Fifty-Four, Fury

Fifty-Four
Fury
30 June 1824
Nan rode up this morning, right at dawn.  She said that she had much to tell me, and that perhaps I should brew some tea for the two of us.  As I put the kettle on, Nan began.
She said that when it was getting toward nightfall on Sunday night, John rode up and banged on the door.  She said that she answered, and that John demanded to see Father.  As he seemed to be furious about something and because she sensed that something might happen that he would later regret, she told him that Father had gone off on a walk, she knew not where.  John did not seem satisfied by this answer, and perhaps sensed that she was not being truthful. 
He said, then I shall wait until he gets back.
Nan did not know what she was going to do, but Father kept her from having to decide, for he had come downstairs upon hearing the commotion.
Nan, he said. Leave us be, girl. Nan said that she pretended to go all the way upstairs, but she stayed near the top, just out of sight. She could hear everything.
What is this about, he asked John, calmly. Nan said that she could hear John's loud breathing. She said that his anger was burning up the floorboards, she was sure of it.
You know what, John said. I came here with meanness and anger and contempt in my heart for you.  I was ready to break as many commandments as it took to put an end to what must be a miserable life.
But I look at you, and Louisa is right. You are just an old, small man. You are rotting away from the inside out.
I think that losing half your family is the price you are paying, and that the others do not know the things you have done.
If it were just about you and your sins, you could be left alone to live out the rest of your days in your own misery.
But what you have done to Louisa, to TJ, to the other children, but most especially to Susie, those things are beyond the redemption that anyone on earth can give you.
Nan could hear father scraping a chair on the floor as he apparently took a seat. He said, very low, so it was hard to hear: 
She told you. Louisa told you. 
He continued:
But I do not see what that has to do with the children or why you would be so angry.
Father sounded puzzled.
Nan then gave me a quizzical look. She said, Louisa, what was he talking about?  Told him what?
I said, tell me the rest of what happened.
Nan said that Father then got up and went out the front door, with John following. She said she could hear no more of the actual words, for the men had walked some ways away from the house.
She says that she could hear John's angry voice, and only unintelligible, quiet answers from Father. She said Father then had a coughing fit, and that he came back to the house maybe ten minutes after he had left. She heard John's horse as he rode away.
What did you tell John? she asked again.
I told her part of it.
I said, Nan, Father told me something a week or two ago. He made me promise not to tell. But I am not beholden to a promise made to a man who deserves nothing.  So I'm going to tell you.
He said to me, Louisa, Susie is your half-sister.
I let this settle in with Nan. She seemed perplexed.  Like she was trying to understand.
Then Father...  all these years...   Does Mother know?  she asked.
I think so, I said.
I don't know what to think, she said. 
I told her none of TJ's story, for it is not mine to tell, and I honestly would not have been able to.

Fifty-Three, It Begins, Again...

Fifty-Three

It Begins, Again...

29 June 1824 (evening)

I had to stop my earlier entry.  My hand was aching, and I needed more ink and another quill.  Charlotte has since been awake, and I tended to her, but now I have a chance to write again.  I am still concerned about John, for I still have not heard from him.  Tomorrow, I will ride over to talk to Nan, as she perhaps has heard through Joseph what has happened.

And now it is that I have a difficult story to tell.

First, as to what Father told me.

It was short.  I do not know to what purpose Father had in mind for telling me after all of these years.  Maybe he thought he was going to die and he did not want to go to his grave without the telling.  But he has told me, and he is still alive, and to my knowledge, no one else knows this.  This is what I told John, and now to you, my journal, my friend.

John leaned in, for now I was speaking quietly, and as we were next to the river, it was hard to be heard. 

Father said, quite simply, Susie is your half-sister.  I am her father.

This is when I started to cry softly.  I told John how ever since then, I have been working this out in my head.  How Father has known all these years.  How it is he has never told Mother.  How it is that he has always had Susie with him, and how, at least fourteen years ago, he was capable of great cruelty toward her.

I told John that I know that it is not unheard of for mulatto children to be born and that the obvious implication is that one of the white male members of the family or their overseers would have done something untoward.  I also know that sometimes, the mother of these mulatto children are loved by the father, and that sometimes the father provides for the children and treats all with kindness.

I have told him that I have also tried to figure out who Susie's mother was, and that I probably know, but am not sure, as Susie was born before I was, by several years.

But what angers me is that Father was treating Susie in the way that he was, in front of four young children and their mother, and that SHE WAS HIS DAUGHTER.  This was something that I could not understand.

I told John of the years of paying no particular mind to Susie.  That I thought of her kindly, when I thought of her at all, and that I did not think of her most of the time.

I told John that I did not know if Father ever told Susie.

I fell silent at this point, quiet tears spilling, not knowing what to do with my grief.  For what else that remained to tell John was reprehensible.

John pulled me to him, and he stroked my hair, and said, I am so sorry, Louisa, so sorry. 

We sat for what seemed to be a long time before I started again, my tears having subsided.

And now, for what TJ told me, the day he left and said he would never speak to Father again.

