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.

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^[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).