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.

Sixty-Eight Foreboding

Sixty-Eight

Foreboding

8 October 1824

I have been thinking these past few days about how it is that I am going to face Father again.  For it has become clear to me that face him, I must.  It seems that the only way for me to have a clear conscience is to forgive him, and to forgive him, I needed to meet with him and ask some questions.  I would have liked to forgive without knowing anything further.  But I could not do so.

Two nights ago, I met with my Class Meeting, and we discussed this at length.  It seems that my obstacle of forgiveness has become more worthy of discussion than this person’s envy of their neighbor’s house, or that person’s temptation to drink.  Those other problems, and more, were prayed over, and were discussed, yes, but mine came to the fore. I do not know if it is proper for me to go into detail anything very specific that happens in a Class Meeting, for we are covenanted to not speak of those things.  I will just say that we had an extended discussion, and an even more extended prayer which was added to by every member of our class, even the more shy ones.  And that prayer was so earnest and heartfelt, that I was brought to tears. 

By the time the meeting ended, I had the resolve to meet with Father.  I needed to do it quickly, before I lost my nerve.

So it was that yesterday morning, John came to carry me to my parents’ house.  We rode double on Farthing, most of the time in a slow walk so that John and I could talk.  John was so reassuring and kind and gentle with me.  He alone now knows the depths of what is in my heart, and he alone is my rock.  I would like to say that Jesus is such a rock, and I am coming closer and closer to truly putting Him first in my life, but I am a poor soul who is struggling, and for now, my trust is more completely in this one human whom I love more than anything.

I cannot describe the details of whether there were birds or flora along the way, or clouds in the sky, for I did not notice.  My thoughts were centered on what I was going to say.

We arrived at my parents’ house at about nine in the forenoon.  Nan had gone to Daniel’s to look after little Thomas, and Mother was occupied with making bread.  We knocked on the door, as this no longer is my home, and Mother opened it with an expression of surprise, but with a hug and a kiss on my cheek.  She looked at John and then at me, and I think immediately drew the wrong conclusion of the purpose of our visit.  As much as I wanted to say that we were there for my parents’ blessing on our engagement, this was not true.

Mother invited us in to the parlor and waited for one of us to talk.  John and I had agreed that this must be my discussion with Father, but that he would be there with me every moment.  I told Mother that I had come to speak to Father.  She said that he was upstairs in my former room.  

John and I ascended the stairs, very slowly, me first, then John.  I felt as though I had chains around my ankles that I was dragging with me.   Mother stayed behind in the parlour. 

The door to the bedroom was open. I saw that a high wing-back, goose down filled  chair had been placed near the bed that I had not seen before.  Father was sitting in the chair, dressed still in his night clothes, but seemingly strong enough to face what was coming.   

67 Sublime

Sublime
5 October 1824
After camp broke yesterday morning, and everything was packed back up in our wagons, we left in little groups forming a long trail of people in each of the three directions whence we had come.  Our group was headed back to the Falls of the Coosa.  We followed along with several other wagons, but once we turned off to go our way toward the falls, we were on our own as a small band. 
I rode double with John, and what joy that was!  He has had Farthing, his gentle brown mare with white down her nose, since before he came to Alabama.  She has brought him safely to me, and now we were being brought home at a nice, slow pace that enabled John and \me to talk.  And to sometimes just be silent and listen to the birds who were in the trees dotting the road.
Riding behind John with my arms around his waist allowed a closeness that I think he otherwise would have been embarrassed about.  For all of his traveling and skills and abilities, I believe that John is an innocent when it comes to ladies.  I was reminded only briefly of someone I once knew back in Laurens, many years ago; someone who taught me how to kiss, but who also taught me, unwittingly, how to be cautious of ever giving my heart again.  Enough said on that.
As we rode on, in the gaps between conversations, I laid my head on his back.  I could smell the smokiness of his leather vest;  the days around campfires permitted their essence to linger.   My cheek rubbed along the leather, up and down and slightly sideways in rhythm with Farthing’s four-footed walk, but I soon learned how to manage.  If John had been able to look behind him, he would have seen the blissful smile that occasionally broke out in a grin.
Our party stopped more than once for various reasons, and on one of the stops, I took to skipping about, singing snippets of “I’d Be a Butterfly”, whatever I could remember of it.  John had to smile in spite of himself.  I had become a light-hearted girl once again, if for just a morning.  He leaned on a tree near the trail, watching me skip down it a little ways.  Then I would venture back, singing as I went, trying to do so without losing my breath.   I blew an imaginary kiss to my singing teacher back in Laurens, Johann, for all of those singing lessons I once endured dutifully.
All too soon, we arrived at our place.  John stayed while the oxen were unhitched from the wagon and the supplies put back to the various places they belonged.  Although Reverend Terry was still his employer and was himself returning from Camp, John was anxious to return to work.  There were horses to be tended to, the cotton crop to be looked after, and, most especially, John was eager to get back to his inventions.  
Something had happened on John’s trip to Mobile regarding his gin that he was reservedly excited about.  He was short on details about it, but promised that soon he would show me what he was up to. 
Before he left our place, John leaned down and kissed me on the cheek in full view of Warner and the men.  This was an emboldened move that took me by surprise.  He said his good bye and was off down the path, while I danced a little dance of happiness.  For now I was “John’s girl.”