TJ said that he and Warner and Daniel were forced to live with Father.  He said that Father was often drunk.  That Warner and Daniel usually stayed away from home as much as they could, and that Father did not seem to care.  He said that Father was often very kind to him, giving him special treatment such as taking him to horse races, and fishing, and riding about their fields, as Father was permitted to keep all of his property in order to earn a living to provide the alimony.

He said that even when drunk, Father usually just came home and slept it off.

But he said that when he, TJ, turned 14, Father had summonsed him to his bedroom, for he said he had a birthday surprise.

And that Father had Susie there, naked, in his bed.  And that Father also had another man there whom TJ did not know.  And that Father disrobed and said, son, I want to show you how it is to be with a woman.    And that Father proceeded to do that which I cannot speak of (nor write of now). 

And he said that the other man did the same as what father did.

And that Father then told TJ that he was to do the same, and that TJ did not want to, but that Father forced him to try, but TJ could not.  That he then forced Susie to do things that I also cannot speak about, and that TJ could not speak to me about, but I believe I understand what kind of things.

This is when I stopped, because the tears came in torrents, but they were angry tears, tears for the loss of innocence of my brother.  Tears for Susie, especially Susie.  Tears for the knowledge that this is what Father knowingly did to his own daughter.   Tears of disgust.  Tears for TJ that he has spent all these years with Father and never said a word before now.  Tears of....hatred.

I cannot forgive him, John, I said, my rage building inside me.  For how can God ever want me to forgive him?  How can anyone ever want TJ to forgive him?

And what about Mother?  Is it not possible she has known all of this time and never said anything because it is something that she does not find reprehensible?  That perhaps the only reprehensible things that Father has done have been what he has done to her when they were fighting?  How can she be friendly with him?  And is it possible that she has been with Father all these years, but only seeming not to be in order to please her more powerful brother?

I do not understand, John.  I do not understand.

By this time, I was standing and shaking all over.  I could not stop the shaking.

The look on John's face had changed.  He was still trying to be compassionate toward me, but there was something different, he looked... I don't know how to describe it, because I have never seen John like that. 

John said to me, let's get you to the house (meaning Warner's house).  And he walked with me, slowly, to Warner's. 

I did not know what to make of John.  I believe that he was quite angry and that he was trying to control it. 

John took a deep breath.  And another one.  And he asked how was I doing, for this must have been the worst thing to ever tell anyone.  He thanked me for trusting him.

He did not ask me to trust in the Lord.

John stayed with me until I told him that I was exhausted and wanted to lay down.  John said that he would leave only upon my promise that I go lie down and try to sleep.  He said that he would check on me again the next day.

The next day was yesterday.

I am worried.  I am sickened.  I do not know what to do.

Fifty-Two, It Begins

Fifty-Two

It Begins...

29 June 1824

I did not sleep very well last night.  It was hot, and I felt every lump in my little cot, but mostly it is due to worry.  For I have not heard from John since Sunday and although my heart tells me to trust him, I do worry that what we talked about has given him pause and caused him to not wish to enter into further discourse.

My little spot next to the hearth is comfortable enough, although it is not what I am used to at home.   I rather miss how things used to be, with my sisters and I in our little room and my writing desk nearby.  I suspect that it shall never be like that again.

Charlotte is able to do very little other than get out of bed to use the chamber pot.  She is ill most of the time now, and the herbs that Susie gave to Warner for her are to no effect.  And to think we have another five or six months to go of this!

Little Thomas has not come to stay with us yet, his father not yet being willing to part with him.  But the offer of at least a little bit of an education may entice him soon.  Or perhaps I shall ride over to Daniel's house from time to time in order to tutor.  But for now, I am more needed here for the care of Charlotte; she sleeps right now so I am able to write.

I have said before that I did not want to tell Father's secret anywhere, including writing in this journal.  But I have come to the conclusion that I need not be held by such a promise.  It is one that has been disturbing my sleep ever since he told me.   And I do not feel beholden to Father any longer.  It is too much of a burden.

Perhaps I shall just relate what I said to John. 

It was very hard to begin speaking the other day.  We were walking the path next to the river, having already parted company with Nan and Joseph, and the anticipation built up from the morning was becoming unbearable.

I started slowly.  I explained again about the circumstances of my parents' divorce, but this time I went into a little more detail.  I told John that Father has been known to hit Mother from time to time, always after drinking.  I told him that Mother sometimes did not know when to stop in her angry tirades, especially when she knew that it would not end well. 

Through the years, my brothers and sisters have had different ways of dealing with my parents' fighting.  John, the eldest, missed most of the fighting, for it did not start in earnest until he was already married and established in a separate home.  My brother Josiah was still at home when things became worse, but he was gone most of the day.  His life was one of fancy and pleasure, or so it seemed to me, because he taught dancing to fine ladies, receiving their various favours one way or another.   He was not at home when the worst incidents occurred, and often never heard of them, for the younger children of us never discussed what it is that we saw and heard.

