Three: Tugaloo

9 January 1819

Tugaloo

I was not able to write yesterday as we stopped when it was nearly dark. By the time we ate our supper and prepared for our night's rest, it was far too dark to write.  The past two days have been instructive. We had our first encounter with the natives at the ferry across the upper Savannah river near Tugaloo.

Being in the middle of our caravan, I was not a witness to the negotiations that went on between my uncle and the natives. I am not certain if they were Creek or Cherokee. But I do know that it held up our group for about an hour while they negotiated the terms of the ferry crossing. It would take several trips across the river for all of us to reach the other side. I suppose that, there being no alternative, we had to pay whatever price they charged us. But Uncle John is a fierce negotiator, and we were eventually on our way.

I suppose that I need not have feared anything from these natives. They seemed harmless enough, although they were, as it turned out, good businessmen.  I saw a few of the women who were minding a fire, but got no glimpse of any dwelling place.  I assume that any such place is deeper within the forest.

The river itself was beautiful. There were oak, mulberry, and walnut trees near the banks, and grasses sprang up in between.  The winter sun reflected off the water, giving it a warm golden hue. The river eventually wends its way to the ocean at Savannah, but that is very far away. Some of the men at the rear of our caravan had time to catch some fish and we were treated to a fresh meal. I did not expect this, and I said a little word of thanks to this body of water for yielding up a small bounty.

We shall have to make haste to reach the town of Athens by tomorrow evening.   From there, we will traverse down to Fort Hawkins where we will join the Federal Road.  I have heard stories of that road: that it is often nearly unable to be traversed, and that murders and robberies have occurred whilst traveling upon it, mostly at the hands of Indians, but sometimes not.  I have to hope that we travel with a guardian angel.

For now, we are encamped somewhere between the Savannah River and Athens. I am a little concerned about some of the noises that I am hearing as the evening approaches.  I am not certain if they are human or animal and I am not sure which one I would prefer.   Again and again, I think about the horrifying violence that has plagued white people at the hands of some of the Indians.  And again and again, I tell myself that for the most part, these natives are peaceful.

Night falls so early in these winter months, and without our more civilized surroundings, we are confined quite early to our wagons. Beds have been made for us atop the provisions, and some thought had been given to see after our comfort.  Still, I miss the bed I knew all my life. 

Father and Uncle continue to sleep outside, and I am not certain where Susie sleeps as she is up after I fall asleep and before I awaken. I know that it should not be my concern, but I suppose that Susie is with the other Negroes at night. Being a house servant, she is not used to being around the field hands, so I wonder how she is managing.  That is to say, specifically, I wonder if she is with Father instead.

But that is not my concern. I do not care.

Two: Pleasantburg Mansion

Two

Pleasantburg Mansion

7 January 1819

My goodness!  I cannot fathom how I took so long and so many pages to write of an incident that happened so long ago and which should be out of my head.

We are on a journey that anyone else would find exciting, challenging, and even a bit scary. But my mind wanders back to a time that I best put behind me. My father, after all, is riding with us, and that is a fact.  And Susie remains with him, maybe reluctantly, maybe not.

Father is at once an imposing figure, and at other times, he seems so, well, small in all senses of the word. His hair is graying now, and so, in a way, is his face.  I suspect he harbors an illness that he cannot or will not admit to, and such should be no surprise. His fondness for the drink has been well-known for some time, although a condition for being with us on this journey has been his sobriety. If he is imbibing, he is hiding it well.

For her part, Susie is an amiable creature. Try as I might, I cannot hate her.  She is several years older than I am, and could possibly pass as white. Her dark hair is always bound up, gloriously thick and curly and black, but not particularly coarse or wiry. Her green eyes are, well, merry, almost twinkly in a mirthful fashion. She has the tiniest waist that I have ever seen. But I mustn't think of such things. My mother thinks upon Susie as little as possible, and tolerates her because she must. This is an accommodation that my parents have reached as a part of their reconciliation. He no longer drinks nor swears nor is violent, but Susie remains a part of our lives.  And, truth be told, she is a calming influence upon him. This is perhaps due to her religion. She finds sanctuary in walking with the Lord. And an added benefit is that she has been taught to read by the Methodists.  They spend all Sunday afternoon teaching the Negroes, although I am not sure what good comes of it.  But I guess it doesn't do any harm, either.

