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).

Seventy-Four, The Perfect Woman

Seventy-Four
The Perfect Woman
21 October 1824
I have been sulking. 
The chickens greet me each morning with a cacophony of sound; this usually perks me up, but sometimes I just cluck right back at them and go about my business of finding eggs for breakfast.  I hear Warner’s horse, Mayzie, kicking at the stall most mornings.  We do not have fences put up except around the planted fields; the cattle and pigs and oxen roam free through the woods and grasses.   Nearly all of our surrounding neighbors are relatives, so we keep an eye on each other’s livestock as they roam.  However, the horse, being of value, is kept in the barn at night.
Yesterday when John came by to take me to the class meeting, I kept my spirits up as he once again talked excitedly about Mr. Jemison, his upcoming opportunities, and the cotton gin.  I have been working it out in my head how often I might be able to see him once he moves.  I think, perhaps, that we will be able to see each other on Sundays.  He may be able to come to services each week, or, he may come for the afternoon and early evening.  They have a church in Perry County, recently built by Mr. Seaborn Mims who is rather famously building chapels everywhere that he can. He has an amazing ability to bring together many men each time he wants to raise the walls and put on the roof of each hallowed place. So it might be tempting for John to attend services close to him, and in a chapel rather than a private home.  That said, I believe that John would wish to be where he has friends with whom he has shared so many things.
We arrived at the Terry place a little early as usual.  Class meeting was unremarkable, the hymns were dutifully sung.  Afterward, Mr. Houck and Nan stayed only a moment before returning home, so it was that we did the same.
As we walked along the now darkened path, it being nearly eight o’clock on a fall evening, I noticed that the moon was very nearly full.  Everything was lit up as though we had lanterns everywhere.  All the same, John had taken one of the lanterns at the Terry place and had lit it to light our way.  There were not that many noises outside, the summer insects being mostly gone, and the owls not yet awake and hooting.  It was so peaceful as we walked along. 
John spoke to me about his plans to become a local preacher.  He told me a little of the process of becoming a deacon and then an elder, and explained that unlike the circuit riders, a local preacher stays with one congregation, filling in whenever the circuit rider was not present.  The local preacher usually has other professions or occupations during the week.
Although I was initially surprised to hear him say it, of course it made sense.  John has always been a gifted speaker, a wonderful interpreter of the Gospel, and a very caring man.  I have often thought to myself that he could easily do that which Reverend Terry does.  John said that the process could take many years.  I grew more excited as I thought about it, and I told him that I very much approved. 
As we approached the falls, John turned to me and said that he would like to recite a poem if that was all right.  As it had been a while since he had done so, I was pleasantly surprised and readily gave my approval.  As usual, he had written it down on paper for me to keep afterwards.  I repeat it here:
She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleam’d upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly plann’d,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
John set down the lantern, no longer having need of it.  He faced me, taking both hands, and he said that he has long been wanting someone to share his life with; all his goals and aspirations, as well as his future children.  But he was wanting the most to find someone who could share his spirituality; someone who could not just stand behind him, but who could stand beside him through life’s difficulties.  He said that he was wanting someone who could challenge him, someone who could speak her mind.  But, he has grown to realize the value of having someone who make him laugh, both at the difficulties we face, but also at one’s self.
Louisa, said he.
I have found my Perfect Woman.  She faces me.  And I see in her not just the inner beauty that I grew to love first, but the outer beauty that is just magnificent.  When you had your hair down the other day, I was stunned.  I saw you as not just a friend, but as a woman that I truly desired as a wife. I finally knew what I had very long suspected:  that you are the only one that I have ever considered, and the only one I ever shall.
And here, he dropped down on one knee, and asked as I cried tears of joy,
Louisa, my heart,  will you follow me to Perry County and wherever life takes us?  Will you bear our children, should we be so blessed?  Will you carry my heart?
Louisa, my most precious darling, Will You Marry Me?

