Hang a Thousand Trees with Ribbons (11 page)

"In London, Miss Mary. And my good wife, Sarah, also instructed me. She does work in the Japanese style. She paints in lacquer on glass."

Mary flushed. She had not been to London.

"And you earn your keep this way, then?"

"No, Miss Mary. I am servant to the Reverend and Mrs. John Moorhead of Long Lane Presbyterian Church."

Mary smiled. This pleasured her. "I think that at some future time I may allow you to draw my likeness," she told him.

"Of course," Scipio said, bowing again. And he winked at me as we went out the door.

Mary was a snob, I decided. She didn't deserve John Lathrop.

We went home by way of Boylston Market. A new shipment of coffee had come in this morning from the islands. Mrs. Wheatley wanted to sample some.

Of a sudden, Prince drew the horse up sharp. We bolted forward and near fell.

"What is it?" Mrs. Wheatley rapped on the window.

"A crowd, ma'am."

"Crowd?"

"More like a mob."

"To what aim?" my mistress asked.

Prince opened the small window between the driver's seat and us. "They've hung Andrew Oliver in effigy."

Oliver was secretary of the province. All around the straw figure a crowd had amassed, jeering at it.

"How distasteful," Mrs. Wheatley said. "Drive on, Prince. Take us home. I have just lost my taste for coffee."

Prince clicked to the horse and we swerved down an alley, away from the crowd. But I found myself looking back.

White people say
we
have strange practices. But what could be more sinister than stuffing a figure with straw, painting its face, giving it a name, and screaming at it? Does this not bring bad medicine down on the person it represents?

As if she could read my thoughts, Mrs. Wheatley began to fan her face and look distressed. "I fear for Mr. Oliver. Boston crowds get so ugly."

"Then he never should have taken the position of stamp master," Mary said. She sighed. "John is likely home this minute writing another seditious sermon."

"The man must preach what he believes, Mary," her mother said. "Have you two been quarreling again?"

"We did have high words, Mother. I just don't see why he can't be content to preach the Word of the Lord. And not be so influenced by the Sons of Liberty."

"Don't question his judgments, Mary."

"Oh," Mary complained bitterly, "those pernicious stamps!"

Those pernicious stamps were all we'd heard about since May, when a coastal vessel had brought the news that Parliament would soon demand a stamp duty, from half a penny to twenty-five shillings on any skin or vellum or parchment or sheet of paper on which anything should be engraved, written, or printed.

I thought of all the papers in my drawer. How priceless words seemed now. How precious!

The Boston summer had been restless. People gathered in small groups on street corners in the sweet dusk. And you could see them raising their fists in anger. Small boys ran waving copies of the
Gazette
and yelling about the latest published letter by John Adams. Ships anchored in the harbor would all fly their flags at half-mast, as if on some sudden agreement. Or church bells would toll when it was not the Sabbath. Everyone was waiting for the pernicious stamps. They were to arrive in November.

Aunt Cumsee laid a cold supper for us that night. Meats and pickles, relishes and fresh fruit. When Mr. Wheatley praised her, saying it was too hot for anything else, she apologized.

"All I could do," she said. "I had no firewood."

"Where is Prince?" Mr. Wheatley looked around.

"Not been here all afternoon," she said.

"He'd best be back before dark," Nathaniel said. "The town clerk has ordered that no mulatto or Negro servants be abroad after nine at night. I heard Prince was running messages to the Sons."

"What is the nature of the messages?" Mr. Wheatley asked.

"Every post for the last day or so is bringing messages of encouragement from other colonies," Nathaniel said. "All we hear is 'Resolved,' from the citizens of Annapolis, Plymouth, Newport"

"What have they resolved?" Mary asked.

Nathaniel sipped his cold cider. "That with submission to divine Providence, we can never be slaves. And the Virginians passed a set of resolutions that are absolutely daring."

"And what makes them any more daring than our Braintree Instructions, written by John Adams?" Mary challenged.

"The Virginians are men with money. Landed proprietors."

"So, since men with money are against this Stamp Act, you're against it now, too." Mary's tone was snide.

"It will ruin our economy," Nathaniel said.

Mary grimaced. "If something affects trade you care. My John is preaching against the Stamp Act for the good of all."

"The good of all is his business," Nathaniel said; "mine is trade." Then he grinned. "Did John not tell you how it affects those contemplating marriage?"