My sister Elizabeth reacted by marrying the first gentleman who paid attention to her, Alexander Wilkinson, an Irishman very recently come to America.  She was gone and out of the house at eighteen.  It was shortly after her marriage that the worst problems occurred; I believe that it was her marriage that sparked more than one argument between my parents.

My brothers Daniel and Warner worked in the fields from a young age.  My  father believed that they should know hard work early on, given that the older siblings, save John, were a disappointment.  They were thus out of the house during the day and early evening, and at night, the boys were known to be a bit mischievous, playing pranks and chasing after the girls whenever they could.  They both left their education behind at age twelve and eleven, respectively.  When at home, these two seemed to be able to go about their business, paying no attention to what was going on with my parents, or so it seemed.

This left me, my younger brother TJ, and my two younger sisters at home and in the way of my parents' disastrous encounters.  I speak of my parents as though they were equally to blame; but my father's transgressions are far, far worse.   I suppose that my mother had some spunk to stand up to my Father.  When she was in the worst of trouble, she knew that she could go to her brother, my Uncle John Elmore, and that the latter would protect her.  She did this on occasion.  More than once, I heard my uncle plead with her to leave her worthless husband, but she would decline.

TJ and the girls were four years and more younger than me, and for the most part, they did not understand  the fights my parents had.  I suspect neither of my two sisters, who were two and four when all the trouble started, remember anything.  My brother was six when it had escalated, and seven when the worst incident occurred, at least while my parents were still living together.  For it is what happened later that my brother TJ will never be friendly with my father again.

So now, we are at the crux of it, I suppose.  John up to this point was listening very understandably.  We had reached a point where we sat upon some large, smooth rocks next to the river.  John was able to hold my hands only for a brief moment, for I withdrew them.  In order to get through what followed, I suppose I gestured and flailed about a little, and also broke into tears and needed a handkerchief, which activities left my hands always in motion.

Now, proceeding chronologically, I took a few deep breaths, and then continued. 

I told John how there was one night when Father came home, quite drunk.  My mother began berating him for being in such a condition, and he blamed her for driving him to drink.  He spoke of some kind of intermeddling she had done in a neighborhood matter, and he told her she needed to mind her own business.  My mother argued with him on this point. 

Susie, and all of us younger children were in the downstairs gathering room where we take our meals and do most of our social activities, and this part of the fight, which had started in another room, came into the gathering room.  What happened next is rather vague to me, for I did not see everything, with my mother and the table between me and Father and Susie.  What I do remember is Father grabbing Susie by the breasts and kissing her and biting her neck.  I believe now, as an adult, that he was doing this to further anger my mother, for he called her unkind names and told my mother that he could do whatever it was that he wanted. 

I remember somehow that my father drew a knife and threatened to kill my mother, and that my mother took Patsy, who was still being carried about, and left.   I know now that my mother had gone to Uncle John's house and had told him about the fight.  I know also that Uncle came back to the house and demanded that my father leave it, which he did do.  I know that my sister Elizabeth was summoned, as were all of my siblings, and that my mother stayed with Uncle for two weeks, whilst Elizabeth stayed at home with us younger children.  The other siblings dispersed, returning to whatever it was they were doing.

I know that during those two weeks that Father came by the house from time to time, and I believe that he stayed the night more than once.  I know that when Mother came back home,  Father was waiting for her.  He begged for her forgiveness, but when it was not forthcoming, and she attempted to leave, he held onto her.  They fought indoors and out, my mother trying to leave, my father not allowing her to.  Mother finally was able to flee.  A few hours later, some men came to the house, spoke to Father, gave him some papers, and Father left.  I now know that my Father had a bill of divorcement served against him, and an order that he vacate the house.

Without going into further details of the divorce, I told John that what was testified to by members of the family and several others was enough for the extraordinary provision that the guardianship of us three girls was given to my mother, along with an order for alimony and for the education and board of us girls.  This is something that is almost never done, from what I have been told.  The boys were not the subject of the orders, for it is my understanding that guardianship of boys is never discussed when the father is still living, notwithstanding the circumstances.

At this point, I paused.  I had gotten through this much of the discussion without tears, relating the events somewhat dispassionately, as though they happened to someone else.  John looked at me with kindness and compassion, reaching over to squeeze my arm from time to time. 

He told me that this was such a terrible thing for all of us to have experienced, not only when it happened, but for the many years to come, for the matter had been made public which must have caused shame to us.  I nodded.  And then told him that the story does not end there, for it is what I have learned from my Father and from TJ that has demonstrated to me circumstances  for which I can presently find no forgiveness.

Fifty-One, Sabbath

Fifty-One

Sabbath

28 June 1824

Yesterday I went to services, and John stopped by an hour early to walk with me. 

As we walked, it was fresh upon my mind the last time we had ventured down this path, and the reason for our tardiness to the class meeting. I have given this much thought, and believe that I can, indeed, trust the Lord, but for now, I believe that I may be able to trust John even more.  However, I did not wish to be tardy once again, so I refrained from talking about a certain matter at that point.

