Freedom's Pen Page 5

  Mr. Wheatley had lifted her out of the carriage and deposited her in the kitchen. She had heard Sadie tell the story enough times that she now knew it by heart, but at that moment, she didn’t know who these people were or what they planned to do with her.

  When she caught enough breath to look around, she saw the huge kettle hanging from the open fireplace. It was big enough for her to fit inside without so much as a toe hanging out. She didn’t want to remember what so many in her village thought—that the tubaab captured people to eat them.

  Even as breathless and confused as she was that day, she knew she hadn’t been purchased for food. Preacher, from the holding cell on the Boston wharf, had told them that slaves were bought to work. Besides, she couldn’t forget the kindness of Mrs. Wheatley—how she draped a shawl around her to cover her near nakedness and how gently she treated her.

  “Are you daydreaming again?” Obour asked.

  “I’m thinking of the day I arrived. I was still having a bit of trouble breathing.”

  “Does that continue to plague you?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Wheatley’s doctor says it is the asthma. He says I will always have it, especially in this damp climate. I probably had it in Africa, but he says the dry season would have been perfect for keeping my lungs dry.”

  “Do you suffer much?”

  “I seem to be sick all too often, but I can usually keep the spells from getting as severe as the ones you helped me through. Faja was right. Fear tightens everything. I have to stay calm. Do you remember Faja from the ship?”

  “I do. And I remember the woman who knelt and prayed to Yeesu during your worst attack. Do you remember her?”

  “Yes. As she began to pray, I felt a calmness sweep over me like the wind over the deck of the ship.”

  “You know now who she was praying to, don’t you?”

  Phillis hadn’t thought about it.

  “She was praying to Jesus. Yeesu is his Wolof name.”

  Phillis thought back to that day. Strange. She never connected that prayer to all that she’d been learning here in Boston.

  “Have you heard about Jesus?” Obour folded her hands across her apron, quietly waiting for an answer.

  Phillis could tell from Obour’s seriousness, this was a question she’d been waiting to ask her friend. Phillis smiled. “I spend every day with Jesus now.”

  Her friend looked puzzled. “No, I mean Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Most High.”

  “I was jesting, Obour. Yes, I do know Jesus. I’ve been reading and studying His Word every single day.”

  “You read now?” Obour grabbed Phillis’s hands. “I am so glad for you. Ever since you discovered writing, that was all you ever wanted to do.”

  “I know. We’ve been here sixteen moons—I mean, months—and I can read the hardest passages in the Bible.”

  Obour wrinkled her nose. “Are you certain? The Bible is very difficult, and you are about two years younger than me.”

  “I’m not saying I understand everything, but the reading comes very easily to me. Mary has been tutoring me since my first day. She and Mrs. Wheatley keep saying I’m a prodigy. I’m not boasting, it’s just that I’ve found I have a passion for words.”

  “It is such a strange thing for you to be tutored as if you are a daughter.”

  Phillis knew that now, but not at first.

  When she had arrived that day and Sadie had finally settled her asthma down, she was taken to meet the rest of the family. Mrs. Wheatley pointed to a young woman, tapped her chest, and said, “Mary.” And then to a young man and said, “Nathaniel.”

  Phillis didn’t remember how long it took her to understand that they were twins—the only son and daughter of the Wheatleys—but from the moment Phillis met Mary, she knew she would like her. Mary had the kind of eyes that crinkled into a smile.

  The first thing Mr. Wheatley did was to fetch a piece of paper, an inkwell, and a quill. He said the name, “Phillis,” and tapped the paper with his finger. Phillis had never used a quill, but she ‘d watched the tubaab on the ship long enough to know how he dipped, wiped, and scratched the marks. She tried it and landed a blot of ink on the paper. She wiped again and wrote a shaky PHILLIS.

  She found out later that Mary Wheatley was stunned. She could not comprehend how a sickly slave girl just off a ship from Africa could spell her name in English. Who would have taught her? Her whole life Mary had heard that Negroes could not learn—that they were not the same as whites. As she told Phillis later, if slaves could read and write, were they any less human than their masters? And, if they were fully human, what did that mean for the arguments in favor of slavery?

