I had gone downstairs for about the third time to fetch some freshly pressed garment to pack in my large trunk. On my way back to my room, I heard voices behind the door of my master and mistress’s chamber.
I know it is not seemly to eavesdrop. But my mistress was saying words that I myself had been thinking.
“Why is it,” she was asking her husband, “that all joy is trimmed with pain and all pain with joy?”
“I’m too tired for abstractions, dear. Explain yourself.”
“It has been such a dreadful winter in Boston. Yet in spite of it all, there is hope. If the proposals in the Boston Censor bring enough subscribers, Phillis’s first volume will soon be published.”
“I would not count on that, dear. The Censor is a Tory sheet. Influential Patriots ignore it. I think it will not last in this political climate.”
“Poetry is not political, John. Both Tories and Patriots have encouraged Phillis. They all applaud her.”
“You have pursued, both Tories and Patriots, Susanna. Soon you will have to sort your loyalties out with Phillis’s poetry. As Nathaniel has sorted his out with his business ventures.”
“I refuse to sort out my friends. And I trust them not to sort out me.”
“And then there is the matter of race. A more pressing reason why I think there will not soon be a volume of poetry published.”
“Race? Nonsense, John! Genius is genius. It has no need of status or nationality.”
“Its promoters do. Especially have they need of money.”
“What mean you, John? What have you heard? Tell me.”
“Talk is being bandied about that no printer or publisher will bring out such a volume. That none truly believe a Negro girl wrote this poetry.”
“Lies! They have all met Phillis. None have told me they do not credit her with the writing.”
“They say one thing to you, my dear. But what do they say to their subscribers? No, I am afraid that her poems must be brought out in London.”
“London?” My mistress was unbelieving.
“Yes. You must set your course for London, dear girl. Even as Nathaniel is doing.”
“Nathaniel is going to London?” She was incredulous. “Why?”
“He must develop our business interests there.”
“When?”
“Not for a while yet, but he is going. You should think of sending Phillis with him. She will be well received there.”
“London?” my mistress echoed. Her voice sounded so forlorn. “But, John, Phillis is an American.”
“So is Benjamin Franklin. And he has been well received there.”
“John, be serious.”
“I am. I thought you said poetry had no nationality.”
“Isn’t it sad to think that her book won’t be brought out here?”
“Sadness has naught to do with it. It is simply a matter of there being more than one way to skin a cat, my dear. The concept is absolutely American.”
“London,” my mistress said. “Perhaps I can write to the Countess of Huntingdon, Selina Hastings. She is part of the international Christian missionary circle that supports Moor’s Indian Charity School. And John Thornton, the English millionaire philanthropist. He’s part of that circle, too. What think you, John?”
“I say you are wonderfully American, dear. You know many ways to skin the cat. And I say we should get some sleep. We leave for Newport early in the morning.”
London! With Nathaniel! I fair trembled with excitement.
But that was far off. Tomorrow we were going to Newport. I would see Obour! I had not seen her since the day we parted in the slave market.
There were many reasons for the trip. I had developed a cough last winter, 1770. It was Mary’s last chance to have a “season” before she married her reverend next January. And Boston was in chaos.
Boston was always in chaos, of course, but this time matters were fraught with danger. Troops had occupied the town since September of ’68, drilling, loitering, and being boisterous and troublesome. In February some of those troops had shot at Americans, killing five, one a nigra man. The troops had left in March, but the town was still up in arms about the upcoming trial. One could never tell when another fracas would ignite.
Besides, I had written three poems about the trouble. One on the arrival of the ships of war; another about the death, at Tory hands, of the street urchin Chris Seider; and the third about the massacre. After all, it had taken place on the street where we lived.
I saw no reason not to. People were declaring themselves all over the place. Ministers were shouting from the pulpits God’s words to Noah after the Flood: “Whosoever sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.”
All this talk about shedding blood made Nathaniel nervous. It was bad for trade, he said. My poetry made him even more nervous. It was getting too inflammatory. I think he thought it, too, was bad for trade. Nathaniel, who had once complained that Parliament was bottling us up, decided to stay neutral. And said that his parents should get me out of town for the summer. So we were going.
“Eat your meat, Phillis,” my mistress said.
But I could not eat. How could I, when but a stone’s throw away was my dear friend, Obour?
There she was, in the kitchen of the elegant Tanner home. And there was I, at the table with them and my people in the dining room. I could see her, she could see me. But I was not permitted to talk with her. Especially not when she waited on the table.
I felt anguish and confusion. And anger at my mistress, yes, for not allowing me to go and throw my arms around Obour. And at myself, for not defying her.
I had to sit there and pretend interest while Mr. Tanner went on about Newport’s wonders. And how the boats the inhabitants used on the Sound were called double-enders.
“After supper I’d like to offer my guests a sail in our own double-ender,” he was saying. “The Sound is lovely at sunset.”
“You must excuse Phillis,” Mrs. Wheatley said. “I cannot permit her to go. She’s had a cough. I fear the damp air.”
A few moments later, when Obour brought another platter of ham to the table, she leaned over me and I felt something drop in my lap. When she moved on I looked down. It was a folded paper. A note! I watched her glide out of the room, head held high. Mr. Tanner was now talking about Block Island, thirty miles across the Sound, and how its coves once provided hiding places for Captain Kidd the pirate.
I waited in the Tanner library, as Obour’s note had suggested. The others had all gone off for their sail. Impatiently, I paced, not even looking at the books. I stood in front of the great window, looking out at the water.
“I’ve finished my chores. Are you ready?”
She stood in the doorway. I ran to her. We embraced.
“I can’t believe it’s you.” She touched my short, curly hair, examined my gown. “My, you’re fancy. And you’ve grown up.”
