“For a Scotsman, you surprise me, Mr. Mein,” my master said.
The bald-headed John Mein, notorious publisher of the Boston Chronicle, was not offended. He turned from his great cherry desk in his office on King Street. “How so?”
“You had the courage to publish the names of those who were violating their own nonimportation agreement and importing from the British, yet you won’t bring out a volume of poems by a Negro girl.”
“I’m stupid,” Mein said, “not crazy. And every time I feel another attack of courage coming on, I mind the pain in my shoulder for being beaten by the Liberty Boys. That’s what publishing those names got me.”
“I don’t think you need fear the Liberty Boys if you bring out a book of Phillis’s poetry.”
“I fear my subscribers. I need three hundred signatures to bring such a book out. My subscribers will not agree that the poems were written by a Negro girl.”
Silence in Mr. Mein’s office, except for the sound of snow falling against the multipaned windows. It was the end of January. Mary had been married two weeks ago and, as he had promised, Mr. Wheatley had visited every publisher and printer in Boston, with me in tow, to try to convince them to bring out my first book of poetry.
At every place we stopped, the answer was the same.
No.
Their subscribers would not believe the poems were written by a Negro girl.
The Boston Chronicle was the last stop on our list.
“This is America,” my master said. “Why are these Patriot publishers so fired up about things if they fear bringing out a book of poems by a Negro girl?”
“Don’t ask me, I’m a Tory,” Mein said, “and proud of it.” He sipped his tea and gestured that we should partake of ours. “I thought your Captain Calef was engaging a London printer?”
“He did. Our merchantman dropped anchor only yesterday. Calef engaged one Archibald Bell. He’s a little-known printer of religious works in London.”
“Then you don’t need me,” Mein said.
“Bell sent word he will bring out the book only if we have some kind of written verification that Phillis wrote the poems,” my master told him.
“In heaven’s name, man, get the verification and go with a London publisher,” Mein advised. “These are bad times in America.”
He turned to me. His gaze narrowed on me like that of a hawk on a field mouse. “Did you write those poems, girl?”
I started in my chair. “Yes, sir,” I said.
“You aren’t lying? With all the talent of your race?”
“One moment, Mein!” Mr. Wheatley leaned forward.
Mr. Mein held up his hand. “Let her reply, John.”
I saw a look pass between them. Then Mr. Wheatley sat back.
“I wrote them,” I said. “You never doubted it when you published my elegy on Reverend Whitefield.”
“It was published first elsewhere. Philadelphia, New York, Newport. I thought it only proper it be published here in Boston. Where you claim to have written it.”
“I claim nothing, Mr. Mein. I did write it.”
“Why should anyone believe you?”
“I don’t lie, sir.”
“Like Crispus Attacks, the mulatto killed in the massacre? Came into town claiming to be a crewman off a Nantucket whaler. When, in fact, he was brought here as an outside agitator and did more rioting than any man in Boston.”
I felt anger pounding in my veins. “Attacks is a martyr,” I said. “He’s dead. You should let the dead rest in peace.”
“There’s a martyr on every street corner in Boston these days, willing to die for what he believes in. Every time I bring out another issue of the Chronicle, I’m a martyr. But I have no fancy to be tarred and feathered or have my presses destroyed for bringing out the poems of a little nigra girl. Especially one who is such a saucy little piece.”
He sat back, spent by the speechifying. And pleased that he had given me my comeuppance.
“I’ve no intention to be rude, sir, but you did push me. And you hurt me grievous much.”
“You listen to me, girl.” He shook his finger at me. “How do you think you’re going to get this written verification that you wrote the poems?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, then. You’ll have to appear before some kind of examining body. And be questioned about this poetry of yours. And if you think what I just said hurt you grievous much, wait until you hear what they will say to you!”
He took up his teacup, drank, and smacked his lips.
I was trembling. I looked at my master.
His face was white, and from the way he was leaning forward, favoring one leg, I knew his gout was giving him trouble.
“I’m sorry, John,” Mr. Mein said. “But you should tell your little protégée that when she does appear before this examining body, she should mind her tongue. And affect some Christian humility. Artists need humility, John. Their gifts are too great. They encourage envy.”
My master nodded and stood. The meeting was over. They shook hands, and Mr. Wheatley helped me into my cloak and guided me outside to our carriage.
“Don’t pay mind to him, Phillis,” Mr. Wheatley said inside the carriage. “He’s gone a little daft. He’s turning his newspaper into a Tory propaganda sheet. The Patriots will soon run him out of town, you’ll see.”
“He was right, wasn’t he, sir? About what I must expect from an examining body?”
He cleared his throat. “If he was right about anything, Phillis, it was about your gift being great.” He patted my hand. “Your poetry will be published. Don’t worry.”