  Her twin brother, Nathaniel, dismissed it. Mary said he figured it was some kind of trick. He was preparing to go away to finish his education, so he had little time to think about an African child who wrote English or the issue of slavery anyway.

  But Mary couldn’t go away to school. She would stay home. That night she asked her parents if she could tutor Phillis. Mrs. Wheatley thought it a fine idea. As she confessed later, she thought it would be a charming diversion for her daughter. Just a few days ago, before Obour arrived, she told Phillis she had no idea Mary would be such a dedicated teacher or Phillis so gifted at learning.

  But here she was, a little more than a year had passed, and Phillis was telling her friend she could read. How much had changed since they said good-bye at the auction.

  “I’ve been learning to read and write as well,” Obour said.

  “Oh, Obour!” Phillis breathed in deeply. “How blessed we are. You must know how few slaves are allowed to read and write.”

  “I heard that down South it is against the law to teach slaves to read.”

  Ever since Phillis understood enough English to overhear conversations, she’d heard cautionary tales about life for slaves down South.

  “Um, um, um,” Sadie would say, shaking her head. “You don’t want to end up sold down South. Some of my people come from plantations down there, and there’s a meanness you don’t want to be knowing nothin’ about.”

  Phillis knew how fortunate she and Obour were to be in Boston—if living as slaves could ever be considered fortunate. But even more, they had been blessed to find themselves in the Wheatley and Tanner families. Not many slaves were in a similar circumstance.

  “Come,” Obour said. “Let’s go to the kitchen garden to see if the cooks need any help.”

  Phillis was ashamed to say that she didn’t know how to help, and so she followed along.

  “Can we help?”Obour asked.

  Sadie looked at the two girls and laughed. “You might be able to help, Obour, but that Phillis is no bigger’n a mite. She don’t know a thing about kitchen work or garden work.”

  Obour’s cook, Dorry, laughed—a big, warm friendly laugh. “Well, she’d be old enough to work in my kitchen.” She gathered up three big pumpkins in her arms and walked inside. Obour picked up the squash they had picked and followed. Phillis trailed after Sadie.

  Dorry picked up a knife off the table, wiped it on her apron, and started working on the pumpkins. “When Obour came to us, she was half-starved and couldn’t speak nothing but some African heathen tongue, but I managed to put her right to work.” She stopped and handed Obour a bowl and a large spoon and gestured at the pumpkin halves. “She’s a good help, especially now that she speaks English.”

  Obour started scooping the seeds and slimy strings out of the pumpkin.

  “When Phillis first came, Master deposited her in the kitchen in the middle of an asthma attack. It was all I could do to steam the tightness out of that girl and get her breathing again.” Sadie talked about Phillis as if she wasn’t there.

  “Makes you wonder,” Dorry said, almost to herself, “why anyone would spend good money on a sickly child.”

  Phillis didn’t say anything. Dorry wasn’t being cruel. It was a fair question. Phillis had wondered the same thing many times.

  “I asked the missus
that myself one time,” Sadie said. “Missus Wheatley said that when she saw Phillis clutching a ragged piece of carpet, struggling to breathe with barely anything left on her bones, she got that catch in her heart.” She laughed. “You know about that catch in my mistress’s heart, don’t you?” She lifted the dough she was kneading, spread a handful of flour on the board, and smacked the dough back down, resuming her rhythmic motion—heel of the hands pushing forward, fingers pulling back. “She says it is God’s way of getting her to do something.”

  Phillis had never heard the reason that Mrs. Wheatley asked Mr. Wheatley to buy her. She knew they intended to find someone to lend a hand to Mrs. Wheatley, but even Phillis knew you don’t pick a sickly, scrawny seven-year-old to be a companion-helper.

  “Truth be told, that catch in her heart is responsible for untold money flying out of this household,” Sadie said.

  Dorry chimed in, “I overheard Missus Tanner say that Susanna Wheatley is more’n generous to Reverend Occum and Reverend Whitefield as well as to her own church.”