Major John Archer Elmore is the leader of our ever-growing band of people going westward or more correctly, southwestward. He is a force to be reckoned with, my uncle.  It is as though he always has to live up to his title of "Major", having earned it first by serving in the Revolutionary War under Nathaniel Greene, and later rising through the ranks in the militia. He was elected to the legislature and all seemed to be going well for him. But he thought it would be even more fortuitous to settle in the Alabama wilderness where there is tale of black dirt and land as far as the eye could see for just 25 cents an acre.  So off to this new territory we go, mindless of the dangers and risks. 

It was to my uncle that my mother turned so many years ago. It was he who suggested, or rather forced, my mother to separate from my father and demand from him sufficient funds to finance her life and those of her female children.  It was my uncle who perhaps had the judge in his pocket, although I am glad that my father was called to task and made to pay.

But I forget myself. As my Aunt Elizabeth has beckoned, I am to be describing the events of my life, and it certainly seems that I have many.

We left my beloved town of Laurensville just as the sun was beginning to rise.  There are eight wagons so far, some horse-drawn, and some being led by oxen.  Additionally, there are six carriages carrying some of the women and children, with some of the men and most of the Negroes walking along as we slowly venture onwards.  

I had hoped to be out of not only this county, but the next, but I am realizing that my expectations are unrealistic, given our slow pace.  I guess we were lucky that we reached the Town of Pleasantburg, and that we were able to stay on the Mcbee land. There is a mansion here and a few of us women, including my mother and my sisters, were permitted inside, the owner being absent most of the year.  My sisters and I are sharing a room with two beds in it, and I suspect that this will be considered grand luxury when compared to what I suspect we will later encounter.  However, I guess that this journey will not be so bad after all, and I shall set my mind to at least tolerating it. But I still miss my friends, my books, and my pianoforte.

As the hour grows late, and the light is now dim it being winter, I shall bid you a fond adieu.  A fire has been built downstairs, and a simple supper has been prepared. I fear that for all its simplicity, this is going to be the most sumptuous meal we will have in some time. Father and Susie will spend the night outside with the wagons and horses and will somehow manage to pass the time. But I shall not think about that. Not really.

