “Yes, I remember you telling me about her.” Phillis wished Mrs. Wheatley would get to the news. She so easily became distracted these days.

  “When you copied the elegy you wrote for Reverend Whitefield, I sent one copy to the Countess and another to William Legge, the Earl of Dartmouth.”

  Phillis hadn’t thought about the poem since the day she wrote it.

  “The Countess writes that your elegy has been published as a broadside and is being read by everyone in England.” She emphasized the word everyone. “She says all of England is talking about you.”

  Everyone? Phillis had to go into the parlor and sit down. Mrs. Wheatley followed.

  “She says that it is to be published and distributed here in the colonies as well.”

  “I hardly know what to say.” Phillis was not often at a loss for words.

  “Here is what we shall do …” Phillis recognized Mrs. Wheatley’s tactical voice. Phillis and Mary used to laugh when she began to formulate plans. She hardly stopped to breathe. “You collect and polish your very best poems. We will take out an advertisement in the Boston Censor for a subscription to your book—Poems on Various Subjects.” Mrs. Wheatley clasped her hands together. “As soon as we have enough subscribers, we’ll have it printed and bound.”

  “But with all the trouble and taxes here in Boston, will anyone want to buy a book of poetry?” Phillis asked.

  “We won’t know unless we try.” She tapped her hand against her mouth, looking up to the ceiling before she spoke again. “I shall write the Countess and Dartmouth as well a
bout a possible British edition.” She stood up. “Let’s get to work. You work on compiling the poems; I shall write advertisements and letters.”

  Phillis started work on her collected poems that day.

  Boston, 1772

  Phillis stood in the kitchen, watching Sadie and Lucy sorting squash and pumpkins picked from the garden. They’d be cooking the blemished ones and taking the others into the root cellar to pack down in straw so they would last into the winter months. Phillis hoped Sadie’s pumpkin soup would be on tonight’s menu. Not that she expected to have much appetite.

  “So tell us again, child, what is it you have to do?” Sadie used that voice she saved for things that didn’t make any sense to her.

  “There’s some that just don’t credit a slave could be writing the things our Phillis writes,” Lucy said, answering for Phillis.

  Phillis nodded. “Lucy’s right. There’s too much at stake here. I’ve been called to prove myself before a panel of America’s harshest critics.”

  “How do you do that? Will you sit yourself down in plain sight of all those wig-wearing nabobs and make some poems?” When Sadie stood there, hands on hips and feet solidly planted on the kitchen floor, Phillis recognized her don’t-be-messin’-with-me look.

  “I don’t really know. I think I am to stand before them and they will ask me questions.” Just the thought of it made her heart beat in her throat. The idea of standing in front of all those distinguished men made her twitch. Her chest felt tight.

  The next morning she still fidgeted, standing first on one foot and then on the other, as Prince brought the carriage around for the short ride to her interrogation. Who would have thought she’d have to prove that she wrote the poems herself? Did Milton have to prove his authorship? What about Alexander Pope? Shakespeare?

  She carried the pages on which she had copied the twenty poems she’d polished for her proposed book. Mr. Wheatley helped her into the carriage and then climbed in to sit beside her. She was glad he would accompany her. “You shall do just fine, Phillis. You’ll answer their questions, and they’ll sign an attestation that the poems were, in truth, written only by you.”

  “So my word is not enough?” Phillis didn’t meant to sound cranky. It was just that she was nervous.

  “Phillis, you are a slave. Most people do not believe a slave can even be taught to read, let alone become a celebrated poet. Think, girl, how many women here in the colonies have been published, let alone a slave girl.”

  Phillis hated being reminded she remained a slave. But if she had to be tested by a panel of powerful men, so be it. She shifted the sheaf of papers in her hands so the pages would not become damp from perspiration.

  “Welcome, Phillis, Mr. Wheatley. Please be seated.” His Excellency, Thomas Hutchinson, governor of Massachusetts, presided.

  Phillis looked around the room. She recognized them all. There were several ministers, many statesmen—both loyalists and patriots. She nodded to John Hancock and the Reverend Samuel Cooper, the minister who had baptized her.

  Before she had time to get her bearings, they started the questioning. Once she could see the line of questioning, she relaxed some. They asked questions about her studies. Who was Calliope? Could she name the other muses? What was iambic pentameter? What poets had she read?

  At first she could sense skepticism, but as she answered question after question, she sensed a new respect around the room. She found herself enjoying the examination. She wondered if this is what it would have been like had she been able to have a formal education.

  By the time it was over, she had an affidavit, signed by all eighteen men, attesting that she was the author of the collection. They agreed that a slave had indeed written the poems.

  Boston, 1774

  Phillis felt the smooth wood of the ship’s railing as it made the wide turn into Boston Harbor. So much had happened since the day of that examination. It wouldn’t be the last time someone questioned whether or not a slave girl could have written a poem, let alone a published book of poems. But she had. And in a short time, she’d have that leather-covered book in her hands.

  “Is this your first time sailing into Boston, ma’am?” a sailor asked her.

  “No, but this time it feels as if I’m coming home.”