66, Grace

Grace
4 October 1824
Yesterday, after I wrote my last entry, the women began preparing the Saturday evening meal.  Another steer was slaughtered, thankfully away from the camp, and brought in for us to cook in various ways.  I helped with the stew, as that is something that I am getting proficient at.   I was able to use the vegetables that we had brought from our garden, including potatoes, corn, green beans, carrots, and onions.  The other meals were completed before our stew was, and they were served first to those who had first gathered at five o’clock.    Our stew was ready by six.  John, Nan, Joseph, and the Terrys all came about that time, I believe out of kindness to me.  It was a kind thing for them to do, and they were rewarded with what I believe to be one of the finer meals of the evening, humble though it was. 
By seven, we had all gathered again for the evening services.  Reverend Samuel Patton, who will be leaving soon for the Choctaw Nation on mission, gave the sermon.  He spoke of Jesus on the cross, and the difficult times that had faced him that preceded.  The main part that I remember, that struck me like a lightening bolt, was that Jesus was able to forgive at the very worst time of his life.  He forgave the soldiers who were gambling for his clothing.  He forgave the criminals on the crosses on either side of him.  He forgave the religious leaders who mocked him, and the crowds who were blaspheming him, all while he was enduring great pain and was dying.  His thoughts were for them.
I am not Jesus.  But I can learn from this great man, this Son of God.
I am powerfully moved, almost beyond words.
Where does that leave me?  I have softened my view of Father.  I can see that he has changed, and that he is trying to do better.  I know that he seeks forgiveness, and I suspect that he does not believe that he will receive it from me or from TJ.  But I have had time to think of John’s questions to me.  And I believe that it is time that I faced Father, and that I ask him some of those questions.  I would like to forgive without asking him.  I do not think Jesus would have asked if my father was no longer drinking, or if he remembers doing what he did.  I believe that Jesus would have just forgiven him, and would have believed that Father knew not what he was doing.  I am not sure about that, though. But then I remember is that we are not to judge.  That is for our Father in Heaven to do.  If that is true, then I must forgive. 
This morning we again had our Love Feast.  It was so much the sweeter that John and my brothers joined me and my sister and the Terrys with such lovely singing in four-part harmony.  I often forget the scriptures and the other things within a service or within a Class Meeting, but oh! I love the hymns so much.  Reverend Terry has a guitar that he plays with us.  We are luckier than many of the other small groups to have him because of it, and we are especially lucky that, save poor Joseph, we all can sing fairly well.
We will be staying here until Monday, as it is considered work to take down the camp and go back home on the Sabbath.  We are having an extended social time this afternoon which permits me to write this, while also having time with my Dear Heart.  He is nearby, reading from the Bible as he is wont to do.  Can I say that I love him?  For I do.  With everything that I am, with every part of me, from my head to my heart, to my hands and to my feet.  I believe that even my hair loves him!  I know that my eyes and lips do.  And I believe that he loves me.  And that, is truly a wonderment to me. 
I am filled with Grace.