We instead delighted in what was a very beautiful day, albeit warm.  I took care today to look my very best, and for the first time, I wore a bonnet that I had been given by Father.  I had to think on this decision, for it would be giving Father credit, in a way, although he would not be at services to see me wear it.  Instead, vanity gave over, and the lightest blue bonnet, which matched my frock, was upon my head by nine thirty in the forenoon.   John was wearing the same thing that I have seen him wear for every service, and for every class meeting.  I believe that perhaps it is his only outfit for such occasions.

The waters of the Coosa, as we walked along it, seemed to sparkle, the sunlight dancing off the rivulets.  We could spy some fish.  It was as though the fish knew that we had no pole, and no ability to go fishing on the Sabbath Day.  The air was warm with the scent of something that was blooming; I know not what it was, but it was heavenly.  And the sky was a pale blue, as the warmer weather has chased away the deeper hues.  I thought, oh I hope that John notices that my bonnet matches the sky!

But I've grown to know that on the Sabbath Day, John's thoughts are always heavenward, or at least upon that which concerns our souls, and so I turned my attention away from the mundane.  I am learning that while I do not know the Bible at all, nor of the teachings of the Methodist Church, I do know that I can learn all that I need to know for now from being with John.  He has enough zeal for the both of us, and I do not mean this mockingly.  He speaks with such enthusiasm on matters of the soul, and knows how to capture our attention and hold it.  I fear that he just may out-preach the preacher, with all due respect to Reverend Terry, outside of the Terry place.  I suspect that were he not engaged in farming and inventing, he would make a fine minister of the Gospel.

As we arrived, I looked for Nan and Joseph--for I believe that I can call him that now--and I saw them come up the path with Susie a respectful distance behind.  It was not the happy couple, smiling and talking in excited tones, who got my attention.

I have found myself watching Susie much more closely now, seeing her in a whole new way.  I saw her with a certain gleam in her eye, and with what looked like true contentment in her demeanor.  She always brings the largest basket of food for the luncheon, and she is the most enthusiastic exclaimer in the services.  I believe that six days of the week, she truly loves the seventh, and not just because it is a day of rest. 

Today I noticed that Susie takes special care to look nice, too; very modest, but very clean, there being no hint of cabin dirt or barnyard straw anywhere on her person.  She was wearing her hair bound up and tucked underneath an old bonnet of Patsy's, the latter giving it to Susie once she decided she had no further use for it.

The services were unremarkable, and I began daydreaming what it would be like if John were the person speaking instead.  I suppose this is not a proper thought to have.

After the services were over and the luncheon begun, the word was quickly spread about that Nan and Joseph were engaged.  When asked when the wedding would be, Joseph first looked at Nancy, and then said that the date had not been determined, and was a detail that they needed to discuss.

When the four of us--Joseph and Nan, and John and I--had a moment alone, Joseph explained to us that while Father had given his permission for the marriage, that there was a proviso.  He said that if Nancy were to receive a slave as a wedding present, she would have to wait until she was the age of majority to receive the slave in her own right, independent of the trusteeship of her husband.  Joseph was clearly displeased with this proviso, and Nan was displeased that Joseph was displeased. 

For my part, I was infuriated.  For this is how Father was asserting himself in between the two, and how he was trying to become important again.  I am all too familiar with the legal issues that came about when Father reneged on an agreement to give my sister Elizabeth a slave upon her wedding, and my brother-in-law had to sue for breach of promise as a result.  I am not certain if the matter was settled out of court, but Elizabeth eventually did receive the slave.  I do not believe that Joseph, nor for that matter, Nan, knows of the circumstance concerning Elizabeth, for Nan never cared to hear anything about Father, nor about business, nor about the past.  This situation certainly puts a damper upon their excitement, for the receipt of a slave is no small thing, the Methodist views on slavery notwithstanding.

My own views on the Methodist views on slavery focuses on the ironic nature of their arguments.  For how can any Methodist own a slave if it is their conviction that the institution is wrong?  I understand some of the arguments, but how can they justify buying one, and paying full price, and not liberating them if they have the funds to do so?  Indeed, John's own parents own slaves, or so I understand.  It will be sometime before I point out this discrepancy in their thinking, for John cannot allow any criticism of Methodism in his presence.

It then occurred to me to wonder--which slave will Father give to Nan?  Joseph is a farmer and a coachmaker, and he no doubt could use a strong man to help him.  I believe that Nan does pretty well within the house, but once she starts having babies, she will need help.  With the giving of a female slave, if she be of childbearing age, then her issue becomes a source of future assets, although a present drain.

I have much more to write, for today, an important discussion was had.  But the hour is late, and I need to think more on this before writing about it.

Fifty, Sincerity

Fifty

Sincerity

26 June 1824

I write this by firelight and a couple of candles, for I could not wait to share with my dearest friend.  For you, oh journal, have been the keeper of my heart.  And while you now have some competition for my heart, I believe that you will continue to keep my secrets.

John came by tonight, just after supper, timing it just right I believe.  Perhaps he was watching from afar, to see when it was that Warner came in from the field for supper, after another day's labour.

John came to me as a man who has come to comfort, to console.  For I suppose that in leaving me the other night, although it was a joyous occasion, he thought perhaps that I was still in mind of the business that we started earlier.

