Toward the end of July, a summons came for me to leave London. My mistress had fallen gravely ill, and my master wrote to Nathaniel, asking him to send me home to nurse her. I would have wished to stay in London to see the publication of my book. But I could not. Moreover, London’s damp had penetrated my bones, and my last days there were filled with a gloom that refused to lift, in spite of the accolades.
When duty calls you must obey. But this was more than duty and obedience. It was also gratitude and, dare I say, love. Susanna Wheatley had been my one true friend and supporter. She had rescued me from certain death as I lay weak, sick and cold on the dock that July morning in 1761. The captain had left me to die, but she bought me.
She gave me a decent life. She taught me to read, write and speak. She gave me my tongue. My master saw to it that I was used well and insisted that others in Boston recognize my talents, but my mistress got my poems published in New England’s and Pennsylvania’s leading newspapers. She made sure that my book would be published. Most of all, she became my mother when I would never see my own mother again. And I knew that my mistress not only took pity on me but had grown to love me. And I loved her in return.
So when the letter came from Boston, I packed my trunks. My master’s ship, the London Packet, was still in England, and Nathaniel arranged my passage on it.
Lady Huntingdon urged me to stay in London. She had secured an audience for me with the king himself, George the Third. Imagine! Imagine what I could write Obour if I had met the king! I imagined telling my friend Scipio Moorehead, the celebrated African portrait painter. It made me giddy just to think about it. But not even royalty could prevent me from returning to Boston.
Nathanial visited me at Lady Huntingdon’s.
“I am afraid Mother is dying, Phillis.”
I shook my head vigorously and said, “Don’t say so. Mistress is strong. She has many years left.” But I said that more for my benefit than Nathaniel’s.
“My mother loves Aunt Betty, and Aunt Betty is an excellent nurse; but without a doubt, Phillis, it is you whom my sick mother wants by her side.”
“I would prefer it, too.”
“Phillis, here you can have your freedom. If you stayed in England, you would be a free woman.”
It was an idea that had filled my every hour since my arrival in London, especially after I met Granville Sharp. I had friends in London who would help me with the legal work necessary to gain my freedom, and they would assist me in establishing myself here. But I knew I would return to America. My close friends were there, and I was bound, in part by love, to my mistress.
I did not respond to Nathaniel’s words, but studied my palms. I knew not what he read of my silence, but he said, “I have written to my father that, if you ever returned to Boston, he should set you free.”
My final evening was spent with a small group of London’s literati. We read poetry and discussed diverse matters. Just when I thought I would leave London with all pleasant memories, a man stood up and pointed his finger at me. “Madam, you claim to be the authoress of these verses. I have lived in the West Indies, and I have never seen or heard of a Negro creating literature. Madam, I believe you are an impostor.”
My blood boiled. I wanted to seize him by the collar and throttle him. I jumped to my feet, but the Earl of Dartmouth was faster than I. He placed himself between the offender and myself.
“Sir, I think you had better leave.”
Lady Huntingdon clapped her hands, and Winston, a manservant, emerged from the shadows. “Winston, please escort Mr. Blaines.”
But there was no need. Mr. Blaines had already gathered his coat and was making his way toward the door. But my rage did not leave with him.
The next day, Benjamin Franklin, James Gronniosaw, Brook Watson and Nathaniel accompanied me to the Port of London. I expressed my sincere thanks to all of them and boarded the London Packet. On board, I confined myself to my cabin, on my knees. “Lord, let my mistress live. Rescue her from the jaws of death. Restore her to health. And if she is to die, my Lord, let me see her alive before she departs this world. Send your Son to comfort her. Amen.” Not even the sighting of whales off Nova Scotia could budge me from my supplications.
I arrived in Boston in early September and took full charge of my mistress. Aunt Betty had grown more arthritic; climbing up and down the stairs was painful and difficult for her. My mistress was indeed gravely ill. She had consumption. She coughed all night and all day, and a harsh, grating sound came from her chest. She had lost a lot of weight because she vomited up most of what she ate. I nursed her, read to her, fussed over her and prayed with and for her. I could not hide my feelings and cried freely. At such times she would squeeze my hand and say, “Dear girl, I will be all right. You will be, too. Have faith.”
I redoubled my prayers and started a fast, but my weight loss was noticeable.
“You are much too slim to be without food. No more fasting,” my mistress commanded. “Do not do that on my account. God wants us to eat.”
I had to smile in spite of my grief. My mistress was ever so practical.
In the midst of my ministrations, my life changed once more. Early one afternoon, after I had given my mistress dosages of a syrupy and bitter potion the doctor had mandated, my master called me to the drawing room. Sitting with him was John Wainscoat, the family lawyer. I wondered if my master wanted me to read poetry for them.
“Phillis, Mr. Wainscoat is here to draw up your manumission papers.”
“Sir?”
“I am granting you your freedom.”
My heart turned inside my chest. I was to be liberated. Was this Nathaniel’s doing? Tears spilled down my face. I dared not speak.
During my time in England, several and various newspapers published articles about my poetry, my “prodigious” talent, and lamented the fact that I was a slave. They called the Americans hypocrites for wanting freedom from Britain but withholding it from their enslaved Africans. “Miss Wheatley is a good example of the genius held in captive by American slavery,” one newspaper pronounced. I had sailed back to America with copies of these papers. I did not show them to my master or mistress, but I am sure Nathaniel sent copies to them. Our colonial newspapers also reprint much of what appears in the London papers.
Once I had agreed to return to look after my mistress, the Wheatleys knew they were in my debt. I had made with them a silent and unwritten contract: If I returned to America, the Wheatleys would grant me my freedom.
Though I had been treated more like a favored servant than a slave, the fact remained that John and Susanna Wheatley owned me and, if they were to die, their children would inherit me. To be free. To be free. What did that really mean? My master was about to let me know the answer.
I sank to my knees in gratitude and kissed my master’s hands.
“Rise, my child. You have earned the right to be free. God knows our colonies are clamoring for their freedom from Britain. How can we nurture a more poisonous form of slavery?” My master, soon to be my former master, spoke these latter words almost to himself.
“Miss Phillis.” The voice of Mr. Wainscoat brought me back to the matter at hand. “The papers are drawn up. All you have to do is sign this certificate of manumission.”
And so it was that I was granted my freedom. I signed my American name, Phillis Wheatley, to the certificate, but it was Penda Wane who had been freed. Or had she?
My mother was dead and, likely, my father, little Chierno and the baby, too. What had happened to Amadi? I thought of my capture, kidnapping and the horrific journey on the slave ship. It had broken my health. To this day, my lungs are weak and I suffer from asthma. Nathaniel once told me that if I could forget these horrors, my asthma would go away. I believed him, but how could I forget such an ordeal?
However, in order to show my gratitude, I told my master that I would remain and look after my mistress. He had expected that, though he nodded mournfully. To experience my new state, when my mistress slept in the afternoon, I left her in the care of Aunt Betty and Clara and wandered to the bank of the river. I walked and walked and walked, and I did not feel the cold until I had to face the future: How would I look after myself once I left the Wheatleys?