My Name is Phillis Wheatley

by Afua Cooper

  CHAPTER TEN

  In London Town

  On 17 June 1773, I stood with my young master Nathaniel on the dock of Boston Harbor. I was to travel once more across the Atlantic, not into slavery but as a celebrated poet.

  The first few days at sea filled me with terror, and at nights I suffered the torments of nightmare: Captain Gwinn and his sailors whipping the captives, little Jibril dying beside me and being fed to the sharks. One night I screamed so loudly that the first officer ran to my cabin and pounded on the door. His banging woke me, and I realized that I was not on a slave ship. I called to him that I was all right, and he went away. But a few moments later, there was a loud knock on my door.

  “Phillis, it’s me, Nathaniel. Mr. Sinclair said you were upset.”

  I rose from my bunk, bile in my throat, and opened the door.

  “What is it, Phillis?” he asked. “Are you homesick?”

  I smiled weakly and tried to assure Nathaniel that I was fine. But the lie stuck in my throat. Tears coursed down my face. “I dreamed that I was on the slave ship.”

  “I suspected as much.” Nathaniel entered the cabin and sat on the chair close to my bunk. “Phillis, you are not on a slave ship. Don’t be afraid. The ship is taking you to London, the center of the world, where your book will be published and you will become even more famous than you are.”

  The presence of Nathaniel was enough to make me feel better. He had been a true friend from the moment I set foot in the Wheatley household. It was he who taught me Latin and ancient history. It was he who told me about Africa, Morocco and Hausa. He showed me my country on the map of the world.

  “I do understand, Phillis, I do,” he continued.

  Nathaniel is good and kind, but no one who had not been on that journey could understand. Nathaniel rose up from his seat. “It is still night, and I must get my rest. Promise me you will be all right. If anything happened to you, my mother would not forgive me.”

  “I will be fine, I promise you.”

  My young master then took my hand, looked me in the eye and said, “All will be well, Phillis.”

  I realized then how much I loved Nathaniel.

  The journey proceeded without disturbance until we were off the coast of Newfoundland. “Whales, whales!” the cry went up. Everyone gathered on deck to see those mammoth creatures. One came right up to the ship’s stern and swam alongside. Then he raised himself, looked directly in my eyes and spewed water on me. The people on deck cheered. Captain Caleb told me that sailors believed that seeing whales brings good luck.

  The countess sent one of her confidants, Brook Watson, to meet us at the pier in London. I would be staying with her, while Nathaniel had secured lodgings for himself. If I thought Boston was busy, London was ten times more so. Our carriage rushed through the streets, and I believed that I would breathe my last breath as it nearly collided with oncoming carriages.

  Vendors hawked their wares, pedestrians — some of whom were street urchins — rushed about, bawling at the top of their lungs. The buildings were ten times taller than those in Boston, which, for the longest while, I had believed was the center of the world.

  The rains for which London is famous began. They did not cool the air. They only increased the humidity, and soon sweat was pouring from my body.

  The countess was what I had imagined her to be. Her skin was alabaster white, and her gray eyes sparkled. She walked briskly from her house to meet the carriage. Mr. Watson helped me down, and the countess pressed her hand in mine. “Phillis Wheatley, the famous poet.” I immediately liked her.

  The days blurred into one another, a mass of new faces and new places. One day, the much-esteemed Granville Sharp escorted me to the London Zoo. Mr. Sharp is famous for his efforts to bring about the end of the slave trade. There is an anti-slavery society in London, of which Mr. Sharp is the leader. He and his associates have presented many petitions to Parliament documenting the vile practices of slavery and the slave trade and calling for the end of these twin horrors. Just last year Mr. Sharp made history. He rescued James Somersett, a New England slave, from sure bondage. Somersett had travelled to England with his master. In 1771, he escaped from his master but was promptly recaptured and put on a ship bound for Jamaica. Sharp obtained legal representation for Somersett, and the case was heard in the highest court of the land.

  The judge, Lord Mansfield, ruled in Somersett’s favor and released him. He said that “whoever breathes the air of England is a free man.” What a triumph for Somersett, Sharp and the anti-slavery cause! Yet hundreds, if not thousands, of my brethren remained in bondage in Britain.

  Mr. Sharp came for me in a cab. As we rumbled along the London streets, he tried to engage me in conversation, but I was tongue-tied in the presence of such an esteemed personage. However, he was a kind and sympathetic man, and he knew how to make me feel at ease. He asked about the situation at home in America, the strained relationship between the colonists and the government representative.

  “I hear the Americans are talking about separating from Britain and becoming independent,” he said. It was a subject close to my heart, and I needed no further encouragement to tell him how I felt. The colonists had legitimate complaints. Why should they be taxed without authentic representatives in the House of Parliament? Why should the British treat the Americans in a high-handed manner?

  “But independence, Miss Wheatley?”

  “The Americans see themselves as slaves …”

  Mr. Sharp and I looked at each other and smiled broadly. “I have been reading the rhetoric,” he said. “I also read your poem to Lord Dartmouth.”

  “Though, sir, the real slaves are us, the Africans.”

  “No man of sense can miss that paradox,” Mr. Sharp said, almost to himself.

