One
Anger
6 January 1819
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 twentieth 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, 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. 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 just a few years ago? Over five hundred souls were lost that day.
I am angry that I must leave behind my pianoforte and my many books. Angry that my older brothers get to stay behind in the civilized world while I must join my mother and sisters in an untamed one, and really 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.
It was only eight or nine years ago that my parents were embroiled in a bitter divorce. 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." She picked up the skillet that was frying bacon fat, 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 skillet 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 draw a kitchen knife out of nowhere and wave it close to her face. Mother deftly moved away from him, never turning her back to him, but grabbing the baby and running out the door.
It was then that father noticed my little brother Thomas, my toddler sister Nancy, and me with both hands on the skillet my mother left behind. 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.
Two
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 embarked 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 course or wiry. Her brown eyes are, well, merry, almost twinkly in a mirthful fashion. She has the tiniest waist that I have ever seen which is almost inexplicable, given the birth of her child a few years ago. 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.
My Uncle, General John Elmore, is the
leader of our ever-growing band of people going westward or more correctly,
southwestward. He is a force to reckon with, my uncle. It is as though he always has to live up to
his title of "General", 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
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
We had hoped to be out of not only this
county, but the next. But I guess we were lucky that we reached the Town of Pleasantville
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 suspect that for all its simplicity, this
meal 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.
Three
Tugaloo
9 January 1819
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
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.
The river itself is beautiful.
There were oak, mulberry, 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
We shall have to make haste to
reach the town of Athens Athens
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 suppose it should not be my concern, but
these past few years Father and Mother always shared a bed. This does not particularly
please me, but Father's presence seems to please or at least not displease
Mother. I suppose that Susie is with the
other Negroes at night, but being a house servant, she is not used to being
around the field hands, having been given a place to sleep inside.
But that is not my concern. I do not care.
Four
10 January 1819
It being the Sabbath Day, and
some of our group being strict observers, our caravan has come to a halt just
short of Athens [Georgia Athens Inn
with the promise that my uncle, whose good name preceded him into the county,
would pay the next day. My brother
Thomas, being a young man of 16, stayed behind, as did my father.
Once at the inn, my sisters Nan and Patsy who are 13 and 14 and inseparable, settled
into the parlor, giggling and I do not know what else. Mother has laid down to
rest and refresh herself in a real bed, and I am mercifully left with my
writing in the second parlor, a place of quiet and solitude meant usually only
for special occasions. This is quite the fine place, and I am grateful of an
uncle who can afford such a luxury. It
is a cold and dreary day, given over to rain and other disagreeable things.
As each day passes, I find that I
much enjoy writing, and I look ever forward to the endeavour. When I was younger, I wrote little essays for
my teacher, and of course, I wrote the kinds of notes that are required of a
young lady after certain occasions. But this is the first time that I can sit
and write for my own enjoyment, and enjoy it I do.
For a small town that was so
recently founded, I find that it is quite sophisticated. This is due in large part to the existence of
Franklin College
Oh, if only I could be permitted
to attend such a school! I suppose that I have been most fortunate to have been
the beneficiary of tutors employed by Uncle.
Composition and French more than made up for being required to study
history and philosophy. My studies ended at the age of 15, coinciding with my
father returning to our household and resuming most of the financial
responsibilities. He found my studies to be frivolous, and, I suppose, wholly
unaffordable.
I am not certain of all that
transpired between the time of my parents' divorce in 1811, and the year
1814. I do know that my father gave over
control of his property to Junior once the latter was of age in 1813, and he
disappeared from public life, and, it seems, from private life as well. As did Susie.
Oh dear, I have again strayed
from my primary purpose of describing my journey. My mind returns again and
again to the puzzlement of my father and his...
how shall I describe her? I
shan't.
It seems that I have entirely
taken up my time writing of needless things, and now I must close. Mother has arisen from her little rest, and
my sisters are nowhere to be found. Go, I must!