He rode to me on his horse this evening, perhaps to come more quickly.  Or perhaps it was to be able to recite to me two stanzas of another Wordsworth poem.  For off his horse he came, with a knock he entered, with a look he beckoned me outside, and after enquiring whether I be well (I was in high spirits to see him, in fact), he asked if he might recite.  Again, he took a piece of paper tucked away in his jacket, and to me, he said:

"When she I loved looked every day

Fresh as a rose in June,

I to her cottage bent my way,

Beneath an evening moon.

 "Upon the moon fixed my eye,

All over the wide lea;

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh

Those paths so dear to me."

He then proffered to me the paper on which these words were written, and, oh! I did not know that such happiness can reign.

But I have seen the tides of emotions that befall the smitten--they ride so high when the romance is fresh, only to be brought back to earth, and worse.  So it is that I kept my emotions to myself, although I suspect that my burning cheeks betrayed me.  (And here I say, that I did not know that one's cheeks can truly feel afire in such a situation as this.  I had thought it a myth!)

He said that he has been thinking of me, and how must I be feeling.  He said that he would like to quote from the Bible, too, a verse that is as familiar to him as the path that leads to my door.  And although he had it memorized, he had also written it down in order to leave it with me, for I believe he well knows that I  am not very familiar with the Good Book.

He said:

But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.

He folded up this paper, too, and placed it in my hand, this time not letting go of my closed palm, and he took my other hand, too.  He said, Trust in the Lord, Louisa.  There is nothing that cannot be done with the Lord on your side.  You shall grow to truly know that this be true, although perhaps it does not seem so now. 

He held onto my hands a little longer, and then let them go.

Miss Louisa, he said, more formally, for he had been so very earnest and boyish in his earlier poetry, and then so scholarly in his Bible quoting.

Miss Louisa, he said again, I should like to ask you if I may see you as often as I can manage.  I work long hours, and I travel, too, but I always try to be present for class meetings and for services, and of course, my employer also being my preacher, I am able to arrange for the latter.  But I should like to see you whenever I can, however that I can, and not just at spiritual gatherings.  I do not believe that I need to ask your father's permission for this, you being of age, but also because circumstances dictate that his consent or the withholding of it probably does not matter to you. 

And here, he looked into my eyes to see if I agreed, and I proffered agreement, with my eyes saying so as well.

Miss Louisa, he said.  I took some pleasure in the "Miss", it was so respectful.

Miss Louisa, the other night you were going to tell me more about what it is that is troubling you so.  Please know that I am always yours, that you may turn to me at any time, and mine shall be the listening heart.

He was so serious, that I surprised even myself by bursting into laughter.

Oh, John, said I.

I do not mean to laugh, please, oh please forgive me, but I...  I... and thereupon, I laughed some more, and after a moment, he joined me and mirth abounded.

Louisa, he said, this time without the "Miss", the formality now abandoned. 

You confound me at times, but it is your complexity as much as anything draws me to you. 

He then reached into his jacket once again, but this time, it was for a wildflower that he no doubt picked along the way, for it was still fresh.

Think of me, he said.

And thereupon, he strode back to his horse, mounted it, tipped his hat, and off he went back down the lane.

49 Tears of...

Forty-Nine

Tears of...

25 June 1824

I had to stop in my journal yesterday, for I was overcome with emotion again.  I shall resume now, having recovered a bit.

I cannot say just how very grateful I am that John has been brought to me, for brought to me by God himself is what I believe.  That is saying so very much, as I have been a little out of sorts with the Supreme Being for some time now. 

I want to recount each moment, as I believe that what is happening now, this moment, this week, is very pivotal in my life, and I shall want to record this for when I am old and gray and can no longer remember anything.

The other night, when I was crying, and yet feeling like I was being rescued,  John stood there with me, stroking my hair and holding me close, I became aware that his nose was buried in my hair, that he was breathing in concert with me.  My crying subsided, and in a way, I did not want to stop, for I did not want this moment to end.  But I gathered myself, and stepped back just a little, and I looked up at him, my eyes no doubt looking wretched.  He looked down at me with such love, for that is what I feel that it was.

This would have been a time and circumstance for a lesser man to have kissed me, and I believe that he wanted to.  But I feel that he did not do so out of respect for me, and for the moment that we had just experienced.  I just know that I looked back at him with the same kind of love that I felt he was showing me.

The silence then became a little awkward, and I turned toward the pathway again and began walking, holding onto John's arm for everything, as I believe that I would have fainted without it.  John did not press me for further details, and I did not feel yet ready to speak again.

We walked along slowly until we reached the Terrys, and we went inside, a little late.

Reverend Terry was still going down the class list, speaking to each person in turn, asking about how their week has been, listening to the accounting of sinful ways and thoughts, and praying for each person.  He waited for the two of us to the last, and noted that we were both late.  I believe that my reddened eyes and sniffling was a signal to him that he should ask John first.  John confessed to some minor things which I shall not recount, as we are covenanted not to share outside of our class. 