“No,” I said, drawing back to take her measure. “I’m still skinny and ugly, skin and bones. But you! Obour, you’re a woman!”
She was tall, and rounded in all the right places. But more than that, she had an air of practiced calm I knew I never could have. “I’m older by a year, remember?” She laughed. “Come, let’s get out of here.”
“What is this place, Obour?”
We had run, hand in hand, shoes off, for about ten minutes along the coast, away from the Tanner house. Now we stood on the heights overlooking the harbor. If we turned, we could see the house in the distance, like a great ship rising out of the dunes. Candlelight already glowed in the windows.
In front of us was the Sound. Behind us, a massive stone tower at least thirty feet high, supported by columns, abandoned and overgrown with sea grasses and weeds.
“This is the old windmill. Been here for more than a hundred years. Nobody comes here anymore. I make it my private place. I come here to read. And think. Let me show you.”
She took me inside. Here were sand and a mixture of wildflowers and weeds. In a corner were a blanket and an old chest. “I keep some books here,” she said. “I come here to read your letters. Look.”
She pointed. From a crack in the stone wall, you could see the Sound clear across to Block Island. “Do you have a private place?”
“No. Always I am in sight and sound of the Wheatleys.”
“I could tell that. She would never let you talk to me, would she?”
I blushed. “They’re good to me,” I said.
She nodded knowingly. “Tell me about Boston.”
“I’ve told you in all my letters. There are ten printers, eight booksellers, and many newspapers. All near our house.”
“Tell me of the soldiers and the fighting.”
“The soldiers have left. Driven out by the Patriots.”
“They’ll be back. The Patriots are spoiling for a fight. There will soon be one.”
“How do you know?”
“I read the papers. I hear Mr. Tanner talking. And others who come to this house. This is Rhode Island. You think you people in Boston own the anger at the Crown? We have royal schooners patrolling our coast. A year ago the Sons of Liberty rowed out to a customs raider and burned and scuttled her in our waters. Merchants and tradesmen are angry. There is a spirit of rebellion here. Political meetings all over.”
I listened, in awe. She knew things that mattered.
“We have the Free African Union Society here. Negros here are educated. Your own Prince belongs to it.”
I gaped. “You know Prince?”
“Everyone in our society does. He and other Boston nigras are establishing a relief society for nigras who wish to take their freedom. He writes to us all the time.”
“Prince? I didn’t know he could write! Oh, Obour, I feel so humble of a sudden. Prince is doing something of worth for his fellowman. What have I ever done for anybody?”
“You can’t do for others unless you do for yourself first,” she said. “First you must get free.”
“Prince isn’t free.”
“Says he’s going to be when the fighting comes.” She sighed. “I wonder how our race will fare when the war starts. We have a stake in it. Do they speak about drawing up your free papers?”
“No.”
“My master has promised me freedom when I reach twenty-one. What about you? What’s going to become of you when your master and mistress get old and die?”
“I haven’t thought of it, Obour.”
“You should. Are you laying aside for it?”
“Laying aside?”
“Money, silly. The king’s shillings. Don’t you get paid when a poem gets published?”
“No. Mrs. Wheatley has to bear the expense of publishing it.”
She sighed. “So you’re even more in her debt, then.”
“I don’t think on it that way, Obour.”
“How do you think on it, then?”
“Someday soon I’m going to have a book of poems published. The first Negro in America ever to do so! And I’m going to London. With Nathaniel.”
“This is all good,” she said quietly, “but only because they allow it. By their leave you do these things. They’re playing with you, Phillis. They’re making something out of you that you can never be. A Negro woman poet.”
“Why can’t I? It’s what I am.”
“By their leave,” she said again. “What will you do when they tire of you? You’ll be cast aside. No woman gets published in America. Especially not a Negro woman.”
“Nathaniel would never let me be cast aside.”
“Tell me about this Nathaniel who won’t let them cast you aside. You’re besotted with him, aren’t you?”
We were sitting on the blanket inside her tower. When I didn’t answer, she smiled.
“I thought so. In all your letters, it was ‘Nathaniel this’ and ‘Nathaniel that.’ To what aim is this love of yours? He’s the master’s son, Phillis. No good can come of it.”
“I don’t expect anything to come of it, Obour. Good or otherwise.”
“But you still love him.”
“I can’t help that. If not for Nathaniel I wouldn’t have learned to read. I wouldn’t have started writing.”
“I read and write. And no Nathaniel brought me to it.”
“You don’t understand, Obour.”
“You haven’t let him play free with you, have you?”
“Don’t be silly. He isn’t even sensible of my feelings. And he’s a man of honor.”
“Honor, is it?”
“Yes.” I met her gaze. “Please don’t worry about me on that score, Obour. I will die before I ever let him know I harbor such feelings. And as for Mrs. Wheatley, she is doing so much for me. They love me. I’m like a daughter to them.”
Silence inside the old stone walls. A seagull cried somewhere. It was getting on to dusk.
She stood up. She pulled me to my feet and put her arms around me. “I’m happy,” she said, “and you have it in you to do much for our people. But hear me now, won’t you?”
I nodded.
“When we were on the ship and your mother was thrown overboard and you were sick, you wanted to die. I told you you must live. You said there was no reason.”
“Yes.”
“Then you rallied and ate. Do you recollect why?”
“Because you told me Captain Quinn would kill you if I died. I couldn’t abide that.”
She smiled. “I lied.”
I drew back. “You jest.”
“Captain Quinn never said such. I lied to give you a reason. Was I right? Isn’t there good reason to live?”
Tears came to my eyes. “Yes.”
“And I’m right now, too. There is a reason to be free. Think on it. Promise.”
I hugged her. “I promise,” I said.