forbidden them to play. Food began to disappear from our pantries. Many of our plants died in the greenhouse from neglect. And there I was, an old woman still grieving over the love of her youth, surrounded on all sides by George's slaves who knew that when I expired they were free. (My own servants we had not yet decided about.) Privately, with me and friends, my husband declared his repugnance for slavery. He knew it was wrong. And hoping to right that wrongâone he'd known as a slave master since his eleventh yearâhe built liberation for his Negroes after my death into his last will and testament. (No, I was not thoroughly consulted on this matter.) And by doing so, he created the most frightening prison for
me.
I am afraid to be alone in any room in my house with Billy Lee, given the way I sometimes catch him looking at me out of the corner of his eye. My Lord, I am afraid to
eat,
for anything they serve me might be poisoned. It chills me to hear the footsteps of any of our servants behind me when I am on the stairs, or outside my bedroom door at night. Oh, George, you were
not
a thinker. Had you been, you would not out of Christian kindness to the blacks unwittingly consigned me to a hellish house, where in the face of each of our formerly loving attendants I now see my possible executioner.
How many days, or weeks, I have lived in this agony, I do not know. How long I have to live after my dear husband's departure is also a mystery. But I awoke this morning with a clear resolve. I bade one of the black children to have our coachman ready the carriage to take me in a few moments to Fairfax County court There, I will sign the papers necessary to release from servitude all of George's Negroes. They must be manumitted now. This very afternoon.
Then, and only then, will they and I be free of the errors of George Washington.
The Plague
JULY 5,1793
FRIDAY, 8:30 P.M.
I have kept this journal for a few months now, initially to document for posterity the early work I am doing to openâsoon, I hopeâthe doors of a church I will call Bethel, hut as we now enter the second (or perhaps it is the third) month of deaths due to the yellow fever, I wonder if it might be more appropriate to title these pages
The Plague Journal
.
Death is all around us, like a biblical parable on (white) vanity. Should I make that the subject of my five o'clock sermon tomorrow morning? I wonder how it might be received? Perhaps well, insofar as my congregation is entirely Cainiteâso white men call usâthe colored outcasts violently driven from St. George's, one of Philadelphia's largest Methodist churches just last year. I know in the eyes of God, the behavior of this city's Abelites was scandalous. We, free men and women, came humbly to their church to pray to the Creator. Rev. Absalom Jones and I were a little late. Without causing any noise or commotion whatsoever, we quickly wentup the stairs of St. George to the newly built gallery, which was just above the seats we'd occupied the week before. The strains of the first hymn were ending as we sat down, then the church elder told all those present to pray. Obediently, we got down on our knees. But hardly was I a minute into silent meditation when at my right I heard Absalom make a sound. Opening my eyes, I saw one of St. George's trustees hauling my companion to his feet, telling him Negroes were never, never, never to sit in this section of the gallery. Naturally, my friends and I left, turning our backs on all of Philadelphia's white churches. One Sabbath after the next we were subjected to humiliations it pains me to remember. Good Christians, for example, who refused to take the sacrament if it meant sipping from the same chalice that had touched the lips of their darker brethren. Oh yes, Absalom was compelled to organize St. Thomas Episcopal Church after that sad incident, and I dream of a ground-breaking ceremony someday at Bethel, that we might better separate
me.
I am afraid to be alone in any room in my house with Billy Lee, given the way I sometimes catch him looking at me out of the corner of his eye. My Lord, I am afraid to
eat,
for anything they serve me might be poisoned. It chills me to hear the footsteps of any of our servants behind me when I am on the stairs, or outside my bedroom door at night. Oh, George, you were
not
a thinker. Had you been, you would not out of Christian kindness to the blacks unwittingly consigned me to a hellish house, where in the face of each of our formerly loving attendants I now see my possible executioner.
How many days, or weeks, I have lived in this agony, I do not know. How long I have to live after my dear husband's departure is also a mystery. But I awoke this morning with a clear resolve. I bade one of the black children to have our coachman ready the carriage to take me in a few moments to Fairfax County court There, I will sign the papers necessary to release from servitude all of George's Negroes. They must be manumitted now. This very afternoon.
Then, and only then, will they and I be free of the errors of George Washington.
The Plague
JULY 5,1793
FRIDAY, 8:30 P.M.
I have kept this journal for a few months now, initially to document for posterity the early work I am doing to openâsoon, I hopeâthe doors of a church I will call Bethel, hut as we now enter the second (or perhaps it is the third) month of deaths due to the yellow fever, I wonder if it might be more appropriate to title these pages
The Plague Journal
.
Death is all around us, like a biblical parable on (white) vanity. Should I make that the subject of my five o'clock sermon tomorrow morning? I wonder how it might be received? Perhaps well, insofar as my congregation is entirely Cainiteâso white men call usâthe colored outcasts violently driven from St. George's, one of Philadelphia's largest Methodist churches just last year. I know in the eyes of God, the behavior of this city's Abelites was scandalous. We, free men and women, came humbly to their church to pray to the Creator. Rev. Absalom Jones and I were a little late. Without causing any noise or commotion whatsoever, we quickly wentup the stairs of St. George to the newly built gallery, which was just above the seats we'd occupied the week before. The strains of the first hymn were ending as we sat down, then the church elder told all those present to pray. Obediently, we got down on our knees. But hardly was I a minute into silent meditation when at my right I heard Absalom make a sound. Opening my eyes, I saw one of St. George's trustees hauling my companion to his feet, telling him Negroes were never, never, never to sit in this section of the gallery. Naturally, my friends and I left, turning our backs on all of Philadelphia's white churches. One Sabbath after the next we were subjected to humiliations it pains me to remember. Good Christians, for example, who refused to take the sacrament if it meant sipping from the same chalice that had touched the lips of their darker brethren. Oh yes, Absalom was compelled to organize St. Thomas Episcopal Church after that sad incident, and I dream of a ground-breaking ceremony someday at Bethel, that we might better separate
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