Freedom's Pen Read online

  If she were still in her village, she’d probably have her own groundnut field now. How odd to remember the word, groundnut. Here in America she called them peanuts. She hadn’t thought about groundnuts for years.

  She folded the flounce of her nightdress sleeve tightly against her arm so she could slip her jacket over it. She did the other arm and then arranged the flounces to peek out of the sleeve. She tightly laced the ties across her chest and hooked the stomacher over the opening. Maybe she was thinking about Africa because everything was so complicated here in America. Even getting dressed. Sadie and Lucy wore simpler clothing—a homespun dress, an apron, a handkerchief for tucking into the neckline, and a cap. Not all the slaves wore simple clothing. Her dresses were not nearly as ornate and complicated as the clothes worn by Prince, the Wheatleys’ driver, who wore full livery.

  Still it made much more sense to wear a mbubba that could be washed in the stream than to wear clothes of silk or wool that could never be washed. How much time did Lucy spend brushing, spotting, and sunning clothes to keep them fresh?

  She smiled at the memory of her first night in the house. Sadie gave her a linen nightgown to wear to bed. The next day she found out she was expected to put her day clothes on top of it. She found out later that it was because the linens would be washed, boiled, starched, and ironed regularly. The fancy clothing never actually touched her body, helping to preserve it.

  Phillis finished her morning toilette at the dressing table, picking and arranging her tight curls and putting on her morning cap. She tidied her room and went downstairs to the library.

  “Morning, Phillis.” Mary stood at one of the bookcases. “I thought we’d get started early today. Mother will join us in the morning room for tea after she’s finished her correspondence, so I want to discuss what you’ll be doing this week.”

  Phillis headed over to her own stack of books.

  “No Milton today,” Mary said. “If I didn’t nudge you toward other titles you’d spend every day with Milton and Alexander Pope, wouldn’t you?”

  Phillis laughed. “’Twouldn’t be a bad way to spend the day.”

  “Look what I found for you.” Mary held out a volume to Phillis. “It’s Homer, translated by Alexander Pope.”

  Phillis reached for the book reverently. “Oh, Mary.” What was it about a book that made her long for what she’d discover inside the pages?

  “We need to begin your Latin before long, but for now, I know you will enjoy Homer.”

  Phillis couldn’t have wished for a more dedicated tutor than Mary. Ever since she arrived at the Wheatley home Mary had tutored her. Even now when Mary was newly betrothed to the Reverend John Lathrop, she still set lessons for Phillis, listened to her read, and corrected her writing. Mary organized lessons in geography, history, the Bible, English, and classical literature. It was an education few white girls were offered, let alone a slave girl.

  “Homer.” Phillis took the book into both hands. “I will begin to read it right away.”

  She curled up in a chair, opened the book, and began reading the Odyssey. Time slipped away. Here was a storyteller—a griot who used written words.

  Lucy knocked and entered the room, giving a quick curtsey to Mary. Phillis looked up. She didn’t know how much time had passed. She’d been reading, and Mary had been writing letters.

  “Mrs. Wheatley is ready for tea in the morning room,” Lucy said, opening the door wide.

  Phillis took her book and trailed Mary out of the library. Lucy followed and closed the door behind her.

  “We have a busy day ahead of us today,” Mrs. Wheatley said as they joined her. “But first, tell me how your studies went.”

  Mary greeted her mother with a kiss on the cheek. “There is less and less for me to do these days. I’m afraid the student will soon surpass the teacher.”

  “Come, Phillis. Sit here beside me.” Mrs. Wheatley gathered her skirts so Phillis could sit. “Your progress is nothing short of remarkable. I do worry about your health, though.” She put a hand on Phillis’s cheek. “Despite everything, you are still thin and you continue to have the asthma. I want you to spend time in the garden as well as in your books.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Phillis knew Mrs. Wheatley worried about her, but no matter how much she tried to fatten herself up it didn’t work. She’d probably always be thin, but she loved Mrs. Wheatley’s concern.