Five
Nowhere North of Fort Hawkins
11 January 1819
After the luxury of Lee's Inn in Athens
I am in our family's coach with
Mother, Nan , and Patsy awaiting word of what
we shall do. Peter, one of our field
Negroes, just now took the reins from my brother Tom who has joined us in
cramped quarters and I can no longer write.
...
I have another small snippet of
time. Everyone else is out of the coach
now, as the skies are clearing and the rain has stopped, but two of the coaches
are still stuck. We seem to be in a forest now, filled with hickories and pine
trees. I love the smell of the pines!
All things seem new and fresh, and I don't mind the cold any longer. But
I don't want to muddy up my shoes which are already looking years old when they
are actually new.
...
It seems that we shall make camp
in the forest, as we have spent so much time on the problem of becoming
unstuck. Uncle had made the decision before this journey that we should all
stay together no matter what befalls us, so if even one wagon is disabled, we
must all stop while it is fixed.
We have only seen a few
passersby. Usually they must wait for us if they are traveling with a vehicle,
but when they are on horseback, they might tip their hat or mumble a hello
before quickly passing through one way or another. There are very few going the
other direction. We encountered a native who had been hired to deliver some
mail. I wonder at the safety and efficacy of that, but I have been assured that
these native riders are fairly reliable.
I thought that our posts were just conjured out of the air, somehow
magically arriving by clouds! Not
really, but I can be permitted to dream sometimes. I honestly had not
previously thought about how mail is delivered in the wilderness, and now I
have an idea.
Because we have additional time
on our hands, we are going to prepare a little feast. Father and Tom and some
of the men went out hunting and returned with a deer and a rabbit. I should
say, parts of a deer because they had to butcher it where it fell. We have a
nice fire going, and an iron pot was rigged above it. We are going to have
rabbit stew and roasted deer meat, with carrots and potatoes. Susie is magical
in her preparations. She certainly knows how to adapt in the wilderness. Mother
is trying her best to contribute to the feast, but she keeps her distance from
Susie who has been given permission to be chief cook. I, on the other hand, am
completely useless in cooking tasks.
The stew is nearly done, and the
deer steaks have been finished for some time. I shall close with a growling
stomach and an anticipatory mouth!
Six
Still Nowhere North of Fort Hawkins
12 January 1819
I find myself again with time on
my hands and the luxury of people leaving me alone. We are once again stuck in
the mud, and now we have an additional problem. It seems that our outdoor feast
of last night--which we again partook of this morning--is not agreeing with
everyone.
Nan and a few of the others are
being plagued with a most unpleasant condition that requires us to stop
seemingly every few feet so that they can venture a little ways and do that
which nature requires. When one wagon or coach stops, we all must stop, but I
suspect the need for a "sick wagon" shall arise so that we can get on
with it.
I am not unsympathetic to my
sister. But I do believe she may not be as ill as she pretends. She blames all
of this on Susie, ignoring the fact that most of us are just fine. We all ate
the same stew and deer steaks. Nan has gone on about how Susie did this intentionally,
and although I have my reasons for being suspicious of the latter, I find
myself in the uncomfortably new position of defending her.
Upon further inquiry, it seems
that Nan and some of the others picked some
berries that they thought to be harmless. It appears that the berries were not
fatal, but were not well tolerated, either. For her part, Nan has stripped down
to her necessaries, this being a very warm day, and Nan being weary of picking
up her heavy skirts so often to attend to herself. We are nearly one week into
this journey, and find fewer and fewer reasons for modesty. My mother is an
exception to this. She is trying mightily to retain some sense of dignity,
although I would think she had lost that long ago with a very public divorce.
Oh, that again. I know that I
must move on past that incident--which lasted nearly two years to its
completion. I remember that one day when father's behavior was unforgivable.