One: Anger

One

Anger

6 January 1819^[1]
                I have decided to write a journal because I am entering into an exciting, or at least, different time of my life. This is as good a time as any.  
                It is my eighteenth birthday today, not that anyone cares, although my Aunt Elizabeth did present me with this journal last night.  "My darling Louisa," she said softly and lovingly. "Please record all the exciting details of events that will befall you, for you shall have many of those!"  
                I dearly love my auntie, and I shall miss her terribly, leaving her behind as we must do. She is settled here in Laurensville,^[2] South Carolina, with her husband and my cousins, some of whom are close to my age. 
                I do love the soft brown leather of the cover and binding of this Journal, and the crisp white pages in between. 
                Tomorrow we leave for the Alabama Territory.^[3] As exciting as that should be, I am angry. Angry that I have to leave my dear friends. Angry that I no longer will have a comfortable bed, or protection from the elements. Angry that I might not be safe from the natives or whatever else might beset us on the journey and thereafter.  How can everyone forget the massacre at Fort Mims^[4] just a few years ago?  Over five hundred souls were lost that day, and perhaps 250 scalps were taken.
                I am angry that I must leave behind my pianoforte and my many books. Angry that my oldest brother and sister, John and Elizabeth,  get to stay behind in the civilized world while I must join my mother and other siblings in an untamed one.  Angry that I shall have almost no chance to ever find a suitable husband in such a wild and dangerous place, and really very angry that my father is being permitted to go along with us, our little group of friends and family, led by my Uncle John Elmore.^[5] 
                It was only six years ago that my parents were embroiled in a bitter suit for Separate Maintenance. Try though they might, they were completely unsuccessful in hiding the details from us.  
                I remember so well how my father came home that day, drunk again from the whiskey that flowed too freely at the local tavern. He walked in the door, headed straight to Susie, and roughly kissed and groped her in front of my mother and me and my three younger siblings, Thomas, Nancy, and the baby Patsy. 
                My mother squinted in anger, biting her lower lip. She muttered lowly at first, but with each word her pitch escalated higher and higher so that her voice could be heard in the rafters.  Her soft brown hair seemed to fly out as she began to speak, and her hazel eyes turned a bright emerald green in that moment. 
                "Josiah, that is the last straw. I'll not have you acting this way, grabbing our--HOUSE SERVANT-- in front of the children and being defiant to me."  Clearly, Mother was incensed at the thought that he was trifling with the help.  For I do not believe that she was defending Susie.  She picked up the  large kitchen knife that she had been using to cut apart the chicken that we were having for supper, but we all knew she would not actually use it as a weapon. She had that much restraint. It was her breeding that kept her from turning this into an all-out brawl, a war from which you could never return. 
                "It is not as though you really care for her, beautiful though she may be for a..." and here she turned toward Susie, "mulatto."   She put the knife down, and circled in front of the sturdy oak table that had often hosted our whole brood of eight children and my parents at many a meal. "And you certainly don't care for me, acting this way," she said, lowering her voice, almost pleading with him.  She was now just a few feet from him, but his back was turned in his preoccupation with the house servant. 
                My father took another second or two to bite a fearful, quivering Susie on the neck and slap her behind before turning to my mother.   "You whore. I'm not going to allow you to speak to me this way. I can do what I want, say what I want, Judith," he roared. "Stay out of my way, you bitch."  With this, his eyes were like coals in a hot-burning fire that wasn't going to go out soon.  Such profane words had not crossed his lips before, at least not in front of us children. 
                Mother's hand reached backward but could not find a sizable object that could inflict some damage.  I could see what she was thinking by the furious expression on her face. Father saw it, too, and suddenly I saw him grab the kitchen knife that Mother had lain on the table and he  waved it close to her face. Mother deftly moved away from him, never turning her back to him, but she grabbed the baby and ran out the door. 
                It was then that father noticed my little brother TJ, my toddler sister Nancy, and then me with both hands on the poker from the fireplace, ready to protect and defend.  Susie was in the corner, rubbing her neck and looking aghast at what had just happened, but saying nothing as house servants are required to do. 
                Father dropped the knife and sank slowly to his knees and began sobbing.  "Forgive me", he pleaded with me, the oldest of the three children in the room. "Forgive me."
                That I will not do. That, as God is surely my witness, I will never do.

---

^[1] It is not known exactly when the Williams family left South Carolina.  They are believed to have left with the Elmores, Jordans, Craddocks, Saxons, and Crenshaws sometimes between 1814 and 1819.  It is possible that some members of the families traveled earlier than others, in order to plant fields, and possibly build houses.

^[2] Later shortened to Laurens.

^[3] Alabama became a state on 14 December 1819.

^[4] On 30 August 1813, Upper Creek natives stormed Ft. Mim, massacring perhaps 500 whites, Lower Creek, and slaves.

^[5] John Archer Elmore (1762-1834).

Disclaimer:  Although this novel, including the Preface, is historical fiction, it is based upon actual characters and events, while adding others as pure fiction.  This work should not be depended upon to be of any actual genealogical value

Preface

Preface

                In 1989, a distant cousin contacted me to see if I would be interested in receiving (and preserving) journals and some letters written by or to a common ancestor.  I, of course, agreed.  I did not know exactly when it would be that I would get around to reading any of them, much less do anything about them, but I wanted to make sure that such documents did not go to the trash, or find their way to E-Bay. 

                The documents arrived the following year, and I at first placed them in a box in my home office; I was intending to eventually take them out and read them to see if there was anything of interest.  I had not particularly been interested in pursuing the genealogy of this particular ancestor, and I had no other reason at that time to rush to viewing them.