  “I see you’ve been writing letters, Mother.” Mary went over and picked up a stack. “I’ve written a few as well. Shall I give them all to Prince?”

  “Yes, after we’ve had tea.”

  Lucy brought the tea tray, and Mary poured out. She handed cups to her mother and Phillis. Sadie had made tiny custard tarts to go with the tea.

  “Tonight Reverend Occum will be coming to dinner. He and Reverend Whitaker will leave presently for England and Scotland to raise money for the Indian school. Phillis, would you read the Bible for us again?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Wheatley put her hand over Phillis’s hand. “It may appear that we are showing you off to all visitors, but it is more than vain boasting. I have a reason for doing this, and I want you to understand.”

  Mrs. Wheatley’s kindness to her had never changed in all the years she’d lived there. But explaining her actions to a slave? That had never happened before.

  “There are far too many who believe Negroes have no need of salvation. I know you’ve heard it—that slaves have no souls. It’s nonsense, but we are so consumed with the question of slavery that when we discover that our slaves are just like us, it can be discomforting. I want people to see with fresh eyes. With each new guest at our table, we are changing minds.”

  “So, Mother, are you saying you no longer believe in slavery?”

  “No.” She sounded surprised by the question as if she’d never thought about it. “I don’t know.” She shook her curls as if to clear her head. “Besides it little matters what a woman believes, because slavery is a business institution. The men deal with business, and we have precious little voice.”

  Phillis didn’t say anything.

  “What I’m most concerned with is the Lord’s business. Slave or free, Indian or Negro, it doesn’t matter to me. All of us need salvation. That’s what I’m trying to change.”

  “But Mother, surely you don’t need to change Samson Occum’s mind.”

  “No. Reverend Occum’s here because he wants to meet Phillis before he goes abroad.” She turned to explain to Phillis. “Reverend Occum is a Mohegan Indian himself. He came to salvation during the Great Awakening. He felt called to preach, so he secured an education and became a missionary to his own people. He is a powerful orator.”

  “He’s now seeking additional funds for his Indian school.” Mary smiled at her mother and waved an envelope. “And you can guess who is supplying a portion of those funds.”

  Mrs. Wheatley blushed. “Mary, don’t be tactless.”

  Phillis couldn’t wait to meet Reverend Occum. So far, all the ministers she’d met were white. How fitting that God would call an Indian for the Indians.

  “This is a delicious dinner, Mrs. Wheatley.” Reverend Occum folded his napkin. “Thank you for the support you’ve given to our school. As you can imagine, it’s never been an easy task securing funds.”

  “So now you embark on a trip abroad to raise funds?” Mr. Wheatley asked. “Do you have your return trip booked?”

  “Not at this time. I need to be free to go where the Lord leads. I’ll secure passage closer to the time of return.”

  “If my ship, The London Packet, is in port, please feel free to travel at my expense.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wheatley. You and Mrs. Wheatley are most generous.”

  “So you’ll be preaching in the Scottish and English pulpits?”

  “Yes. I’ll be preaching some three hundred times from what I understand. I’m scheduled to speak to King George and meet with our benefactor, William Legge, Earl of Dartmouth.
”

  Phillis, who usually didn’t speak at the table, gasped. “You will give three hundred sermons?”

  Reverend Occum smiled. “As long as my voice holds out. You will remember me in prayer, Phillis, won’t you?”

  “I will,” she promised. She had loved hearing the stories Samson Occum told at the table. When she left Africa, she thought she’d never see a griot again, but she’d learned that storytellers flourish in all cultures, from ancient Greece to the Gambia to the colonies.

  “And now,” he said, “I understand you are going to read for us.”

  Phillis pushed back her chair, stood up, and moved a few steps away from the table to a small occasional table where she’d laid her Bible. She opened it to Psalm 42 and read in a clear voice: “As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God. My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?”

  She paused and breathed in deeply. The words touched her soul in some deep mysterious way every time she read the passage. She pictured the hart—her gazelle—panting after water during the dry season. That was exactly how she longed for God.

  She took a breath and continued, “My tears have been my meat day and night, while they continually say unto me, Where is thy God?”

  She paused and looked at Reverend Occum. His eyes were closed, and he, too, inhaled deeply through his nose, pulling the very words inside. She continued reading the psalm, and when she got to the verse, “Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me,” she breathed a silent prayer for the minister’s safety on the ocean voyage. She knew how fierce the ocean could be.

  She finished the psalm and sat down. The last words, “for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God,” seemed to resonate in the room.

  Mrs. Wheatley closed her eyes and tipped her head ever so slightly at her. Phillis’s heart swelled—high praise, indeed.

  “Daughter, those words are a balm to my soul,” Reverend Occum said. “I heard more than a young slave reading words by rote. I heard words that had seared your very soul.”

  Phillis laid her Bible down, took her chair, and sat very still. She had to concentrate to catch her breath.

  After dinner in her room, Phillis penned her very first letter by flickering candlelight, a letter to Reverend Occum. She needed to finish it that very night while her thoughts were fresh. She would send it on the next ship so it could follow Reverend Occum to England. She used her best penmanship and ended the letter with, “Wishing you all possible success, I remain your humble servant, Phillis Wheatley.”

  She couldn’t stop thinking about the stories he told—of the Indian students at his school as well as the ones who could not enroll but who also longed for an education. If only she had money, she’d have put some into the envelope like Mrs. Wheatley, but her promise of prayer and her best wishes would have to suffice.

  The Memory of Your Forever

  Boston, 1766

  If King George doesn’t repeal this wretched Stamp Act, I don’t know what will happen.” Mr. Wheatley pulled his napkin off his lap, pushed his chair back, and began pacing.

  “John, please,” Mrs. Wheatley whispered, “we have guests. It’s not good for digestion.”

  Nathaniel winked at Mary and Phillis. He was home from college. All three of them knew that once Mr. Wheatley was riled up, there was no stopping him. His business associates, Messrs. Hussey and Coffin, were just as exasperated.

  “I can’t keep quiet. This new tax is injurious to business. Who ever thought of having to buy a stamp in order to have the right to print a newspaper, create a legal document, distribute a broadside, or even write a letter.”

  “It goes against the grain,” said Mr. Coffin. “We were promised that no taxes would be levied on the colonies without a vote. Aren’t we Englishmen still? Don’t we have a right to consent?”

  “Would anyone care for another slice of roast turkey?” Mrs. Wheatley tugged on her husband’s arm to get him to sit down.

  “The trouble is, England decides to wage a Seven Years’ War to add to its holdings and we Americans are expected to fork over the money to replenish their coffers.”

  Phillis could see that the conversation was only building. She looked over at a flustered Mrs. Wheatley and smiled a look of sympathy.

  “John, this is bound to end in nothing more than indigestion.”

  Nathaniel spoke up. “There’s plenty to discuss with the Stamp Act—we’ve been debating it at school. Some feel it will lead to a rupture with England if it’s not repealed.”

  Taxing letters. Phillis shook her head. Of all things to tax, why did King George want to tax writing? She remembered the first time she discovered written words—the name of the ship stamped on a crate on a slave ship—a word that would end up being her name.

  Yes, writing was powerful. Someone should have warned the king that you may be able to tax sugar or molasses, but when you try to tax the written word, you’ve grabbed a leopard by the tail.

  “So, Mr. Hussey, tell us about your shipwreck.” Mrs. Wheatley tried valiantly to steer the conversation away from heartburn-producing topics.

  “Well, I’m not a weak-kneed soul, but that was as close as I ever want to come to Neptune ‘s lair.”

  Phillis put her fork down and leaned forward. She could always tell when a good story was coming.

  “We’d pushed off from Nantucket in fair weather. We weren’t that far into our trip when a squall came up, the like of which I never saw.”

  “’Twas late for a storm that violent, was it not?” Mr. Wheatley had apparently moved past the Stamp Act.