Seventy-Three, Disappointment

Seventy-Three
Disappointment
10 October 1824
This morning, John came even earlier to accompany me to services.  I kept him waiting only a little as I finished brushing my hair and putting it up into a loose bun, securing it with pins.  I allowed John to watch me do so, as my “room” was still the main room of the house and that is where I dressed, slept, and performed just about any personal task other than tending to nature.  My hair has grown beyond my waist these last few years, as I have not thought about cutting it.  So brushing it takes some time and effort.  I had just begun when John arrived.  I invited him inside and I realized that this was perhaps the first time that he had seen me with my hair down.  I had just last night washed it so it was shiny and wavy, and you could faintly smell the lavender that I had sparingly used.  I took my time, slowly brushing the golden-brown waves, and then twisting and winding it atop my head, sitting like a crown.  I knew that John was watching, rapt.  I had accomplished exactly what I had intended to, as I saw him with his mouth slightly open, shifting in his chair more than once.
Now I am ready, I said.
John told me that he had come earlier than usual because he wanted to talk to me as we walked and he wanted plenty of time to do so.  I thought, could this be it?  Is he going to ask?
He started by telling me that on his recent trip, he had gone to Mobile on behalf of Mr. Robert Jemison, both to sell cotton, but also to buy some parts that he did not think we could easily make ourselves.  Parts to what?  I asked.  He smiled and said, I will show you later.  This certainly mystified me.
He continued, saying that this was the first time that a large plantation owner had asked him to go as his agent.  He turned to me with a grin.  I believe the trip was quite the success, he said.  But this is the Sabbath Day, and I do not want to dwell on business.
We walked to the falls and paused, taking in the autumn air that was still warm but turning cooler as each day went by.  We watched as we often do, counting the different types of birds and flowers and trees that we saw.  Sometimes we made it a game.  But today, he was just grinning, and he was rather quiet much of the time.  Oh, this is definitely the day, I thought. 
We walked a little further and I thought, well, the perfect place was near the falls, but then, it is rather loud there, and not the best place to be talking.   So I patiently kept walking with him until we turned on the path toward the Terry place.  I thought, well, maybe he will wait until after the services, for he will surely know that I shall have a difficult time sitting still, thinking of the news that I will want to share with everyone.
Hymns were sung, scriptures were read, and the sermon preached, and it was time for lunch.  I had been bringing more and more complicated things as I learned to cook them, and today I brought roasted chicken.  Well, maybe it was not so complicated for those who have cooked for a long time, but it was an accomplishment for me.  John made over how good it was, and licked his lips for extra effect.  We had been sitting outside upon a blanket, it being a perfect day to do so, and soon enough, we stood up to go, folding the blanket as we did so. 
John said, I have something to show you.  I played innocent, and I walked hand in hand to a shed behind the Terry barn.  We went inside, and it took me a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darker room, but then I could see that John was showing me a wooden box with a crank handle on one side.  This, he said, is what we use to gin cotton.  Of course, this is a very small one, but it serves as the model for a much larger one that I am building. 
He showed me where the raw cotton goes in, and where it comes out, with the seeds separated from it.  He explained that this was a saw gin, with teeth inside it on a cylinder—or was it several cylinders?--and a brush that pushes the fiber along.  He said he would turn the crank to show me, but it being the Sabbath, that would be work and thus forbidden.
Goodness me, I thought.  He really does take the Sabbath seriously.
John said that the parts were for a much larger gin that he was building for Robert Jemison who was planting many more fields of cotton during the upcoming year.  He said, and here, he paused for dramatic effect, that he will be needed on a regular basis after that to see to it that the gin ran smoothly.  He grinned even broader, and I caught his meaning.
Mr. Jemison lived several miles away, in Perry County.  I had thought that John’s recent trip was just something that he would do from time to time, as he had said nothing about leaving the Terrys.  But now he was hinting that he would be needed often enough to have to move.  I asked him, when do you expect to go to work for Mr. Jemison?
I suspect that it will be shortly before Christmas, he said.
He then turned, and went out of the shed, leading me by hand. 
Is that not the best thing you have ever seen? He said, excitedly. 
Just wait until we have the large one in place!
Clearly, he was excited to show me the gin and tell me about his new work.  I kept thinking, next thing to do is to talk about how will I like living in Perry County, or maybe he would say, we can afford to get married, or hopefully, something more romantic.  I kept thinking that maybe he is going to wait for the walk home, or maybe he will wait until we arrive at Warner’s, but at each part of the journey home, he kept talking about the gin and Mr. Jemison, and how exciting it will all be.
Glumly, I thought, well, he has waited a long time; I guess he is content to wait that much longer.
So here I sit, writing, and trying to not be sad or disappointed.