65, Forgiveness

65
Forgiveness
3 October 1824
Oh, one can only imagine the joy I had upon discovering John directly behind me.  I was not expecting to see him for another week or two.  I had been a little disappointed that he was not going to the Camp Meeting with us, but here he was!
I hardly remember the sermon last night; it was on the Beatitudes, but I remember little else for I was so excited.  Reverend Terry was doing the preaching, and I believe that I saw a little gleam in his eye when he saw John had come.  The services lasted about an hour last night.  The real work began the next morning.  The call went out “Til early candlelight”, and soon everyone was repeating it as they left for their tents.
This morning, we had a Love Feast soon after sunrise.  This is a meal similar to what Jesus shared with his disciples.  It is not communion, but different.  We shared food and drink together, consisting of bread, water, and grapes and other fruits.  We sat together in small groups; for those of us who are already part of a class, we sat with that class, whilst others who were not already in a class were divided among other small groups.
Within our small group, we not only ate and shared what is known as the “loving cup”, but we read scripture, and prayed for each other.   This was a quiet, reverential, sweet time for all, especially since it was shortly after dawn when all is more peaceful. 
Once our Love Feast concluded, we all joined together for rousing services conducted by three of the ministers present.  We sang hymns, scripture was read, and then we were roused by the dramatic sermon given by Joshua Boucher taken from Revelations 22:14.  I wrote down the passage, and repeat it here:  “Blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city.”
This was a very compelling sermon, and there were people, mostly Negroes, who were excited to exhortation.  There were many shouts of “Praise God” and “Praise Jesus”, and many were called to the altar in their conversion experience.
I was taken in by the fervour, and I wanted to be among those at the altar call.  But I could not.  For I am not ready to abide by the Fifth Commandment to Honour Thy Father and Thy Mother.  Try as I might, I would have been a false person acting a part for others had I gone to the altar.  There is much to be done for me to meet this commandment.  Or perhaps I do not understand its true meaning.  Perhaps there are exceptions, but I think not.  I know that we are to forgive those who have done us wrong, and to not sit in judgment against those who have done others wrong, even if such persons do not seem worthy of our forgiveness. 
Forgiveness does not come easy.
After the morning service, we were called to prepare lunch, which I was able to help in, and then to eat the lunch, which I could not do.  I was miserable in my thoughts on this matter of forgiveness. 
John was by my side, and we talked during lunch and on into the afternoon free time.  He did not lecture me on the topic, but he asked questions that made me think.  He asked if there were good things in my father that I could recall, and I said, truthfully, that there were.  He asked if I thought if perhaps Father has sought forgiveness, and if he might be truly repentant.  This I could not answer, for I do not know.  I have not cared before if he were or he were not, for it did not matter before. 
He asked if Father had once been a drunk and perhaps was not one now.  I said, after some thought, for I did not want to admit it, that I did not believe that Father has touched any alcohol in several years. 
He asked if it were possible that Father does not remember the worst of the things he has done.  This I do not know.  I have not cared to know this, either.
John’s questions have given me a lot to think about. 
I needed this afternoon to write all that has happened today so far, because I believe this to be a pivotal time in my life.
Lord, help me. Truly.

64, Necessary Fried Chicken

64 Necessary Fried Chicken
2 October 1824
It is afternoon, and we have a couple of hours at our leisure.  Some take this time for naps; others, for strutting about to show off to the girls; still others stand in little groups discussing politics or farm life.  I, of course, have a place under a tree to write.
What a joyous time this is!  Yesterday we arrived in good time, having left early in the morning and not having that far to go.  But there are people here from as far away as Montgomery, far more people than I could have imagined would come.  There are perhaps more than three hundred people here, more than it seems there are in the whole county. 
Everyone got to work right away, and there were many hands to do it.   Preparations had started long before we came, to do decide who should do what. Some of the men used axes and hoes to clear spaces for the tents and for the assemblage.  Carpenters got to work splitting the logs and making crude, but usable benches for us to sit on, and an arbor was built for the speakers to stand under.  Still others set about building fires and digging latrines.   And then many of them worked together to raise the many tents that were in a square around the large area cleared for the whole of us.
The women and several of the Negresses began preparing the food right away.  One of our hens gave her life toward this effort, and two pigs were slaughtered.  It was perhaps one-thirty in the afternoon before everyone took a break to eat lunch.  I was starved by then, having gotten up at dawn with only a little bread to eat.  I would have eaten anything!  But I was very proud of the chicken that I cut up and started cooking before Nan came along and took over while I helped. 
Frying chicken has an art to it.  Everyone has their own secret way of preparing  it, but Nan let me in on hers. You lay out a cloth with flour that has salt and pepper in it, rinse and pat dry the chicken, then dip the pieces in the flour mixture.  You fry the pieces in the lard once the lard is heated sufficiently so that it spatters when you put a drop of water in it.  You brown the chicken on both sides, and then put a cover on the skillet and cook it until the juices run clear.  The secret is in controlling the fire so that the chicken is browned, but then you pull the skillet away from the fire a bit once the lid is on.  John had once told me that fried chicken was quite necessary at the camp meeting, for no preacher would preach without his belly full of it.
Once lunch was over, everyone returned to their tasks until it was time for a light supper, for we had so recently eaten.  I was surprised to see people here who are not Methodists, who either came because this is the only large gathering in the county for the churched, or because they are curious.  This is the largest social gathering that there has been that I know of in the county, other than perhaps Montgomery.  I suppose in England and in fine cities, there are balls; for us, it is the Camp Meeting that draws all of this excitement.
As evening fell, we gathered for the evening service.  The benches had holes bored in them for the candles, and there were rude stands covered with sod on which glowed heaps of pine knots.  It was, simply, a beautiful sight beyond imagination to see all the gleaming faces by firelight.   Our little group from our Wednesday evening class sat together in three long rows; I was on the first row.  The hymn began, and it was “Holy, Holy, Holy”.  We were only a few bars into it when I recognized the voice of the singer directly behind me.  For John had managed to slip in unnoticed.

