It’s not often one of my blog post subjects has an obituary published in the New York Times, but such is the case with Gertrude Bustill Mossell, journalist, author, poet, teacher, suffragist, and civil rights activist.

Born on July 3, 1855, Gertrude Bustill was born into a Black Quaker and Presbyterian family in Philadelphia, PA. Her family’s activism ranged from baking for the Continental Army at Valley Forge to creating the first mutual aid society with black activists Richard Allen and James Forten to engaging in the Underground Railroad. No wonder activism filled all aspects of Gertrude’s life. Her graduation speech, “Influence,” so impressed AME Bishop Henry McNeal, he published it in his newspaper, The Christian Recorder, and encouraged her to send him her poetry and essays for publication.

She taught in the public schools of three states for seven years. While teaching she also wrote and edited for seven magazines and newspapers. In 1883, she married Dr. Nathan Francis Mossell, ending her teaching career and taking a break from journalism to have two children.

She began writing again when editor T. Thomas Fortune hired her to write for his newspaper, The New York Age. From 1885 to1889, her column, “Our Women’s Department,” focused on issues from how to care for a household to civil rights and being politically active.

After that, she was the editor of the Indianapolis World from 1891 to 1892. Her byline was Mrs. N.F. Mossell. Gertrude wrote for both black and white publications, becoming the highest paid black newspaperwoman of the late 18th century, earning $500 a year.

She not only wrote articles but encouraged African American women to write and submit their work, making her an early advocate for women journalists. Gertrude wrote The Work of the Afro-American Woman in 1894, in which she wrote essays that highlighted the accomplishments of African American women in many walks of life, included a number of her poems, and challenged African American universities for not hiring enough of their own graduates and African American teachers in general. The book includes a photo of Gertrude and her two daughters, Mary Campbell and Florence Alma to whom her dedication prays “that they may grow into a pure and noble womanhood.” Her book reminded me of Hallie Q. Brown’s 1926 Homespun Heroines which I blogged about here back in February 2024. In 1902, Gertrude published a children’s book, Little Dansie’s One Day at Sabbath School.

In Philadelphia, Gertrude and her husband founded the Frederick Douglass Hospital for which she raised $30,000 ($1,000,000 in today’s dollars). The hospital included a training school for nurses. She also organized the Philadelphia branch of the national Afro-American Council, the first national civil rights organization in the US.

Gertrude died in 1948 in Philadelphia. An historic marker stands at 1432 Lombard Street in Philadelphia where she lived.

In the HBO series, the Gilded Age black journalist Peggy Scott is confronted by her father who tells her he doesn’t know any women who make a living writing. He obviously never heard of Gertrude. Unfortunately, there are movements in the US today hell bent on making sure the accomplishments of marginalized communities remain unheard of. I share these posts as my way of joining the fight with other groups to make sure those movements fail.

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“The Patience of Unanswered Prayer” by Michal Scott inside Cowboys

Kidnapped and destined to be another victim of Reconstruction-era violence, a feisty shop owner is rescued by a trail boss whose dark secret might save them both.

Excerpt:

Franklin crawled hidden in the tall grass toward the voice. The smells of oil and sulfur assaulted his senses. Echoes of the two explosions that ripped the night apart still played in his ears. The first body thudded against the ground. The second splashed into the creek. Moonlight glinted off the shooter’s gun and chest. Franklin’s upper lip raised over his incisors as he recognized the metal of a sheriff’s badge.

The man stalked over to the body sprawled by the creek bank.

The woman.

A Black woman.

The cur gloated and pointed his gun barrel at her unmoving form.

Franklin snarled. He leapt and went straight for the sheriff’s throat. The man’s horrified cry yielded to stuttered curses as he choked and writhed in the grip of Franklin’s jaws. The copper tang of blood fueled his indignation. The crunch of cartilage sounded lovely in Franklin’s ears. Flesh and bone yielded to canines and incisors.

The man staggered under Franklin’s weight. Lithe and lean in his wolf form, he still carried the heft of his human two hundred and fifty pounds.

The man convulsed, slumped then stilled.

Life flowed in the villain’s veins yet, but wouldn’t for long. The merciful thing to do would be to finish him off before some other predators made a meal of him.

Franklin felt nothing akin to mercy.

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