Seventy-Two, Unfinished Business

Seventy-Two
Unfinished Business
9 October 1824
There was a matter that I needed to attend to in order to put things into order and close out this chapter of my life.  I needed to see TJ.
I rode Molly to the fields where I most expected him to be this morning and found him standing under a tree drinking water from a jug.  It was unusually hot today, so when TJ offered me a drink, too, I accepted.
I told TJ that I had been to see Father.  TJ looked at me warily, turning his face sideways to look at me with only one eye.
TJ, I shall come straight to the point.  Father told me that the two of you have quarreled over what he did with his property some years ago.  He said he told you that he had given Josiah Junior his property to hold in trust for all of us, but then capitulated when I told him that I knew he had sold the property.  He admitted that he had indeed sold it, adding that it was for less than fair market value.  He further admitted that he had done so to avoid creditors and to avoid paying mother.  He did not tell me the exact nature of your argument, but I gather that perhaps you were unhappy that there is nothing left to give you when you turned 21, or when you marry; and nothing left to leave to you on his death.
I was angry, TJ, for although I do not believe that he necessarily owes any of us just for being his children, I do believe that he owed Mother for her support and that of us children.  I found that to be very low, and I find that his explanation that Uncle was taking care of us all to be cowardly.
But, TJ, here is what I have come to clear with you:
Father said that your anger over this argument was the motive for telling me of that day long ago when he was with Susie in flagrante delicto, with you watching and another man participating.  He completely denies that this ever happened.
TJ’s cheeks reddened, and he clenched his hands, making them into fists. He started to say something, but I held my hand up, and asked him to listen.
TJ, I want you to know that I believe the truth to be somewhere between what he told me, and what you have said.  I understand very well now why it is you would be angry with Father, but I believe that your exaggeration exacerbated a horrible situation.   TJ was shaking his head, incredulously, but said nothing.  I concluded that his silence meant that while he did not like what I was saying, he was not completely disagreeing with it.
I continued:
I have made my peace with Father.  I am not certain what role he will play in my life from now on, but I am freed from carrying the burden of not forgiving and the anger that comes with it. 
I looked at TJ pleadingly, and gently and lovingly said, TJ, I feel so much better now.  I hope that you can some day do the same.
I waited for him to say something, and several times he started to, but then stopped.  He looked away.
TJ, said I.
I am not angry with you.  I love you.  You are my sweet little brother, and I wish you well.
And…
I hope that I may dance at your wedding.
This last was said with a wink, although once I said it, I wondered if Methodists dance at weddings, or ever, for any reason.

Seventy-One, Peace

Seventy-One
Peace
8 October 1824 (cont.)
John told me later that he had been next to me and had caught me before I hit the floor, and had then carried me to the bed.
I could hear, vaguely, John saying to Father, Stay with her.  I shall go fetch some water.  
Then, as though I were in a dream (and perhaps I was), Father was next to me, kneeling upon the floor.  He touched the palm of my hand with one or two fingers, which he lightly stroked.  I could tell from his quavering voice that he was holding back tears as he very quietly told me, Louisa, I am so very sorry.  This is all my fault. 
I heard him inhale, then exhale slowly.  He then spoke slowly, softly.
Louisa, my darling child, my heart, I am not worthy of you, much less your love, and far less, your respect.  I see now that it will be much easier for you to think on me no more.  I want you to know that I do not blame you one bit.
As I opened my eyes, he withdrew his fingers from my palm and sat back, perhaps not wanting me to know that he had touched me. 
I was exhausted, completely spent.  But in that moment, I felt a peace come over me that I cannot explain.  As I looked over at Father who was now settled back into his chair, I saw the sun come through the window, the rays catching his profile and shining on to my bed, to me.  I felt warm.  I felt loved.
I did not fight the feeling, and I did not care that it made no sense to feel this way.
Again, it came to me, those good things that I remembered about Father.  There are not very many, but in that moment, they were enough.
I found myself extending the hand that he had just touched.  He reached over, and the tips of our fingers came together, at first, mine below his, and then, slowly, the fingers became palm above palm, and then wrist above wrist.  I found myself sitting up, reaching over to him, and putting my arms around his neck, my face buried in his nightclothes. 
Oh, Father.
I cried.  Of course, I cried.  I cried for everything, and nothing at all.  I cried for every reason, and none at all.
I was still crying when I heard John’s footsteps at the doorway, stopping just short of coming through it, and then turning back, going back down the stairs.
Father used his nightshirt to wipe my tears, and then I stopped.  The absurdity of the moment, this melodramatic moment, came to me.  For how can one go from hating to not caring to crying into a nightshirt with your arms encircled around his neck?
Just then, Father coughed a little, and then a lot.  He got up and fetched his handkerchief, and went into the hallway where I could hear him cough up some phlegm, or worse.  I heard him hesitate, not knowing what to do, and I called to me, Father, it is all right.  You may come back.
Father came back into the room, slowly resuming his seat in the down-filled chair.
He was again that old, gray man I had seen a few times before and had pitied or worse, but this time, he was my father. Flawed, human, forgivable.