Sixty-Three, Camp Meeting

Camp Meeting
1 October 1824
I am very excited today, for Warner and I are going to attend our first camp meeting at Graves’ Campground.  Nan will be there, too, as will Joseph and the Terrys and most of the other members of our Wednesday night class.  As we understand it, we shall travel by ox-cart to the campground with provisions for today, tomorrow, and Sunday.  There are services twice per day, in the morning and in the evening, with lunch, social hour, and light supper in between.   This is repeated each day for three days, except that today being a travel day, we shall arrive just before lunch.
We are bringing with us two chickens, three loaves of bread, bacon, eggs and vegetables from our garden.  There will be cattle and pigs brought in by some of the other planters to provide some of the food that will be shared by all. 
TJ is coming with us.  It seems that his new beau is a Methodist, and she will be attending with her parents.  I am saddened, though, that John will not be there, as he is still traveling back from Mobile.  But I shall see him very soon, I believe.
I am so happy that TJ will have the chance to be with us all for some prayers and sermons, but especially the singing.  He, like my brother Warner, sings marvelously well, and although I suppose one should not be overly proud of such things, I cannot but smile at the thought of these two singing together.  I wonder if Miss Evalina Young can sing as well, for ours is a musical family.  
Everyone there will be dressed as though we will be in the fields, almost, because this is not a time for wearing finery.  I suspect that this will be like when we traveled from South Carolina to Alabama; comfort and practicality is important.
This is a good time of year to go, as the food harvest is done and the cotton has not yet opened.  It is a time for celebration of the harvest, sort of like an early Thanksgiving.  The Germans among us will be reminded of their Oktoberfest, I imagine, but without the beer.  The Negroes love the camp meeting most especially.  They are able to escape their normal duties, and it is a time when all come together for worship, food, singing, and even some fun.  I have been hearing Jack and Alick singing all morning as they ready the wagon, they are so happy.
Tents will be put up for sleeping, some for the men, and some for the women, although some of the younger families will have their own tent.
I will be bringing a Bible that Sarah lent me.  At some point, I shall purchase my own from the Book Concern, but the journal was more important to buy first.  Sarah may not agree with that, but neither she nor Reverend Terry said anything when I asked to have one.
I hear the wagon being brought around.  Time for me to go!

Sixty-Two Journal

Sixty-Two

Journal

15 September 1824

Oh happy day!!  This journal was brought to me by Sarah Terry.  Of course, it was very wonderful to see her, as always, but this gem that she brought me excites me so much!  The Methodist Church circuit riders have a connexion to what they call The Methodist Book Concern, which supplies the ministers with their books and also writing materials.  It was thus that this journal came into the hands of Reverend Terry, then to his wife, then to me!

What I love best about it is that it contains far more pages than I ever imagined, and it is about the right size, being small enough to fit into a saddle bag, but large enough for me to write for months.

It has been forever since I have been able to write, so I shall try to mention the most important events since last I wrote:

Warren is still grieving, but he is working hard, and he is gaining solace, I think, from being in our class.  It is such a welcome relief to have him praying, discussing scripture, and most especially singing, for his wonder bass is such a nice addition to our tenor-heavy group.