When it was my turn, John spoke up and said that in light of circumstances that perhaps I was not up to speaking.  I was ever so grateful for him to say this; it meant so much to have someone take up for me.  Nan and Mr. Houck were present, and I suppose that it was distressful to them to see John and me in the manner that we were.  Certainly, they, and everyone, had to be curious.

I spoke that it was all right, that I could speak, and I said, truthfully, that I had been sharing with John just before the meeting some of the circumstances behind my parents' divorce.  I figured that most of the people in the room probably knew the status of my parents' marriage already, but from the look of surprise and shock on most persons' faces, including that of Mr.
Houck, I was apparently quite mistaken. 

I found that I needed to explain just a little, to say that my parents had come upon difficulties in their lives, and that although I found my father to be quite wanting, I know that it is supposedly not for me to judge.  But I said in all truthfulness that I am, in fact, feeling as though I was judging my father every single day of my life.  I said that I wanted to learn how to forgive, but that for now, that was not as possible as it should be.  I said that perhaps such a thing would keep me from being able to come again to class.  I then sat silent and waited for judgment to come.

Reverend Terry then came to me, and placed his hand upon my head, and said that he thought a prayer was needed just then.  And he prayed, and others joined in, with prayers all around.  No one asked more of me, no one passed judgment upon me.  They prayed prayers of compassion, and understanding in the difficult times that I was going through.  The prayers kept up for perhaps ten minutes, maybe less, maybe more.  I felt so, so relieved, so grateful, so filled with amazement that these people could pray for me in such a way.

I then thought of Nan.  She had been toddler at the time of the worst fight, and I have always believed that she did not remember any of it.  But I have never asked her, and she has never spoken of it.  Indeed, it is as though it is a normal thing, to have your parents estranged, and yet to have them living in close proximity to each other for years. 

Nan looked very upset. 

From then on, the meeting was interminable.

They sang the closing hymn, with me and Nan only mouthing the words.

We all then took our leave, and Nan and I, John, and Mr. Houck all started down the path and waited until we were out of earshot of anyone else, and Nan then turned to Mr. Houck and said that she knew he probably would not be able to forgive her, for not telling him.  He then turned to her and said, most precious Nancy, you are not to blame.  You and Louisa were children when these things happened, and your parents seem to have made their peace with each other.  It is thus no one's business whatever transpired in another time, and in another place.  He said that he did not at all blame her for not saying anything, because they have been enjoying the happiness and pleasantries that go with courting, and such a thing would not naturally come up.  He then told her--and here he took a moment and hesitated--to say that he had the Sunday before asked her father for her hand in marriage, and that her father consented.  He told her that this was not how he wanted her to find out, that he had something much more romantic in mind, but that he thought it was now necessary. 

Nan looked shocked, whether it was for the proposal, or the explanation of his discussion with Father, but she said, Joseph, if you are asking me to marry you, then of course, the answer is yes, for if you still wish to have me after all of this, then I think you shall be stuck with me forever.

He then pick her  up, and swung her around, and there was much backslapping and hugging amongst the four of us.  And then Nancy and I both began crying, and then two handkerchiefs appeared from the two men, and the dabbing of eyes and sniffling when on for another minute or two.  And then Nancy and I jumped up and down, and the men did a little dance, or maybe it was the other way around.  I was just so happy for all of us.

Forty-Eight, Compass

Forty-Eight

Compass

24 June 1824

John arrived promptly--which is to mean, early--for our Wednesday evening walk to the class meeting.  I am grateful that the leisurely pace could be afforded, for I had much to say, and even more time was needed for waiting, and then listening.

We had walked only a minute or two up the path before I spoke to him of the need to talk frankly.  He was taken by surprise, for I am not one to say much aloud, and I have heretofore not been so serious.  I had previously pondered as to the timing of telling him, for if it be before the meeting and it did not go well, it could be awkward.  And it could lead to having to tell my secret to the class, which I most vehemently did not wish to do.  I was putting John in a very tenuous position, for he takes these class meetings very seriously, including the need to pour out one's soul on any difficult matter.

I began by saying that I wished to tell him of something that could end our--friendship--and that I most earnestly did not wish such a result.  And here, he started to protest, but I stood my ground and continued.  I told him that my family has had some events in it that are not pleasant, and some that even we who witnessed such things do not discuss. 

Here, I stopped, and looked at him imploringly, for I wanted him to understand me, and I also was searching his face for any clue that what I was about to say could send him away.  What I saw gazing back at was genuine concern, and, I think, a look that said that I was important to him, and that he would try to understand.

My father--I said.  My parents--I started again--have a history of being--unkind.  To each other.  Fighting, I said, looking back up at his face which looked back at me still with a kind concern. 

Fighting in a very tumultuous way, and sometimes in a public way, at least amongst our family and closest neighbors, said I, looking at him again.  Still a kind, concerned face.

And then, there was this one fight...

My father...

Did something unforgiveable...

In front of me and my younger brother and two younger sisters...

He...

Well, it involved, um, Susie...