"Don't jest, Nathaniel," Mary said.

"I don't. The
Gazette
said today that many young people are joining in wedlock earlier than they intended, because after the first of November it will be difficult to have the ceremony performed without paying dearly for stamping."

Mary flushed. "Mother, make him stop."

"Enough, children," Mrs. Wheatley chided. "You know we encourage intelligent discourse. But let's not let it divide our family."

I looked at Nathaniel.
It affects us all,
he'd said.
We can never be slaves.
I liked the ring of it.

When Aunt Cumsee brought in the whipped syllabub, we heard the clamor outside. Dusk had fallen; candles flickered on the table. We ran to the windows. A crowd had appeared.

Mary gasped. "Where did they come from?" She was afraid.

I was not. I was seized by a sense of excitement.

"Crowds come from nowhere these days," Mr. Wheatley said. "I suggest we close all the shutters."

We went about fastening the shutters on the inside.

Nathaniel secured all the doors. "Mary, play your harpsichord so Mother and Father don't hear the noise." And he ran up the stairs.

Mary sat to play. Aunt Cumsee served the syllabub. I lighted more candles. Nathaniel came back down and took his place at the table. Inside his frock coat he had a long pistol stuck in the waistband of his breeches. Was I the only one to notice?

After dessert Mr. and Mrs. Wheatley sat in chairs before the empty fireplace. Mrs. Wheatley took up some petit point.

I slipped out of the room and followed Nathaniel across the hall into the parlor. He had one shutter open. From outside there came the dull murmur of many voices as more and more people surged down King Street, waving their arms, one great body driven by their anger.

High above them they carried the straw Andrew Oliver on a bier.

Nathaniel stood watching, hands behind his back.

"What is it?" I whispered.

"A mock funeral procession."

"What are they chanting?"

"'Liberty, property, and no stamps!'"

I listened, making sense of the chant then. Over and over they said it. Louder and louder. There was a rhythm to it, a sense of purpose. They were coming right by our house.

"Are you afraid?" Nathaniel asked.

"Mary is. But no, I'm not. I think it's exciting."

He granted.

"And besides, you have a pistol."

"How do you know that?"

"I saw it"

He reached out his hand and brushed my cheek. "You'll fare well," he said. "You don't miss much and you're not afraid."

I flushed under the praise.

He put an arm around my shoulder and drew me toward him. I smelled the tobacco and strong-scented soap he used. I leaned next to him, happy, watching the crowd go by chanting, stomping, orderly, yet fair to bursting.

"Take notice of them, Phillis," he said. "These are the common folk, the tradesmen, the town artisans, cord wainers, carpenters, farmers, shopkeepers, printers. These are the people who helped make me a merchant. Never underestimate their power."

"Women, too," I said, looking up at him.

He smiled down at me. "Yes, women, too."

"Where do they go?" I asked.

"Likely to Oliver's office. Even to his residence."

"For what purpose?"

"To do mischief. To smash windows. Tear his garden. Drink his wine. Scatter his papers."

I felt a thrill of joy. I felt the cadence of their words pounding in with the blood in my veins.
Liberty! Property! No stamps!

And we will never be slaves,
I thought.
We will never be slaves.

The next morning Prince was back, bringing wood in for Aunt Cumsee, waiting on the table. No one called him to account. But I heard Nathaniel chide him quietly as Prince fetched Nathaniel's hat.

"I hope you know what you're getting involved in, Prince. Most of our miseries we bring on ourselves. And they're the sum of our own stupidity."

"I know," Prince said. "I know."

A year later I wrote my first poem.

I was twelve years old and of a sudden I hated the way I looked. I was skinny as a beanpole. My skin was as black as if I'd been rubbed with fireplace ashes, and I was starting to know that no matter what I did, no matter how smart or amiable I managed to be, I was still not white folk. And I never would be, either.

I hated my hair, which would lend itself to no brush but stuck out every which way on my wretched head.

I would watch Mary brushing her long silken hair at night and hate the sight of it. And her.

Mary was not pretty, but she had two commodities I lacked. She
acted
pretty. And she had a bosom. Generally those two virtues were of great account in Boston in 1766.

Oh, I could recite from Shakespeare and Alexander Pope. I read Plato and Homer. I read the
Iliad
and the
Odyssey.
Nathaniel drilled these things in my head.