Grace has grown so much!  She is still a little scrawny, but she has discovered mice and voles, and, unfortunately, baby birds, so she shall fatten up soon I should think.  She follows Warren around everywhere, and when we walk to the Terrys for class and for services, she usually skitters along with us, at least as far as the falls.  There she often waits for us to return, and then she skitters back with us to the house.

I have been learning more about cooking from Nan.  I can now prepare not only soup, but am mastering the art of bread-baking and the occasional roasted fowl of one type or another.  I have so far not burnt anything, but sometimes the bird dries out before it is completely done.  Warren eats without complaint, and so far, I have not killed anyone.

I continue to think about Susie.  As each day goes by and I have not heard anything, I pray to God that she is as yet alive and unharmed and on her way to some exciting new adventure.  I also am trying to get to know the slaves a little better, at least, Warren’s slaves.  I think that they might be a little startled at my newfound interest and questions, but they seem to be patient with me.  The Methodists are teaching me to be a little more understanding and kind toward them, but I still find irony in them having slaves in their families if they truly object.

Nan is still at my parents’ house where she seems to be content.  She and Father have a peaceful co-existence, and although I am grateful that my sister can manage in this way, I do wish that she understood better why it is that I cannot.  Of course, she does not know TJ’s story.

Patsy remains with Uncle John Elmore, helping with the children but also having quite the good time.  I believe that she very much enjoys the more monied life than what she would have at my parents’.

Daniel continues to struggle with the bottle.  His wife Lavisa long ago went to stay with her family, for she no longer could be in the house with Daniel.  She was not allowed to take their son Thomas with her, for children are considered the providence of their fathers, and as I know too well, it takes exigent circumstances of an extreme measure or else cooperation of the father for it to be otherwise.  Daniel would not give his permission, so Thomas had to stay.  However, Daniel allows Thomas to come stay with Warren and me from time to time, and I do my best to school him when he is here.  We play a lot and have fun whenever we can, for I suspect that he does not have such a chance at his father’s.

Daniel has TJ staying with him still, which mostly seems to work out. TJ manages to stay out of the way , it being helpful that he has a new beau now, Miss Evalina Young.  She seems to be quite delightful and I look forward to knowing her better.

My brother Josiah, Junior, lives further away, and we do not see him much.  He is eight years my senior and has only one living child.  I believe that they have had much sorrow in their lives.  I find it easy to forgive Hundley (the name that he is better known as) for whatever part that he played in my parents’ divorce.  He has endured the pain and suffering in his life with dignity.  He has taken Father’s assets that were assigned to him years ago and has done well with them, and he manages to send Warner and me a little stipend each year.  We are very grateful for that.

John should be back from Mobile sometime in the next three weeks.  I try very hard to not miss him so very much, and to keep myself otherwise occupied.  I shall be ever so excited to see him after such a long absence!

Sixty-One Daffodils

Sixty-One

Daffodils

5 August 1824

This will be my last entry in this journal until my new one in September.  I may not be able to find scraps of paper between now and then to write on.  Maybe I will make more of an effort to be conversational with people around me.  I have been too introspective, perhaps.

John is making a trip to Mobile on behalf of Mr. Robert Jemison.  It will take him away from me for two months at least.  Boat travel on the Alabama will not be easy; he had to turn around the last time he tried.  It is a marvelous business opportunity, though, and one that may lead to further business with Mr. Jemison.  The latter is a large planter with many holdings.  I believe that John can be of great help to him as a blacksmith, as a carpenter, and as a field hand of course; but now he can prove himself as an agent.  I also think that Mr. Jemison will be a future investor in John's inventions.

I hope, of course, that such an opportunity will provide him with the means to support a family, and thus remove the only obstacle that I can think of to not be married.  Oh! Is it so wrong of me to think thus?  For although I believe that Nan was engaged quite hastily, I am thinking that John is taking a little long.  However,  I do think that he is a loving, conscientious man, and wants to be able to provide for me comfortably.

He gave me this poem to contemplate whilst he is gone.  From Wordsworth, of course.  I love the visual references to the daffodils; this truly makes me happy.  I think that he gave it to me because he once was lonely (and so was I), and he no longer need be, whether he and I are with each other, or whether we have the fond memories of each other.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
   That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
   A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
   And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
   Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
   Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,
   In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
   In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
   Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodil