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.