                In 2006, I moved to California, shipping only boxes of documents that either were of legal interest (I had not yet retired from law practice), or were of genealogical interest.  There being no room in my new home, the boxes were relegated to my garage where they sat until early 2017.  I then began my research on my ancestors who had been involved with the manufacture of cotton gins.  But in perusing through the documents, I happened upon a group of letters and journals that had belonged to my g-g-g-grandmother, Louisa Williams.

                The first document that I found was a journal written by her in 1819, followed by other journals and letters that concluded in 1879.  I have attempted to set these documents in order, with some explanations added in endnotes.  I hope these materials will be useful or at least interesting to someone.

Disclaimer:  Although this novel, including the Preface, is historical fiction, it is based upon actual characters and events, while adding others as pure fiction.  This work should not be depended upon to be of any actual genealogical value.

Three, Tugaloo

9 January 1819

I was not able to write yesterday as we stopped when it was nearly dark. By the time we ate our supper and prepared for our night's rest, it was far too dark to write.  The past two days have been instructive. We had our first encounter with the natives at the ferry across the upper Savannah river near Tugaloo.

Being in the middle of our caravan, I was not a witness to the negotiations that went on between my uncle and the natives. I am not certain if they were Creek or Cherokee. But I do know that it held up our group for about an hour while they negotiated the terms of the ferry crossing. It would take several trips across the river for all of us to reach the other side. I suppose that, there being no alternative, we had to pay whatever price they charged us. But Uncle John is a fierce negotiator, and we were eventually on our way.

I suppose that I need not have feared anything from these natives. They seemed harmless enough, although they were, as it turned out, good businessmen.  I saw a few of the women who were minding a fire, but got no glimpse of any dwelling place.  I assume that any such place is deeper within the forest.

The river itself was beautiful. There were oak, mulberry, and walnut trees near the banks, and grasses sprang up in between.  The winter sun reflected off the water, giving it a warm golden hue. The river eventually wends its way to the ocean at Savannah, but that is very far away. Some of the men at the rear of our caravan had time to catch some fish and we were treated to a fresh meal. I did not expect this, and I said a little word of thanks to this body of water for yielding up a small bounty.

We shall have to make haste to reach the town of Athens by tomorrow evening.   From there, we will traverse down to Fort Hawkins where we will join the Federal Road.  I have heard stories of that road: that it is often nearly unable to be traversed, and that murders and robberies have occurred whilst traveling upon it, mostly at the hands of Indians, but sometimes not.  I have to hope that we travel with a guardian angel.

For now, we are encamped somewhere between the Savannah River and Athens. I am a little concerned about some of the noises that I am hearing as the evening approaches.  I am not certain if they are human or animal and I am not sure which one I would prefer.   Again and again, I think about the horrifying violence that has plagued white people at the hands of some of the Indians.  And again and again, I tell myself that for the most part, these natives are peaceful.

Night falls so early in these winter months, and without our more civilized surroundings, we are confined quite early to our wagons. Beds have been made for us atop the provisions, and some thought had been given to see after our comfort.  Still, I miss the bed I knew all my life. 

Father and Uncle continue to sleep outside, and I am not certain where Susie sleeps as she is up after I fall asleep and before I awaken. I know that it should not be my concern, but I suppose that Susie is with the other Negroes at night. Being a house servant, she is not used to being around the field hands, so I wonder how she is managing.  That is to say, specifically, I wonder if she is with Father instead.

But that is not my concern. I do not care.

Two, Pleasantburg Mansion

Two
Pleasantburg Mansion
7 January 1819
My goodness!  I cannot fathom how I took so long and so many pages to write of an incident that happened so long ago and which should be out of my head.

We are embarked on a journey that anyone else would find exciting, challenging, and even a bit scary. But my mind wanders back to a time that I best put behind me. My father, after all, is riding with us, and that is a fact.  And Susie remains with him, maybe reluctantly, maybe not.