  It was thirteen years ago a frightened, half-starved African child sailed into Boston harbor aboard that reeking slave ship—a ship of death.

  Not long after that day she saw Susanna Wheatley for the first time. The woman she’d come to love like a mother. Now Phillis was coming back to Boston because Mrs. Wheatley needed her.

  She couldn’t help reminiscing. What was it about a sea voyage that gave one space to think about the whole of life?

  Ever since she could remember, she’d longed to be a storyteller. In Africa, she dreamed of becoming a griot, but it wasn’t until she came to America that she discovered written language. How she fell in love with words!

  The Lord knew all along what He had in store for her—from that first longing to create a song for a gazelle. She took one small step after another—first learning to read and write, then getting a poem published, and then one poem after another. Each step was part of God ‘s plan.

  The ship’s bell rang and brought Phillis back to the present. For now, she needed to disembark and make her way to the Wheatley house on King Street. It had been a full two months since she received the letter in England telling her Susanna Wheatley was gravely ill and needed her. Phillis had been praying the whole voyage that she’d find her mistress still living. She wanted the chance to care for Mrs. Wheatley now.

  As she came off the ship—very near where she landed the first time she came to Boston—Prince waited with the carriage.

  “Welcome home, Phillis. Welcome home. Let me get your trunk.” He hurried off to the place where the sailors unloaded the luggage.

  Phillis looked at the seat cushions and rubbed her hand across the smooth leather. She remembered hearing her name for the first time in this very carriage, and taking her finger and marking out the letters PHILLIS.

  “I stowed your luggage,” Prince said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “It’s a shame your time in London was cut short, but I’m glad you’re back. The Missus kept asking for you.”

  “I’m glad I’m back as well.”

  “Did you get your books?”

  “No, I had to return before they finished printing them. They should follow soon.” Phillis couldn’t believe her book was being published. So far the American version hadn’t sold, but soon she ‘d have the British version.

  “Is Nathaniel well?” Prince asked. He had been with the family since Nathaniel and Mary were toddlers.

  “Yes, he’s well and happy. I left him in London.” The carriage bumped over the cobbles. “I’m beginning to think he won’t be coming back to America to live. I think he’ll run the business from London.”

  “You don’t think he wants to be an American?”

  Phillis didn’t know for sure, but she didn’t sense that passion in him for this new country. “I don’t think so.”

  “Miss Mary and her preacher husband, they are patriots. I hope they keep themselves out of trouble with the British.”

  “How is Mary?”

  Prince paused. “I think she’s troubled with illness much of the time, but to hear her tell, you wouldn’t know it.”

  They pulled up in front of the house. Sadie and Lucy came out to greet her.

  “Land, child. You look mighty good. We been missing you around here.” Sadie put arms around her and squeezed. “Um, um, um, you didn’t add much meat to those bones.”

  Lucy stepped up and gave Phillis a kiss. “I prayed every day that God would keep you safe.”

  “I’m so glad to be home.” How good that word sounded. Home. “How is Mrs. Wheatley?”

  “She’s weak, but she keeps on asking for you. The closer the time came for your homecoming, the more she perked up.” Sadie laughed. “I don’t think s
he ‘d dare miss getting that book of yours.”

  “Besides,” Lucy said, “she wants to hear ‘bout everything you did. Don’t be thinkin’ you can leave anything out of the telling.”

  Phillis thanked Prince for driving her. As she walked into the house, she felt that peace of belonging. Yes, she was home. She headed straight up to Mrs. Wheatley’s room with Lucy and Sadie trailing.

  “You are home!”

  “I am.” Her mistress looked weak. When had she gotten so old?

  “Lucy, will you bring tea and something to eat? I know the child is hungry, but I want to hear everything.” Mrs. Wheatley struggled to sit up. Sadie propped pillows behind her. “I hated to send for you before you had a chance to meet everyone and see the book all the way through the printing, but how I longed for you to be here.”

  “When I heard you needed me, I was only too glad to come home.” Phillis smiled at Sadie as the cook silently took her leave.

  “We originally sent you to London for your health. Did the sea air help?”

  Phillis rubbed her chest absently. “I don’t know if it did or not. I just know I’m happiest here at home.”

  “Did you meet the Countess?”

  “No. I didn’t have the opportunity. She’d gone to her home in Wales.” Phillis could sense Mrs. Wheatley’s disappointment. “But I did meet ever so many others, including Benjamin Franklin.”

  “So even though you were only there a few weeks, you had a good visit?”

  “I was the toast of the town.” Phillis laughed. “Can you imagine the consternation—a slave, an African, and a celebrated American poet? England didn’t know what to do with me.”

  “Ah, yes … a slave.” Mrs. Wheatley reached toward a small box on the table next to her bed and took out an envelope. “About that … Mr. Wheatley helped me draw these up. It’s for you.” She handed the packet to Phillis.

  Phillis opened the envelope and took out the documents. She stopped at the first page and looked at Mrs. Wheatley. She didn’t know what to say. They were her manumission papers. She was a slave no longer. The papers declared her a free woman.