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AMERICA IS THE PROMISED LAND

THIS was the great crossing, east to west for nine weeks, and then off the edge of the world, as the old folks back in Thetford believed, having never gotten more than a mile or two from their native heath. But he was Tom Paine the traveler and adventurer, not the staymaker and weaver’s assistant, and he had sailed for nine weeks on a fever-ridden ship. Now he was dying; no one knew and no one cared, and the captain was too sick himself to be bothered. The ship gently rocked in the placid sunshine that flooded the Delaware River, with the red roofs of Philadelphia only a stone’s throw off, while in the blackness of the sick-hold Tom Paine groaned away his life.

He didn’t care, he told himself. Franklin had said, “Stop pitying yourself.” He cursed Franklin; well enough for Franklin, who lived like a fat old toad in England; the world was good for some, but you could count them on the fingers of a hand, and for the others it was a pen and a jail and a desolation. Like a pinned-down fly on a board, a man struggled for a time and then died, and then there was nothing, as in the beginning there had been nothing. Why should Tom Paine fight it? Why should he fight disease and hunger and loneliness and misery?

He wouldn’t fight it, now he would die, and his pity was such an enormous thing that he was thrilled and amazed by the spectacle of himself. He wept for himself, and then wiped away the tears and allowed sunny memories of long ago to creep in. A child in Thetford walked on a flower-decked hillside. May Adams, who had long braids, ran before him into the vine-grown ruins and fell and hurt her knee, and he licked out the dirt and then kissed her. Wrong, she said, and when he asked why, only repeated, wrong, wrong; yet for all that they became lovers and no one knew. She died of the pox when he was not much older and he held the sorrow inside of him, sitting at his bench and making a corset for Jenny Literton, not eating, not stopping, his father saying, “There’s a boy with industry, and a change from the rascal he was.”

Everything died; now he was dying because Franklin had sent him off to America.

The fever ship held the spotlight at the waterfront, and in the twenty-four hours after she docked almost half the people in Philadelphia came down to have a look at her. It was told how five bodies were dropped overboard during the nine weeks, though you wouldn’t know it just to look at her; as the sickly passengers, the convalescing passengers, the tottering passengers came ashore, each told a different version of the lurid story. One of them mentioned a man in the hold who had a letter written by Franklin, and Dr. Kearsley who was trying to set up in the great city of America and having a rather hard time of it, smelled a fee.

“What’s his name?”

“Paine, I think.”

“Did you see the letter?” Kearsley asked cautiously.

“No, I heard about it.”

“You?” the doctor asked someone else.

“No.”

A fee was a fee, but to go onto the fever ship for nothing at all was not part of a doctor’s duty. “Did he come in the bilge?”

“Cabin passenger.”

The bilge had been full of indentured servants, among whom the sickness had first started, and already the still tottering captain was discussing their sale with a pair of prosperous Philadelphia merchants.

“Duty’s duty,” the doctor said, and went on board. He went down into the stinking hold, and stumbling over bodies, cursing and regretting that duty bulked so large, yelled above the groaning for Mr. Paine.

Mr. Paine answered. The doctor had a candle which wavered and flickered in the foul air, but candle and all it was a task to pick out Tom Paine, and the search over, a thankless task it seemed to the doctor. The clothes were the same, the beard worse, the dirt thicker, the whole a disgusting bundle of rags and misery that whispered for the doctor to go away and allow it to die in peace.

“Ah, and die you shall,” the doctor said to himself.

“Go away,” Paine groaned.

“You have a letter from Franklin?” Kearsley inquired, clutching at one last straw.

“Yes, damn him!”

“Ah—and what money, my good lad?”

“Three pounds seven,” Paine whispered.

“Ah! And tomorrow you’ll be up and walking! Got the money with you? Got any luggage?”

“Can’t you see I’m dying?”