  “Yes, indeed. It’s that catch in her heart. Seems like all the good Lord needs do is jiggle that heart a little and He can feed a churchful of Indians or keep a preacher going far across the ocean.”

  Obour patted the seat next to her for Phillis.

  “So I hear you can read and write almost as well as Miss Mary,” Dorry said to Phillis. Without waiting for a response, she turned to Sadie. “Missus Tanner says it is a thing to behold. Your Phillis can read anything they hand her. Made my missus start teaching Obour as well.”

  Phillis looked at Obour and smiled.

  If Obour could read, Phillis thought, then she could send Obour letters. The Wheatleys’ driver, Prince, would probably see that someone delivered them. Letters were always going back and forth between the Wheatleys and the Tanners. And if Obour could learn to write …

  “Are you daydreaming again, Phillis?” Sadie asked.

  “Pardon,” Phillis murmured.

  “I asked what you do with yourself all day.”

  Phillis knew this was a trick question. The other slaves did not approve of the way Mrs. Wheatley and Mary treated Phillis. She’d overheard Lucy, the housekeeper, saying something about a lapdog. Phillis understood. They thought she was being treated like a pet instead of a person.

  That wasn’t the way of it—not exactly. Part of what she did could have been for their amusement. Very few people in America thought slaves could learn. In fact very few people believed slaves had souls. Most people believed Negroes were created to work for white people and would not have been able to take care of themselves.

  Mrs. Wheatley and Mary did not believe that. It was one of the reasons Mary had Phillis start out by reading the Bible every day. At first Phillis worked on reading it because she longed to read. Before long, the words began to take hold in her heart and the Bible became her treasure.

  As she began to read about sin, she understood. She’d seen evil firsthand. Even more, she was struck by God’s plan to save sinners. Sending His own Son to be killed? She couldn’t imagine that. She’d watched the pain in her own father’s face as his child was taken from his arms. How God must have suffered.

  She looked up and saw Dorry waiting for an answer.

  “I study with Mary. I practice writing. Someday I will write letters for Mrs. Wheatley.”

  “Humph.” Dorry gave a hard whack to another pumpkin with her butcher’s knife and whacked it in half. “It somehow don’t seem fitting.”

  As Obour finished up, Phillis jumped down off the stool. They went outside to wash the pumpkin slime off Obour.

  “You asked me about Jesus,” Phillis said as she held the dry rag out to her friend. “Do you follow Jesus now instead of Allah?”

  “I do. Do you?”

  “I never knew Allah. In our village the fathers followed Allah. It seemed to me that every time something went wrong, it was Allah’s will.”

  “I remember. I wonder if they talk about Allah’s will when they remember the capture of my mother and me.”

  “I follow Jesus now as well,” Phillis said, answering Obour’s question. “It’s become the most important thing in my life.”

  “I’m so glad we share that faith,” Obour said, squeezing her friend’s hand. “It’s what I’ve been trying to ask you all morning.”

  That night a small table was set for Obour and Phillis just off the dining room.

  Obour kept pulling on her ear. “I can eat in the kitchen with the servants,” she said to Mrs. Tanner.

  “No, Obour. You sit here and keep Phillis company this time. Mrs. Wheatley plans to have Phillis read.”

  When everyone settled in the dining room and the soup had been served, Lucy came and served soup to Obour and Phillis.

  “How can you stand to eat here and feel the other slaves’ resentment?” Obour leaned across the table so she could whisper, “I mean Lucy doesn’t say anything, but you can tell by the way she set the bowl down that she disapproves.”

  “It’s worse than that. I don’t usually sit here.”

  “Oh, I misunderstood. I didn’t know you took meals in the kitchen with everyone else.” Obour sat with her hand hovering over the silverware as if not sure what spoon to use.

  “Take from the outside,” Phillis said. “That’s the soup spoon.” She took a taste of her soup. “You didn’t misunderstand. I don’t get to eat in the kitchen. I sit at the dining table with the family.”

  Obour put her spoon down. “Oh, Phillis.” The tone of her words spoke deep sympathy.

