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.