The doctor left and then returned with the boatman, who demanded three shillings before he would step onto the ship. Hand and foot, they took Tom Paine, dragged him out into the air, and then dumped him like a pile of rags into the bottom of the boat.

There was a last spark of defiance and consciousness in Paine, only enough for him to call the doctor and boatman a pair of bastards and ask why he hadn’t been left to die. The doctor was equally frank, and as the boatman pulled for shore he leaned over his sweating, suffering patient and explained, “Because three pounds seven are not come by every day, not by a man who’s starting in practice. I’m not a thief; I’ll earn the money; you’ll live, though God only knows why.”

“The Lord giveth; the Lord taketh away; blessed be the Lord,” said a Quaker lady who brought him a box of cookies and a scent bag to hang under his nose. She had heard that there was a homeless one living with Kearsley, and that he was profane and dirty, and that Kearsley had wagered the great Dr. Japes twenty pounds that the patient wouldn’t die. That was blasphemous. Now Paine admitted to her that he had been born and raised a Quaker, while Kearsley snickered at the foot of the bed—which made matters worse.

“Pray,” she told Paine. “Beg the Lord’s forgiveness and his everlasting mercy.”

“He’s cured now.” Kearsley smiled.

“Pray, pray!” she called back as she fled from the room, and Kearsley leaned over the footboard, shaking with laughter.

“What a filthy devil you are,” Paine said.

“Call the kettle black! Didn’t I give you your first bath?”

“Get out of here.”

“I came to remind you that you owe me ten pounds,” the doctor said. “You’ve been here six weeks, so that’s reasonable. I’ve saved your life, for what that’s worth, and altogether it’s a small piece of gratitude you’ve shown. What is a man’s life worth?”

“I’m grateful,” Paine muttered, “and mine’s worth little enough. I’ll pay you when I find work.”

“Doing what?”

Paine shrugged.

“I could throw you into jail for the debt,” the doctor speculated.

“You could,” Paine admitted. He was thin and worn with his sickness, white skin into which the twisted brown eyes were sunk like heavy question marks, bones stretching him like old clothes on a dryer. Kearsley said he was well, but he felt too tired to talk or plead.

“I’ll give you a month,” Kearsley said suddenly. “You can leave here tomorrow.” And Paine nodded gratefully and closed his eyes.

He must have slept for a while, and now the doctor had gone, and the little room was mellow with twilight. There was a single dormer window that showed him, from where he lay, a half a dozen of the red-tiled Philadelphia rooftops. Beyond, a church steeple poked up against the gray sky, and as Tom Paine watched, the snow began to fall, clean, white, lazy flakes that drifted down faster and faster until a white curtain closed in the little window. The coals of a fire lay in the grate; Kearsley wasn’t a brute, but a man tired of poverty and ignorance, all of which Paine could understand and even sympathize with now; Kearsley had cured him and given him back his life, and ten pounds wasn’t such a stone around a man’s neck. Less tired now, somewhat uncertain but finding his feet strong enough to hold him, Paine left his bed and went to the window. This was the America he had come to, and he was looking at it for the first time, a church steeple in the distance, some roofs flaked with white, some people walking on the cobbled street, the city of brotherly love, America, the land, the dream, the empire, that and much more that he had thought of once, the sum of it coming back to him as his will to live and be Tom Paine returned to him. There was a sweet quality in this winter evening, almost a nostalgia; the church bells began to toll faintly, and it seemed to Paine that the people in the streets were moving more quickly now.

Now life was a sweet thing, like an old song. He began to tremble with eagerness, and then he went back to his bed, but he couldn’t sleep that night.

If the place had a prophet, it was Benjamin Franklin; the letter he had given Paine was mildewed, creased and worn, but Bache, Franklin’s son-in-law, spread it out, read it carefully, and said, yes, he would do something for Paine. Nothing big or special, but this America was a good place, Pennsylvania a good country, and Philadelphia a good city, God bless King George. Nobody had to starve, not if a man had any guts in him. He wasn’t one to say anything about the old country, but in some ways this place was better than the old country.