  “Mrs. Wheatley and Mary have been so good to me—treating me almost like a daughter of the family—I would hate for them to know how difficult it makes it for me.” She laid her spoon on the plate. “You can understand what an odd position it puts me in with the other servants as well as with guests of the Wheatleys.”

  “So whenever guests come, you sit at this table?”

  Phillis nodded her head. “I always think of a saying Mr. Wheatley uses, ‘Neither fish nor fowl.’”

  They continued to eat and visit, ignoring Lucy’s comments and spills during service. When dessert came, Phillis folded her napkin and laid it beside her plate.

  “You are not going to eat the pumpkin pie?” Obour asked.

  “I will be called to read during dessert.” She stood to walk into the dining room. “Don’t let Lucy clear away my dessert until I get back.”

  Obour laughed and made as if to guard it.

  The next morning Obour helped pack the hired carriages that would take the Tanners to the dock. As her mistress and master took leave of the Wheatleys, Obour found Phillis.

  “I must take leave now, but we shall be back.”

  “I’m so glad you came. You are my one true friend.”

  “I’m glad I came as well. I understand so much better now.”

  “You do?” Phillis didn’t know what Obour understood.

  “I’d heard through servants’ gossip that you were pampered. I heard them say you were like a pet and you didn’t even know you weren’t part of the family.”

  “They said all that?” Phillis felt ashamed.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have repeated what I’d heard, but now I see the true way of it.”

  One of the drivers called to Obour that they were ready to leave.

  “I must go, but I think you are brave, Phillis. The kitchen is the most comfortable place for a slave. You’ve been denied that comfort because you are studying—you are proving that Negroes can learn. I can see that Mrs. Wheatley is allowing you to learn to read and write and to meet her guests so she can prove that we slaves are humans—we are capable of learning and we have souls.”

  Phillis hugged her. “Yes, we have souls, and Jesus loves us. I’m so glad you came.”

  Obour hugged her hard. “You are doing an important thing, Phillis. I will pray for you.”

  Deep Calleth unto Deep

  Boston, 1765

  Phillis.” Lucy rapped loudl
y on the attic door. “Get up. Mary wants to start your lessons early.”

  “Come in, Lucy.”

  She opened the door and pushed Phillis’s breakfast tray onto the small table. It smelled so good—cornmeal mush with molasses, cider, and a small pot of tea.

  Phillis had been sitting at her small desk. She closed her Bible.

  “Oh, you’re awake.” Lucy sounded disappointed.

  “Yes, but I’ll eat and dress quickly.” Phillis wished Lucy would stay for a few minutes. “Did you already eat?”

  Lucy wrinkled her nose. “Before we serve the house? No.”

  Lucy wasn’t the only one of the servants who often addressed Phillis as if she were a slow-witted child. But maybe she was slow-witted enough to want to mend fences with Lucy.

  “I wondered if you wanted to join me. There’s enough here, and you can tell me about your good news.” Phillis had heard Lucy had asked permission to marry the groundskeeper.

  “And what are you supposing Sadie would say if she ended up with two of us taking meals upstairs?” She curled her lip as she mimicked the way Mrs. Wheatley said “taking meals upstairs.”

  Phillis gave up. “You’re right. It was foolish of me to ask. Thank you for bringing my breakfast.”

  Lucy left, and Phillis picked at the food on the tray. She didn’t blame Lucy. How would she feel if she had been a hardworking slave and the family bought a new slave and installed her in a room upstairs, let her eat and study with the family, and made the rest of them wait on her like she was a lady of the house?

  How she wished Obour lived closer.

  But there was no time for wishing. If Mary wanted to start lessons early, Phillis needed to get dressed. She took her everyday clothes out of the clothes press and set them on her bed. How different colonial dress was from her mother’s mbubba. African dress was colorful and comfortable. And it was never too hot because it consisted of wrapped lengths of cotton. When the sun got hotter you just unwrapped some.

  What made her think of Africa? She’d been here in Boston for nearly five years.

  She slipped the petticoat over her head and fastened the tapes to close it, arranging it over her nightdress.