Here, I looked at him to see if he knew who I was talking about, for Susie came to services on Sundays, had been coming since long before I started to come, but I wasn't sure that he would make the connection.  He nodded.  He knew about whom I spoke.

He was--improper--with her.

I stopped again.  This was very difficult.  John still looked kind, and concerned, and I knew that he was going to be patient with me, for we were in danger of being late for our class, and this is something that John absolutely never does.

Well, I continued. 

Suffice it say that what happened led to divorce proceedings, and I am certain that you know how rare and how difficult such proceedings can be.  And that they are not commenced except upon the most grave of circumstances.

I looked at him again, and saw saddened eyes, looking pained.  I realized then that he cares for me far more than I had ever hoped, or deserved to hope.

Well, said I.  It is just important about those circumstances to know that my mother got custody of us three girls.

But--I stopped again, this time not looking at him, but at the ground--the scandal of divorce, and the fighting, and all that has happened since--these are not what is troubling me, exactly.

Here, I looked up.  He now was registering a concerned inquisitiveness, for I grasped that the news of my parents' troubles was not news to him at all, but that there was more... Well, he now looked curious, and in a serious manner.

My father recently told me something...

And here I stopped, for I had commenced crying, quietly, but tears flowing down my cheeks such that John searched for a handkerchief.  He found one, of course, being the gentleman that he is.

He told me--

John waited for perhaps a minute to see if I were going to continue, but my quiet tears had turned to sobs, and he held me close, speaking to me softly, oh Louisa, my heart.  There is nothing that you can say that will cause me to run from you.  And you needn't continue, this is too hard for you, my darling.

I cried for an eternity, so it seemed, him holding me close.  It was heaven, even though I was traversing hell itself. 

I had found my compass.  I was no longer alone.

47, Slavery

Forty-Seven

Slavery

23 June 1824

John told me that as a child, he witnessed slaves being offloaded from northern and from Dutch boats, to be sold at auctions.  He told me the conditions these creatures were presented in, worse than horses.  The slaves that were left unsold often then were left to fend for themselves, or worse, far worse.  For the ship's crew could not take the slaves anywhere else, and something needed to be done with them.  Sometimes the sick and the dead slaves that were left on the boats were dumped into the harbor, the stench being so bad that you could choke from it on certain days.

John told me that in his faith, Mr. Wesley had preached abolition quite strongly, but that in England, Mr. Wesley had not encountered slavery, nor what John saw happening in Charleston.  So the Methodists of Charleston had to adapt their thinking.  John said that at least in one Methodist church, the practice became that they pooled funds to buy as many slaves as they could at the point that the slaves were otherwise going to be disposed of, unsold.  He told me that these slaves were then distributed amongst the congregants, as they had not the means to otherwise house and clothe them.  He told me how they taught trades to the slaves, and in his father's case, this was carpentry.  He said that the slaves were given Sundays off, and that the slaves attended church along with their masters, intermingling with them in the congregation, and drinking from the same cup at communion. 

John said that slaves were allowed to keep the money that they earned from selling things on Sunday, and that often, these funds came back to the church in the form of tithes.  He said that this caused an issue at his church, because the negroes had grown in number so much that they soon outnumbered the whites, and but that they had no say as to what their money that was being contributed would be used for.  This understandably caused tension.

He told me that after services, the slaves were instructed in scripture, and were taught to read as a part of the instruction, although this was surreptitious for the most part.  He said that the legislature and governing officials could not interfere with the running of churches on this matter, and that otherwise, it is forbidden to instruct the slaves in reading, due to the feared dangers of insurrection.

John said that his parents owned a few slaves, one or two inherited, and one bought at auction as one who would have otherwise gone unsold and thus disposed of in some way.  He told me that his father paid the slaves some money when he was able to hire their work out to others.  He said that he thought their slaves were treated fairly, for the most part, but that he was very much troubled that they were not free.  He talked of the laws that do not permit the freeing of slaves without the ability to provide for them after freedom, for it is thought that slaves are like children, and we do not turn children out on the streets to fend for themselves.  He said that in Alabama, slaves are not permitted to be freed at all, there being nowhere for them to go as there is in Charleston.  At least, he said, that is the reasoning.

John then looked at me, and I am not certain what expression I had on my face, for I have frankly never really thought on these things before.  Slavery is just a part of my family's way of life; they are like family to us, or so we like to say.  When I think on it, of course, they are not like family, for they do not stay in our houses with us, and they do not eat at the table with us, and they are not free to come and go as they wish.

And then I remembered Susie, and what Father had told me.  And I think that before John and I get more serious, I shall have to tell him what Father has told me.  I fear what will happen then.  What will John think, or what will he do?  I believe him to be a fair man, and a wise one, too.  I hope that he can help me decide what to do.  But I fear that he might not wish to be involved in these matters, and that he will turn away and see me no more.  For why should he be involved with a family that has so many troubles, and has brought such shame and scandal, when he can surely find someone without all of these problems.  Most of me wants to trust him, though. 

I cannot live with this secret and become close with this man without sharing it, and tonight, I shall.