70, More

Seventy

More

8 October 1824 (cont.)

Father spoke again, finally.  First, Louisa, at that time, long ago, I did not believe that Susie could be my daughter.  Perhaps I just did not want to think about it.

Second, he said.  And he took another while to say it.  Second, he started again, I know that an affidavit was sworn out that I had committed “flagitious behaviour” with a Negro girl within my house, and that one of my sons and another witnessed it.  I must say to you, Louisa, that I do not know exactly what that means.  I know what that implies, however.  I think that it was a lawyerly way to say something and imply another; it allows your imagination to come up with things far worse than what actually happened. 

I do think that I was probably at some time being a little playful.  Maybe flirtatious.  Maybe something more.

It was something more, Father, I said.  Something much more.  I completely believe my brother on this point.  He has no reason to lie, and seeing the way in which he told me, the disgust in his voice, I do not believe that he would lie.

Father sat up in his chair, and started to look a little angry and not so in control of his demeanor.

How long ago were you told, Louisa, of this somehow horrible behaviour on my part?

Not long ago, said I.

I suspect that I know what happened, then, Louisa, he said. 

Recently, I had a quarrel with your brother, TJ.  I let him know that I no longer have hardly any property to my name.  I told him how I sold most of what I had to your brother Josiah, at maaayyybee (he drew this word out) less than fair market value.  I told him that I had done this for two reasons.  One, I did not want any of my creditors to touch any of my property.  And two, it was an act of love, and caring, but mostly of trying to prove to your mother that I was going to try and do right by all of you.  Your mother had told me that she wanted nothing more from me, other than what she already had.  But she would not stand in the way of me giving property to Josiah who would then give shares to the rest of you.

Father, said I.  Stop this.  I have never received any such share from Josiah.  And besides, you sold the property to him.  You did not give it to him.  Not only that, said I, for I had just realized something. 

Doing so, selling all or nearly all of your property to Josiah would mean that you were divesting yourself of anything that could make an income.  And by doing that, you were no longer going to be able to pay Mother the alimony.

Father sat silent for a while.

He said, sometimes you do something, and you convince yourself that you do it for a certain reason, and you finally believe your motive to be completely a good one.

I guess, he said, that you are right.  It did end my ability to pay your mother alimony.  I did not see it as such, because she had been supported by her brother John for many years.  He has always held sway with her, and I think it is because he can afford to keep her living in a certain way.  This has been a source of humiliation ever since I moved our family to Laurens so that she could be near her brother. 

I shall forever regret that decision, moving to Laurens.  I should have stayed in Virginia.  How different life would have been.

Would it?  Said I.

Father, I saw with my own eyes you threatening to kill mother.  I saw you holding the knife.  I heard you saying horrible things to her.  And, Father, let me be clear.  I. Saw. You. Doing. Something. To. Susie. In. Front. Of. Mother. And. Us. Three. Girls. 

I drew this last part out, for it needed to be emphasized.

Father, you were saying that you could do whatever you wanted to.  And you demonstrated behaviour that you would misbehave with a house servant, whether or not she ended up being your child.  You must take responsibility for these things!

Louisa, he said after a bit.

Louisa, I do not remember much of that day.  I do remember threatening your mother.  But I also remember immediately regretting it.  And I remember crying in front of you and asking for you forgiveness.  That much I remember very well.  As for you brother and what he allegedly saw, I do not remember.  I do not know what TJ told you, but I do deny having done anything that would rise to the level of “flagitious behaviour”, whatever is meant by that.

I do not know what else there is for me to say.