Father is at once an imposing figure, and at other times, he seems so, well, small in all senses of the word. His hair is graying now, and so, in a way, is his face.  I suspect he harbors an illness that he cannot or will not admit to, and such should be no surprise. His fondness for the drink has been well-known for some time, although a condition for being with us on this journey has been his sobriety. If he is imbibing, he is hiding it well.

For her part, Susie is an amiable creature. Try as I might, I cannot hate her.  She is several years older than I am, and could possibly pass as white. Her dark hair is always bound up, gloriously thick and curly and black, but not particularly course or wiry. Her brown eyes are, well, merry, almost twinkly in a mirthful fashion. She has the tiniest waist that I have ever seen. But I mustn't think of such things. My mother thinks upon Susie as little as possible, and tolerates her because she must. This is an accommodation that my parents have reached as a part of their reconciliation. He no longer drinks nor swears nor is violent, but Susie remains a part of our lives.  And, truth be told, she is a calming influence upon him. This is perhaps due to her religion. She finds sanctuary in walking with the Lord. And an added benefit is that she has been taught to read by the Methodists.  They spend all Sunday afternoon teaching the Negroes, although I am not sure what good comes of it.  But I guess it doesn't do any harm, either.

My Uncle, Major John Archer Elmore, is the leader of our ever-growing band of people going westward or more correctly, southwestward. He is a force to be reckoned with, my uncle.  It is as though he always has to live up to his title of "Major", having earned it first by serving in the Revolutionary War under Nathaniel Greene, and later rising through the ranks in the militia. He was elected to the legislature and all seemed to be going well for him. But he thought it would be even more fortuitous to settle in the Alabama wilderness where there is tale of black dirt and land as far as the eye could see for just 25 cents an acre.  So off to this new territory we go, mindless of the dangers and risks. 

It was to my uncle that my mother turned so many years ago. It was he who suggested, or rather forced, my mother to separate from my father and demand from him sufficient funds to finance her life and those of her female children.  It was my uncle who perhaps had the judge in his pocket, although I am glad that my father was called to task and made to pay.

But I forget myself. As my Aunt Elizabeth has beckoned, I am to be describing the events of my life, and it certainly seems that I have many.

We left my beloved town of Laurensville [later known as Laurens] just as the sun was beginning to rise.  There are 16 wagons so far, some horse-drawn, and some being led by oxen.  Additionally, there are six stagecoaches carrying the women and children, with some of the men and most of the Negroes walking along as we slowly venture onwards.  

I had hoped to be out of not only this county, but the next; however, I am realizing that my expectations are unrealistic, given our slow pace.  I guess we were lucky that we reached the Town of Pleasantburg and were able to stay on the Mcbee land. There is a mansion here and a few of us women, including my mother and my sisters, were permitted inside, the owner being absent most of the year.  I guess that this journey will not be so bad after all, and I shall set my mind to at least tolerating it. But I still miss my friends, my books, and my pianoforte.

As the hour grows late, and the light is now dim it being winter, I shall bid you a fond adieu.  A fire has been built downstairs, and a simple supper has been prepared. I suspect that for all its simplicity, this meal is going to be the most sumptuous meal we will have in some time. Father and Susie will spend the night outside with the wagons and horses and will somehow manage to pass the time. But I shall not think about that. Not really.

One, Anger

One

Anger

6 January 1819^[i]

                I have decided to write a journal because I am entering into an exciting, or at least, different time of my life. This is as good a time as any.  