Mary did not even know what they were. "Would you like to come to a musical with me and Thankful Hubbard this evening?" she asked one day as I stood watching Sulie doing up her hair.

"No thank you. I've got the
Iliad
" I said. I meant that I had to study the
Iliad,
for Nathaniel would be asking me about it that night.

"Oh?" Mary frowned. "Well, in that case you'd best lie down and take a powder. You know how Mama frets about sickness."

I just stared at her as I left the room. Was she that much of a noodlehead? Or was she just not paying mind to me?

She was a noodlehead, I decided. And yet she was the petted only daughter in the family. Nathaniel abided her, teased her, but when all was said and done, took her interest to heart. Her parents provided her with every frippery and forbearance.

Mary's afternoons were filled with teas, jaunts with friends, rides in the countryside, and bookshoppe lectures.

One afternoon when she had just left for such a lecture, I looked up from my newest sampler at my mistress. "Why do I have to sit here doing stitches? Why can't I go to a bookshoppe lecture like Mary?"

"Mary is courting, dear. This is her time to do frivolous things. Soon enough, she'll marry and be burdened with responsibilities."

"Will I marry?"

"Mayhap, yes, someday. But you are different, Phillis. Surely you know that."

"Because I'm a Negro?"

"No, dear, no. There are Negroes aplenty in Boston. Because you have a good turn of mind and we have educated you. So you must prepare yourself, school yourself, discipline yourself, for what lies ahead."

"What lies ahead?" I asked.

Her eyes went soft. "I don't know, Phillis. We none of us know what lies in the future. But we want you to be prepared. So you must work harder, pray more, and watch with whom you form alliances. You must be above reproach at all times."

While Mary has all the sport,
I thought dismally.

I wrote my poem. If Mary thought the
Iliad
was a disease, I would write poetry. I would write about virtue.

I had memorized and recited so much poetry for Nathaniel that spring that writing one of my own came as easy as breathing. And it looked so pleasing, written out in my fine script.

My words, mine. I felt filled with a secret satisfaction I had never felt before in my life.

Oddly enough, it was Mary who discovered my first poem. And it was all because of hair.

My hair.

I was reciting for Nathaniel one evening. He was absolutely daft about my reciting. He said it would give me esteem, and I needed esteem.

"Don't fidget," he scolded. I was reciting a Shakespeare sonnet. He made me do it again.

I commenced.

"Don't tug at your hair!" he scolded. "Why must you always tug at your hair?"

"I hate my hair."

"What in God's name has your hair got to do with poetry?"

I started to cry. "I hate my hair. It makes me look like a Negro."

"You are a Negro."

"But some Negro women have pretty hair, all short and fluffy. Why can't mine be short and fluffy?"

He lounged back in his chair, scowling. "There's a Negro man named Lewis who has a shoppe. He styles hair. You recite this sonnet better for me tomorrow and I'll take you there and have him make you pretty. What say you?"

I said yes.

"Very well, then study." And he put on his linen coat and strode out. Likely to meet friends at some coffeehouse.

Two days later I sat in the shoppe of Mr. Lewis.

"She wants it short and fluffy," Nathaniel told him.

Mr. Lewis smiled. "Short I can give her. Fluffy the good Lord already gave her."

"Do your best, my good man," Nathaniel said.

"I know what she wants," Mr. Lewis said mildly. "I know what all the pretty young Negro girls in Boston want to do with their hair."

"Do it, then," Nathaniel urged. "I'll be back in half an hour."

I sat dwarfed in the large chair and wrapped in a great piece of flannel. Mr. Lewis stood over me, grinning, with gleaming scissors in his hand.

For half an hour he worked on me, snip, snip, snipping. I could scarce breathe, I was so frightened. I felt the hair getting shorter and shorter. All the while that he worked, he talked to me about the nigra women in Boston whose hair he had cut. "Did the maidservant at Mr. Hancock's," he said, "also the personal serving girl of Peggy Hutchinson. She's the daughter of the lieutenant governor. The maidservant, Petula, stayed with Peggy that night last August, when the mob went through his house and tore it down. They destroyed everything. Next day was the first day of Superior Court. And since Hutchinson is chief justice, he had to make an appearance. Petula told me he walked into court in shirtsleeves, with tears coming down his face. He had no other garment. Nor did his family."