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.