  “Britain is the best friend of the slave,” I said passionately. “Look at your work for James Somersett and for England’s Black slaves. Lady Huntingdon, God bless her soul, took me under her wing and enabled my book to be published, while Boston is still skeptical about an African poet.”

  “Such a pity.”

  “They believe, Mr. Sharp, that the African does not have the capacity for mental reasoning, higher thoughts and the writing and creating of literature and mathematics. They were not convinced that I had written the poems.”

  “There is much work to be done in fighting bigotry against the African, Miss Wheatley,” he said. “Your work and your presence here in England have done much to advance the cause of your injured race.”

  At the zoo, I saw animals of every type and size, from the almost-white Siberian tiger to the South American yellow butterfly. There were also animals from my country: lions, elephants and zebras. I looked at these animals in their cages, behind their bars, and sent them a silent hello.

  It was while looking at the tigers that Mr. Sharp said, “You know, Miss Wheatley, if you were to stay in London, you would gain your freedom. We, your friends here, would help you.”

  My heart beat fiercely. “I know, sir. I know.”

  It was hot and humid in London. The stifling heat sapped my energy, though Amelia, my maid, made me consume glass after glass of lemonade. Still, I visited museums, art galleries, the port of London and the big palaces: Buckingham, Whitehall and Hampton Court. But the Tower of London was the most fascinating. Benjamin Franklin, the much-regarded American politician, scientist and patriot, took me to the tower. Mr. Franklin had received many accolades for his work with electricity. He had read of my visit to London and the imminent publication of my book and, in a flush of patriotism, this good gentleman decided to visit me. I had been at my desk writing a letter to Obour Tanner when Amelia came to my room and told me that a gentleman named “Mr. Benjamin Franklin of Philadelphia” was here to visit me. I could not believe my ears.

  “Welcome to England, Miss Wheatley,” Mr. Franklin said, taking off his hat and bowi
ng. He looked just like his engraving, which so often graced the pages of our American papers, with a large forehead and twinkling eyes. I thanked Mr. Franklin for his visit, but before I could conclude, he said, “I hope you are not being cooped up in the house. London has many sites that we colonials find fascinating. They are all meant to impress us, you know.” Mr. Franklin laughed at his own comments, and I smiled. “I know Mr. Sharp took you to the zoo.”

  “Word does travel, Mr. Franklin,” I exclaimed.

  “Blame the newspapers, ma’am.” And before I could get in a word, he said, “To the Tower it will be, and I will make sure you don’t lose your head.”

  I grimaced, but laughed aloud at the grisly reference.

  The Tower of London has seen a lot of misery and death. But there is a brighter side as well. Mr. Franklin showed me the baptismal font for the royal family and the horse armory. I saw the crowns in their gilded cages, the diamonds and jewels, including the famous ruby from India, I saw the scepters. I listened with rapt attention as Mr. Franklin pointed out the one that had belonged to murderous Henry VIII, the king who loved to behead his wives. I was impressed and told Mr. Franklin so.

  “Well, I am glad of it,” he said. “But, one day, we in America too will build an impressive civilization.” I could not but agree.

  To my great pleasure, Mr. James Albert Ukawsaw Gronniosaw visited me at the countess’s home. He was part of Lady Huntingdon’s evangelical assembly, pious men and women who believe in taking the Gospel to all in the kingdom of Great Britain, America and the islands of the seas.

  “Truly, I cannot hide my pleasure, Miss Wheatley, to meet such a noble and talented member of my race,” he said to me.

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Gronniosaw,” I replied.

  “The countess tells me you do not possess a copy of my book, so it behooves me to present one to you.” And, to my great delight, Mr. Gronniosaw pressed a copy into my hand.

  “Believe me, Mr. Gronniosaw, when I tell you this is one of the best gifts I have ever received.”

  I know Mr. Gronniosaw’s story well. The noble soul was born in Bornu in West Africa, but was kidnapped into slavery. In London, he was enslaved to a wealthy seaman, but later gained his freedom. The book tells of his kidnapping from his beloved family and homeland, the dreadful journey across the Atlantic Ocean chained in the hold of a vile slave ship and his ordeal in bondage.

  Mr. Gronniosaw said he had come to take me to see the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace, but, as it had started to rain intensely, it was best to stay inside. We conversed for hours, until the purple of twilight filled the room and the servants lit the lamps.

  My time in London was full. Yet, sometimes, I felt like a specimen under a microscope. Some people expressed surprise at my good speech and formal grammar. They claimed that they did not know a Black person could speak so well and have such a command of the English language. Others asked me directly if it was I who wrote the poems. I grew weary of their prodding. Their questions disappointed me. There were several Black writers in England. Why did the White people display such suspicion about my talents? Did they not know of these writers living in their midst? I fear that even if a thousand Black geniuses in all the arts and sciences were to be paraded before these doubting Thomases, they would still cling to their beliefs because they want to.

  For all its glitter, London is a damp, dark city. It rained incessantly, and there were whole days when it seemed a perpetual, cold twilight. The dampness crept into me, and there were entire days when I stayed in my room by the fire warming my bones. I began to cough unceasingly, and that was quieted only by a syrupy potion that Amelia made. I do not have a strong constitution. When I lived in Fouta Toro, I was strong and never ill. All that changed when I crossed the Atlantic Ocean that first time.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Back to Boston

  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 i
f 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.