“I think so,” Paine nodded.

Could Paine do anything? Was he a journeyman?

“In stays,” Paine admitted. But rather than make corsets, he could cobble a little, weave a little, good work even if it wasn’t journeyman work. But he had been sick, and—his face reddening—if he could use his brain instead of his hands for a time it might be a good thing. Not presumptuously, because he hadn’t anything in the way of scholarship. But he could spell and sum and he had a little Greek and a little Latin. Bache’s face remained noncommittal, and desperately, Paine quoted,

“Faber est quisque suae fortunae.”

Bache, fat, prosperous, Paine’s age, but a world above him in assurance, nodded, patted Paine’s shoulder, and said, “Good enough, I’ll find you some sort of place.”

With his first few shillings, after two days of near starvation, he went to a coffee house and had rolls and butter and a whole pot of viscous black fluid. Successful men, men like Bache, sat around him, and whereas in London the state of his clothes alone would have prevented him from going into any respectable eating place, here hardly a second glance was thrown at him. Hardly a glance—why, in the corner was a buckskin wildman from the backlands, with leather leggings and a fur cap, and his rifle between his knees as he ate with his hands, just as if he hadn’t seen a fork or knife before. So what if his work was teaching the two Dolan children that one and one made two, that c-a-t spelled cat, and Mrs. Dolan came in midday and said, “Won’t you have a cup of tea, mister?” and that tomorrow it would be the Smith children, two little girls and a boy.

Two months ago, he would have raged and burned, but this was America and he had been given back his life, and teaching was better than to be a journeyman staymaker. Or maybe inside of himself something had burned out, that he was content not even to look for tomorrow, but only to drift along, satisfying himself with the knowledge that he was Tom Paine, and no more.

A man changes; he wasn’t old and he wasn’t young, but even Kearsley, who was blunt and hard and could be neatly cruel, had a streak of pity for Paine, not the man, but the wreck. As shown so well when Paine came back to renew his promise on the debt, and Kearsley said, “Forget about it. I won twenty pounds on you.”

“I heard about that,” Paine admitted, without anger.

“I don’t say you’re not worth more,” the doctor temporized. “I don’t know what a man’s worth. I hear you are teaching.”

“That’s right.”

“I hope you do well at it,” the doctor said, sincere this time.

Paine shrugged; a shilling a day was enough, and two shillings more than enough, and when Mrs. Cradle gave him her husband’s third best pair of breeches, he took it. He didn’t work hard, and there were whole days when he did nothing at all but wander around Philadelphia, almost childishly intrigued by the colorful, un-European pageant that passed along the streets. There were red Indians out of the wooded mountains, wrapped in their bright and dirty blankets, clay pipes clenched in their teeth; there were wooden-shoed Dutchmen down on their flatboats from the Jerseys, sharp-nosed Yankees from Boston, tall Swedes from the Delaware country, dirty leather-coated hunters from the back counties, carrying their six-foot-long rifles wherever they went, silk-and-satin Tidewater gentlemen up from the south with their slaves, black and white and red and brown, and gray-clad Quakers of the inner circle, Penns and Darleys and Rodmonts. Up First Street, down Spruce, round about the Square, along Broad, he could walk slowly and lazily, divorced from the world in a murky way, his past severed, his future non-existent, a shilling teacher, the butt of smutty stories, his home sometimes a room in one tavern and sometimes in another if the weather was bad, if it snowed and rained and the wind lashed; but if the day was good enough he wasn’t averse to bedding into a pile of hay in some Quaker’s stable, thereby saving sixpence, which was about the price of the cheapest room a tavern sold.

If he thought of himself at all, it was with pity; when he could afford a bottle of wine it went down in such self-sympathy that he would usually wind up a mass of maudlin tears. And he didn’t have to drink alone, since there was usually a tavern drunk to keep him company. Look at his own life, he would point out. Had he a chance? Staymaker when he was still a boy, finding a woman he loved and then losing her, grinding through what lower-middle-class England called life, drunk two weeks, a month on bad gin, the whole world like a fluttering pinwheel, groping in a haze for a little beauty, himself ugly and raw and unkempt.

He wasn’t a fool; often he told himself, passively, that the mere fact he had wanted so many things proved it; and never acceptance, since he had hated with such ferocity kings, noblemen, ladies and gentlemen of quality, beggars and thieves and fat, prosperous merchants, sluts and whores and decent women too—and whom had he loved?

There was once a woman he loved, he knew.

Now he didn’t love and he didn’t hate; he had accomplished one great thing, his passage to the thin fringe of colonies on the American mainland; thereupon he rested. No one gave him shoes, and his shoes wore out; his stockings were a blunt deception; he had been given an old coat that flapped threadbare about his shoulders, and he meandered through the streets with his head down against the cold blasts of wind, his appearance unusual enough for people to begin to know him in such a small city as Philadelphia was then.

“There goes Tom Paine,” they said.

A committee of Quaker ladies called on him. They brought him a new coat and a vest. “Thee are a shame to us,” they pointed out. “Thee will go on this way until God will turn away his face.”

He had been drinking, and he said, smiling foolishly, “I lick God’s belly.”

That got around the city, and he lost half his tutoring jobs.

That month, January, in the year 1775, was the beginning of a year that would change the destiny of mankind, yet it was such a January as we often have in the midlands, rain sometimes, snow sometimes, sleet sometimes, and sometimes a clear warm day that might very well be June. It was the beginning of a year that was the beginning of an era, and Christ himself might have walked on earth to raise so fierce yet so gentle a voice from long speechless mankind. Yet men for the most part didn’t know and didn’t care, what with one and a hundred things to be done, buying and selling and providing, loving and hating, profiting and losing.

In Philadelphia, it promised to be a good year. The town was rapidly becoming a city, and situated as a keystone among the nations of America, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, Massachusetts and the rest, the city gave promise of being one of the great urban centers of the earth. Through its streets, its centers of commerce, which were the coffee houses, its warehouses and its wharves, teemed the trade of all the English colonies in America and of several European nations. It is true that already in the past year a somewhat incoherent body called the First Continental Congress had met in Philadelphia, but they had accomplished nothing, and solid citizens did not believe that the Congress was any menace to the security and prosperity of the colonies. There were disturbances and mutterings, in Boston for the most part and in other Yankee towns to the north; but when was there a time without disturbances? There was unrest in the back counties of the South, but what more could you expect of wild woodsmen who tramped around free as Huns with their six-foot-long rifles?

On the other hand, there was more than adequate compensation. In the highlands, the beavers were thick as rabbits, and shepherded by lean Scotsmen and black-bearded Jews a steady stream of glossy pelts poured into the city. The Tidewater tobacco crop was better than good; the Jerseys were bursting with food; and raft after raft of good white pine floated down the Delaware. Never had the pigs in the German counties been so fat and never had the sheep, grazing in the rolling pastures north of the city, been so heavy with wool. In the wild woods, the Allegheny reaches, the lake country and the Fincastle Highlands, the deer ran thick as flies; venison in Philadelphia sold for fourpence a pound and bear meat could hardly be given away. The deer hides by the thousands piled up in stinking bales on the wharves, ready to change men’s fashions in all of Europe. Master carpenters were fighting the fad for Chippendale and Sheraton and other English cabinet makers; with a loop, a claw, and a turn, a slim back, a graceful leg, they were not merely imitating but creating a truly American furniture. The working men of the city were strong and their hands itched to make. Houses were going up, and sometimes the bricks were native as well as the cement.

There were stirrings and murmurings, but there was also an abundance of good things. There was discontent, yet there was enough content. War was in the air, albeit vaguely, but people did not want war; freedom was in the air, too, but most people didn’t give two damns about freedom.

The city was a good one, carefully laid out, bought by Perm, not plundered from the red men, full of rich Quakers and poor Quakers, and rich and poor who were not Quakers; but altogether with such a determined air of middle-class prosperity as you would not find in any European city. The houses were solid structures, mostly brick, some half-timber, some frame. Many of the streets were cobbled, named not for men in an ungodly fashion, but for trees, or descriptively, or numbered. There was a good fire department, a good guard, a good library. There was a philosopher, Ben Franklin, come out of the city. There was more good glass, linen, silver, and furniture than anywhere else in America; and after a fashion there was more freedom of religion and thought. Here in the promised land, Philadelphia was the promised city.

Paine went to a slave sale, not because he wanted to buy or had the money to buy, but because it was on an afternoon when he had nothing else to do, and because he was curious to know what it was like to see human beings bought and sold. The auction was held in a big old barn, with the doors locked, and there were a dozen merchants present. It was a sale of breeding wenches, which meant that only women would be put on the auction block, that they would be either virgin or pregnant, and that the bidding would be very brisk. Not only that, but from what Paine had heard it would partake of other aspects than mere buying and selling.

He was hardly drunk today, only rosy, only enough to say to himself, “Why shouldn’t they buy them and sell them? White, too, why only black?” Yet he was neither angry nor offended, but rather pleased with himself that he had persuaded the good merchants to let him in. They were good enough to call him a scrivener instead of a shilling-tutor, and he had a half-formed thought that he might write something about this and try to sell it to a magazine.

In the half hour before the bidding started, the merchants sat around, perched comfortably on bales of hay, smoking, taking snuff, talking a commercial brand of filth, yet at the same time nervous and shy as adolescents in a bawdy house. For a while, Paine couldn’t understand, and then it came to him that they would show the Negroes naked. His throat constricted; he was hot and cold and ashamed and eager, and for the first time in months he despised himself.

He saw that he was unshaven, unkempt and ragged; his fingernails were black crescents and his stockings like ladders; his pity for himself was a wet sop, a lie and a delusion, and if no one could offer proof of any kind for man’s nobility, they could at least exhibit Tom Paine as satisfactory evidence of man’s debasement.

The auction started. Miles Hennisy, one of the greatest slave callers of his day, came out of the little pen behind the barn where the Negroes were herded, prodding a sixteen-year-old girl in front of him with his silver-headed stick. Hennisy, from his powdered, beautifully curled wig to his polished pumps, was a glorious vision of sartorial splendor; the stockings were silk, the knee breeches black satin, die vest a brocade of silver and gold thread; at his neck and at his throat was bunched lace, five pounds’ worth, perhaps; he wore a coat of black Portuguese broadcloth and a three-cornered hat of soft and lovely felt. Such was Hennisy, who was a legend, who sailed to Africa with his own slave ships, who had sold a black emperor, four black kings, and at least a hundred royal fledglings, who prided himself on the fact that when he sold a pregnant Negress, she was pregnant by him. He was a devil and a murderer—and the darling of Tidewater society; he had a long, handsome brown face and tiny blue eyes, and he spoke seven west-coast dialects.

He smiled now, and poked the girl up onto the wooden platform. She was wrapped in a blanket, with only her woolly, frightened head protruding; sweat and terror gave her strange round face a sheen like black marble. Hennisy said, “This, gentlemen, my good friends, is sixteen years old, soft as a lamb, strong as an ox, virgin and beautiful to look on, and old Solomon himself would have given a jewel of his crown to possess her. Her blood is royal, and as for her mind, already she speaks enough of the King’s tongue to make herself understood. Her breasts are like two Concord grapes, her behind like the succulent hams of a suckling pig. I start the bidding at fifty pounds to give her away; and, gentlemen, make it a hundred and call out stout and strong; gentlemen, take her home, or to bed, or into the hayloft; make it sixty, gentlemen, make it seventy-five, make it eighty. The blanket goes off at eighty!”

“Eighty pounds!” someone called.

Hennisy ripped off the blanket; she was a little girl, frightened and shivering. She cowered back as Hennisy called, “Virgin, gentlemen, virgin, come up and see for yourselves!”

Paine stumbled through the snow. He had wanted to kill a man, and he had been afraid; he had roamed the streets of Philadelphia for three hours; his feet were soaking wet and cold. As darkness approached, he went into a tavern and sat down in front of the fire, and for half the night he sat there without speaking or moving.

Robert Aitken was one of those lonely, unsmiling Scotsmen who had been drifting into America by ones and twos ever since it had been opened for colonization. They were curious people, utterly beyond stamp or index, likely to settle down and become rich and satisfied, or just as likely to go off and trade for a lifetime with the Indians, never seeing a white face. Perversely, out of their Calvinism came as much broad tolerance as close stubbornness, and it was a common thing for a Scotsman and a Jew to become lifelong partners in die fur trade. Considered a foreigner by the bulk of Americans, who were of English descent, the Scotsman nevertheless put his finger on the soul of the little nation and kept it there.

Aitken was long and narrow, with a tight face that told people who never talked to him that he was dull and without imagination. He had a store where he bought and sold books; he had a box of upper-case type, a box of lower-case, and a straight up-and-down press. Now and then he published a small book or a pamphlet. He had in his mind bigger things, but he was obstinate in going about them and perverse in approaching Paine. It was the day after the slave sale, and Paine had come into his store.

“What can I do for ye?” Aitken asked.

Paine explained, stammeringly, that he was a writer of sorts, that in England he had written a pamphlet or two, and that here he had been a shilling teacher.

“And a mighty drinker,” Aitken said sourly.

Paine nodded.

“I hold toward temperance,” Aitken said. “Look at the image of yerself, dirty, filthy, wretched—and a mighty nerve you got to come in here and ask me for an honest living!”

“Give me a chance,” Paine said.

“And why should I do that? The talk is that you came off the boat with a letter from Franklin, and sure you did the good man false. You’re walking around the city like a man daft and wanting his own soul. Sure as God, you’re a bad penny!”

Paine turned toward die door, but with his hand on the knob, heard the Scotsman’s sharp voice calling him back.

“Would you work for a pound a week?” Aitken demanded.

Paine’s big, ugly head nodded; his twisted brown eyes fixed themselves upon Aitken as if the skinny bookseller were the sole arbiter of his fate.

“Seen it hard and lonely,” Aitken said more softly. “I don’t look at a man, but underneath him. You’re in no way a fool, and neither am I, although a lot of fat bellies in the town here would think us both so. I put a shilling by, but I spend a shilling when I have to, and I mark a good investment.” He went to his till and took out a handful of silver. “Here’s a pound, and if you drink it down, don’t let me see your dirty face again. Go to a barber, and then buy some decent clothes and put a coat on your back, and then come back here.”

Paine nodded, took the money, and went out; he couldn’t trust himself to speak, not to think even; as if he had been released from jail, starving, he felt a sudden sickening hunger—he wanted the whole world; he could have it—he wanted the Negro maid, trembling on the auction block; he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her that it would be all right; his sense of power was only the result of the simple fact that he still lived, that he still wanted and hungered and hoped.

He came back in brown homespun, with his face shaven and his hair powdered and his nails clean. Aitken gave him dinner, and then they sat down and talked. The bookseller was an extraordinary man, not brilliant, but filled with a detailed material knowledge about the colonies. He told Paine, frankly “I have faith in ye because you come cheap. That’s the Scotsman in me, and maybe the fool.”

They talked all evening, and by midnight, the Pennsylvania Magazine was born. That night, Paine stayed over at Aitken’s house, not sleeping, but lying on his back and staring into the darkness.