  “Yes. At first the boat tossed but seemed to be holding. The sound of the wind was deafening.”

  Mr. Coffin interrupted. “We knew well the number of shipwrecks along the Cape Cod coast between Chatham and Provincetown. ‘Tis no mystery why they call that stretch the Ocean Graveyard.”

  “As we were slammed repeatedly into sandbars, we kept waiting to hear the call ‘Ship ashore. All hands perishing!’” Mr. Hussey leaned forward. “How many times have we heard that alarm ourselves?”

  “How did you survive?” Phillis hadn’t meant to interrupt the story, but she had to know. Here these men were seated across the table eating roast turkey with them. Everyone knew that a ship hitting the sandbar was fair pickings for the wreckers.

  “Only by the grace of God,” Mr. Hussey said. “Only by the grace of God.”

  “Aye,” said Mr. Coffin. “A huge wave came in and scraped us off the sandbar and back out to sea, righting us in the process. At the same time, the squall seemed to ease and we limped on toward Boston.”

  “Incredible,” Nathaniel said. “How many sailors end up on the Ocean Graveyard and live to tell about it?”

  “’Twas Providence, pure and simple.” Mr. Hussey lifted his hands to heaven. “We figured we’d made our beds in the depths.”

  Phillis couldn’t stop thinking about their words. When it came time for her to read, she chose Psalm 69. She opened her Bible and began to read, “Deliver me out of the mire, and let me not sink: let me be delivered from them that hate me, and out of the deep waters. Let not the waterflood overflow me, neither let the deep swallow me up, and let not the pit shut her mouth upon me.”

  That night in her room, Phillis once again took pen to paper and let the words flow out of her heart and through her quill. Maybe it was the Psalms or the poetry of Alexander Pope that inspired her, but instead of a letter, this time she began to compose poetry. She worked until light began to streak the sky.

  She tucked the page away and blew out the candle, but she continued to work on it the next day. When she finally felt it was ready, she brought it to Mary, who was sitting at her desk writing a letter.

  Mary took the page from Phillis and read it. She looked up at Phillis.

  “Did you write this?” Mary said.

  “Yes. Ca
n’t you tell by my penmanship?”

  “No, I mean did you write this yourself, not copy it from somewhere?” Mary looked down at the poem, reading it once more, mouthing the words.

  “Come with me.” She took the poem with her. Phillis trailed behind.

  “Mother. Listen to this.” She hadn’t even knocked at the door of the morning room. She just opened the door and burst in with Phillis trailing behind.

  Phillis could feel her chest tighten. Relax.

  “Phillis wrote this poem to Messrs. Hussey and Coffin to commemorate their narrow escape. I won’t read you the whole poem, but listen to these lines:

  Did haughty Eolus with Contempt look down

  With aspect windy, and a study’d Frown?

  Regard them not:—the Great Supreme, the Wise,

  Intends for something hidden from our eyes …

  Mrs. Wheatley put her hands on her desk and stood up. “Let me see the whole poem.”

  She stood there reading, while Phillis’s heart thudded. She read it through once, then looked at Phillis without saying anything. Then she read it again.

  “I don’t know what to say.” She kept shaking her head. “This is momentous, child. Do you have any idea what this means?”

  Phillis shook her head.

  “It is one thing to learn how to read and write—not trifling, mind you, but many have done likewise. This, however, has never been done to my knowledge.”

  “What, Mother?”

  “Think on it, Mary. This child came from darkest Africa only five years ago. She had not a word of English. That she learned the language and became proficient reading and writing it is miracle enough, but consider …” She began pacing.

  Phillis had never seen Mrs. Wheatley pace. She was every inch the lady and, as she would have reminded Phillis, ladies don’t pace.

  “Poetry—good poetry—is one of the highest linguistic art forms. Can it be taught? I think not.”

  “Well, I certainly can’t teach it since I’m not a practitioner of the art.” Mary put an arm around her mother and led her to her chair.