                It is my eighteenth birthday today, not that anyone cares, although my Aunt Elizabeth did present me with this journal last night.  "My darling Louisa," she said softly and lovingly. "Please record all the exciting details of events that will befall you, for you shall have many of those!"  
                I dearly love my auntie, and I shall miss her terribly, leaving her behind as we must do. She is settled here in Laurensville,^[ii] South Carolina, with her husband and my cousins, some of whom are close to my age. 
I do love the soft brown leather of the cover and binding of this Journal, and the crisp white pages in between. 
               Tomorrow we leave for the Alabama Territory.^[iii] As exciting as that should be, I am angry. Angry that I have to leave my dear friends. Angry that I no longer will have a comfortable bed, or protection from the elements. Angry that I might not be safe from the natives or whatever else might beset us on the journey and thereafter.  How can everyone forget the massacre at Fort Mims^[iv] just a few years ago?  Over five hundred souls were lost that day, and perhaps 250 scalps were taken.
                I am angry that I must leave behind my pianoforte and my many books. Angry that my oldest brother and sister, John and Elizabeth,  get to stay behind in the civilized world while I must join my mother and other siblings in an untamed one.  Angry that I shall have almost no chance to ever find a suitable husband in such a wild and dangerous place, and really very angry that my father is being permitted to go along with us, our little group of friends and family, led by my Uncle John Elmore.^[v] 
                It was only six years ago that my parents were embroiled in a bitter suit for Separate Maintenance. Try though they might, they were completely unsuccessful in hiding the details from us.  
                I remember so well how my father came home that day, drunk again from the whiskey that flowed too freely at the local tavern. He walked in the door, headed straight to Susie, and roughly kissed and groped her in front of my mother and me and my three younger siblings, Thomas, Nancy, and the baby Patsy. 
                My mother squinted in anger, biting her lower lip. She muttered lowly at first, but with each word her pitch escalated higher and higher so that her voice could be heard in the rafters.  Her soft brown hair seemed to fly out as she began to speak, and her hazel eyes turned a bright emerald green in that moment. 
                "Josiah, that is the last straw. I'll not have you acting this way, grabbing our--HOUSE SERVANT-- in front of the children and being defiant to me."  Clearly, Mother was incensed at the thought that he was trifling with the help.  For I do not believe that she was defending Susie.  She picked up the  large kitchen knife that she had been using to cut apart the chicken that we were having for supper, but we all knew she would not actually use it as a weapon. She had that much restraint. It was her breeding that kept her from turning this into an all-out brawl, a war from which you could never return. 
                "It is not as though you really care for her, beautiful though she may be for a..." and here she turned toward Susie, "mulatto."   She put the knife down, and circled in front of the sturdy oak table that had often hosted our whole brood of eight children and my parents at many a meal. "And you certainly don't care for me, acting this way," she said, lowering her voice, almost pleading with him.  She was now just a few feet from him, but his back was turned in his preoccupation with the house servant. 
                My father took another second or two to bite a fearful, quivering Susie on the neck and slap her behind before turning to my mother.   "You whore. I'm not going to allow you to speak to me this way. I can do what I want, say what I want, Judith," he roared. "Stay out of my way, you bitch."  With this, his eyes were like coals in a hot-burning fire that wasn't going to go out soon.  Such profane words had not crossed his lips before, at least not in front of us children. 
                Mother's hand reached backward but could not find a sizable object that could inflict some damage.  I could see what she was thinking by the furious expression on her face. Father saw it, too, and suddenly I saw him grab the kitchen knife that Mother had lain on the table and he  waved it close to her face. Mother deftly moved away from him, never turning her back to him, but she grabbed the baby and ran out the door. 
                It was then that father noticed my little brother TJ, my toddler sister Nancy, and then me with both hands on the poker from the fireplace, ready to protect and defend.  Susie was in the corner, rubbing her neck and looking aghast at what had just happened, but saying nothing as house servants are required to do. 
                Father dropped the knife and sank slowly to his knees and began sobbing.  "Forgive me", he pleaded with me, the oldest of the three children in the room. "Forgive me."
                That I will not do. That, as God is surely my witness, I will never do.

---

^[i] It is not known exactly when the Williams family left South Carolina.  They are believed to have left with the Elmores, Jordans, Craddocks, Saxons, and Crenshaws sometimes between 1814 and 1819.  It is possible that some members of the families traveled earlier than others, in order to plant fields, and possibly build houses.

^[ii] Later shortened to Laurens.

^[iii] Alabama became a state on 14 December 1819.

^[iv] On 30 August 1813, Upper Creek natives stormed Ft. Mim, massacring perhaps 500 whites, Lower Creek, and slaves.

^[v] John Archer Elmore (1762-1834).