But I do know this, Louisa.  I do deeply regret hurting your mother and causing any of you children to fear me. 

He then fell silent and waited for me to respond.

I had to take a while.  The world was spinning around me.  I had been sitting on the edge of the bed while I was talking to him, with John standing nearby.  But now, I lay back on the bed for a good long while.  John eventually sat on the edge of the bed next to me, and he held my hand, occasionally stroking my arm in a reassuring manner.

Father, I said, sitting up again. 

Here is what I believe.  I believe that you were a heavy drinker who did sober up. 

But I do know what I saw when I was ten, and it was you saying obscene things and threatening Mother with a knife.  I believe that Susie may be your child, but she also might not be, and that regardless,  you had no business laying a hand on her which you did do.  Whether it was as horrible as I am told or not, you had the moral obligation to not touch her.

I believe that you got rid of the property because you did not want to pay Mother any longer.

I also do believe that over the last five years, you have tried to humble yourself, remain sober, and be respectful.  I know that somehow you have made peace with Mother.  I will leave you two to work out whatever there is to work out.  I no longer care.

I also know that you are ill;  I do not know how long you will live.  I know that I do want to make peace with you before you die.   I believe that you are now a weak man in every sense of the word, an old man whom I pity.   I no longer grieve for the father that I thought I deserved.

 When I see you in such a way, I can forgive you, for you have become a nothing to me any more.

                And with that, I got up and started to walk, and then all went black.

Sixty-nine Confrontation

Sixty-Nine

Confrontation

8 October 1824 (continued)

Father, like Mother, misread the situation, and was expecting an engagement announcement, I am sure.  I quickly disavowed him of this notion by saying that I was there to ask of him some questions; that I was seeking the truth.

Father surprised me a little by looking as though he were ready to answer anything, and under any conditions.  He said that he was glad that John was with me, because he suspected that it was going to be hard for me.  I was not expecting such kindness nor understanding from him, and it disarmed me.  I dispensed with many of the questions that I was going to ask of him at first as a result. 

Rather, I told him that life for me as a girl whose parents had parted on less than favorable circumstances was a humiliating experience, especially as a girl who was older than her two sisters by several years and feeling that I needed to protect them and Mother in some way.  I told him that I felt that my brothers had been more removed from the situation for reasons that I do not fully understand but have accepted.

I told Father that I knew much of the testimony in court had been quite unfavorable against him such that the court would give Mother custody of the three of us girls still within the home.  Then, with some hesitation, and after looking at John whose eyes told me that I need not proceed but that he would support me either way, I told Father that TJ had told me of a certain incident involving Father and Susie. 

I stopped.  And I waited for an indication that Father knew what it was that I was talking about.

Father drew a deep breath, looked downward in a sad way, and then looked at me directly.  He said, I am not sure about whatever particular incident that you may be referring to.  I know that there is much that I have done for which I am not proud.  I have been working these past many years to find a way to redemption in your mother’s eyes.  I have divested myself of almost all that I own in favor of your mother and your brothers.  I have humbled myself in many ways. 

He continued, I gave up drinking years ago, when I knew that I was losing your mother.  That was not an easy thing to do.  I had been drinking quite heavily, and to stop just like that required the help of Doc Harris, and it required me being away from home for quite some time.  That was just before I was ordered out of the house anyway.

But, he said, stopping from his monologue to look at me more directly.  But perhaps you were wondering something else?

Father, said I.  You told me not so long ago that Susie was your daughter.  If that is so, then I cannot understand what you did long ago, and for all I know, continued to do until Susie ran away.

Father looked puzzled.

I do not know what you mean about what I may have done long ago and continued to do? he said and asked at the same time.

First, said I, I need to know if you are certain that Susie is your daughter.

He again hesitated, looked down at the floor, and then back up at me.  He said, I do not positively know, no.  But it is possible.

How long have you known that?  I asked.  He said that he knew that he was not the only one to have had… and here he paused… “relations” with Susie’s mother.  But, he said, I am now willing to take some responsibility for whatever happens to Susie.

I was a little taken aback by this last admission.  But it did not really change things.

Father, said I.  One of your sons, one of my brothers told me something.  He said that you and Susie had inappropriate acts in front of him and another person.  And being inappropriate is putting is gently.

He said, softly, I did not know that you knew about that.

He sat quietly for a long time.