Forty-Six, Cotton Gin

Forty-Six

Cotton Gin

 22 June 1824

 I have been thinking since Sunday about the things that John has told me, and I am not really certain how it is that I feel.  I want to understand, and I think that it may take some time to fully do so.

John spoke to me on several things as we walked along.  He is quite fond of speeches it seems, given enthusiastically with great waving of hands and a skip in his step.  His eyes sparkle as he speaks of the cotton gin, and of the improvements that he is working on.  It seems that as a part of his employment, he is spending a few hours each day working on such improvements, for it is his belief, and the belief of Mr. Terry, that short-staple cotton will become quite the crop in Alabama.  It seems that the ginning of this crop presents some problems, and it is those problems that John intends to remedy.

John told me that he had apprenticed as a blacksmith, his father believing that a man needs a practical trade as of a certain age, for the contemplation of Plato's and Mr. Wesley's writings can take you only so far.  John also worked alongside his father in the plying of the carpentry trade, both as a coachmaker, and as a house builder.  These trades were very useful in prosperous times, and in lean times, they depended upon friends and family.  Fortunately, such times of dependence were few and short-lived, but they had the effect upon John that he always wanted to be useful.

Given his experience in blacksmithing and carpentry, John wished to work on solving a problem with the cotton gin that first took up his father's and grandfather's time and energy, and those of some of their fellow tradesmen and farmers.  Several of them have partly improved the gin, with working models being implemented.  He told me how a man called Eli Whitney had seen one of the working models in a visit to South Carolina and Georgia, and how Mr. Whitney drew up plans and applied for a patent.  John said no one gave it much thought until Mr. Whitney tried to enforce the patent by demanding one-third to two-thirds of all cotton that has been ginned, even when they did not use Mr.  Whitney's gin.  This seems rather preposterous, and John just shrugged his shoulders saying that Mr. Whitney finally gave up and went into gun manufacturing where he was a good deal more financially successful.

John said that short-staple cotton is already making an impact in South Carolina, Georgia, and now Alabama.  He intends to help make things easier in the production of it, and the milling of it.  However, he is troubled by one thing:  slavery.  He says that the production of cotton requires a lot of hands to pick the cotton, for no machine has been invented that can successfully do it.  And he says that the main way that people get the hands to pick the cotton is through the institution of slavery, and this goes against his personal and religious beliefs.

I shall save until later what John has told me of his view towards slavery, as the dinner hour approaches, and it will take some time for me to write what he said.

Forty-Five, Deeper

Forty-Five

Deeper

21 June 1824

Yesterday afternoon, after services, John walked me home along the path.  On a path going the opposite direction once we reached the river, Mr. Houck was walking with Nan.  It appears that we are in danger of repeating the circumstances of a Jane Austen novel--quick romances, best friends, sisters.  All that is missing, really, is marrying into great wealth.  Ha!

But it does not matter to me, this great wealth.  We had a comfortable living in Laurens, I suppose.  We were also (and still are) in close proximity to the wealth of my uncle.  But I cannot see where this wealth brings about the deepest of emotions. 

I do not mock the comfortable circumstances that I have had and continue to have.  I am not unmindful that there is always food on the table, and that, other than our trip to Alabama, I have always had a comfortable bed in which to sleep.  There is always a fire, and always someone to tend to it.

There are people in our midst who go about providing for us such daily comforts, and in return, they have a roof over their head, food to eat, clothes to wear, and some semblance of happiness I suppose. 

We have our share of tragedy, too, and it is no greater nor worse on the account of wealth, or so it seems.

I guess that I am thinking on these things now, because John appears to be something of a social reformer.  I am of no opinion on the matter at this point, but I am interested in whatever interests John.  He is a good person, and I believe that good shall always follow him. 

John appears to be genuinely interested in me, beyond the fact that there are few that he could look to for a companion.  This still baffles me a little.  Mayhaps he should see me on a Tuesday, looking for eggs with straw and feathers in my hair, and a smudge upon my face, rather than the scrubbed appearance that I present for services, every hair in place, and my best frock being displayed.

On another matter, I wonder how Nan is negotiating the issue of Father with Mr. Houck lingering about.  I have not again had a moment to speak with the latter about his query, and I am grateful for that.  I have no clear answer for him.  I suppose that he will make his choice, and soon will be asking for Nan's hand.

It is ironic, I think, that things are moving down such a path so quickly!  Nan and I met Mr. Houck and John on the same evening last month, and now it appears that she is to be married soon, while I am just getting acquainted.  I much prefer my own way on such a matter, much as I wish to dream about the future and how bright I believe that it can be.  There is much to be cautious about, and rather than marry first and worry later, I would prefer to proceed slowly, with due diligence. 

John gave me much to think about, bringing my thoughts from the frivolous to the practical.  I appreciate such conversation.  I have spent many years keeping my own counsel, and it is refreshing that someone should think me worthy of sharing the deeper discussions.  What we talked about, I shall have to leave for another time, as it is growing dark and I need to reflect some more on what we spoke about.   But I shall also hope to dream of John tonight, for doing so causes me to smile, and, dare I say, be happy.