But I do believe that much of the evidence against him was contrived. I have
learned that to be granted a divorce, a woman must allege, and then be able to
prove, intolerable cruelty. I am also coming to believe, in my advancing of
years that allows me to see more clearly, that my mother is capable of great
jealousy.
I surprise myself in this revelation, and now I shall pause
to consider it further.
Seven
Almost to Ft Hawkins
13 January 1819
I have had an evening and a full
day to consider my new revelation. I am no less sympathetic to my mother, but I
am beginning to see Susie in a different light and to be curious about her. I
have known Susie my entire life. And as it is with things that are so very
familiar, they take on the veneer of that old shoe that you wear every day and
have long since forgotten how you acquired it.
But now I shall task myself with
considering Susie afresh. Perhaps I should start with trying to remember the
details of what I know about her. I know that she has always belonged to my
father and that he has always taken a special interest in her. She has always been a house servant, I think,
but then she is a few years older than I am, perhaps Junior's age. And I don't
really know where she was or what she was doing before I was old enough to
notice.
But here I am prattling on with
my private thoughts when I've promised Aunt Elizabeth to write about my journey
and my adventures. Of my adventures, I cannot say much as I am not the
adventurous sort and we haven't gone too far away from our coaches but I
suppose that I can write about what I see, hear, smell, and touch.
What I see are lots of trees.
They are so thick that you cannot see very far in any direction except to see
pines, hickories, and oaks. Big ones.
Little ones. Many in between. The trees are so thick that very little of
other types of vegetation is growing in between because there is almost no
"in between". The overall
effect is that of entering into twilight, really a darkness. I am growing very
uncomfortable, or shall I say, afraid. Yes. There I admit it. I have become
fearful. Occupying my time with musings
about my parents and Susie is a way for me to forget my fears.
I have begun to hear more and
more of what I thought of as night sounds but now they are occurring at all
hours. Last night I scarce slept a wink
listening to these sounds. Yip-yip-yeeowww! I believe at least some of them to be natives
communicating with each other. Ahh-ooooooohhh!!
What are they saying, do you suppose?
There are enough white people traveling on this road that we are hardly
a novelty.
Still, my mind cannot help but
think of the Fort
Mims
Uncle once explained to me that
these were the Upper Creek who wanted no part of white civilization and who
were not willing to give up their lands. Uncle says that the Lower Creek are
the ones we will be seeing, and he says that they are friendly. Or was it the
other way around? I wish I had paid more
attention when Uncle was explaining what to expect on our journey. I remember
black soil, a lot of land, plenty of fish and game, lots of beauty everywhere.
Did he not mention danger? He spoke of
mosquitoes and the possible outbreak of malaria. He spoke bluntly about how one
or more of us might take ill and die. He spoke of broken bones and snake bites.
What did he say about the natives? They
are friendly. They are friendly. They are friendly.
Eight
14 January 1819
We have entered into what seems like a new country, and in a way, it
is. We have arrived at Fort Hawkins
The fort is garrisoned and within its walls is surprisingly little of
substance, but much of interest. It is not at all what I expected.
There is no inn, no store, really nothing at all but a blacksmith's and one
residence. And it is here that we will be staying awhile as we tend to
various things.
We will be remaining with our wagons and coaches for sleeping,
although some of the men are now pitching small tents. Here we are, at
the edge of the Creek Nation, and this presents itself as the first time that I
am seeing many natives up close.
The fort is a place for trading, it seems, and all kinds of trade are
occurring here. We are gathering more provisions, as we were
underprepared to continue further without them. It may take another two
weeks to reach our final destination, maybe more. We have arrived here in
good time, but the roads from here on in will become more and more difficult.
I have been very aware for the past couple of days that I am female.
All around us are men. And boys. But mostly men. I am beginning
to slowly awaken to the reality that I will be going where there will be few
women to converse with who are not related to me. Indeed, among our
caravan, almost everyone is related in some way, save the slaves.
Which brings me to my next point. I am also very aware that I am
not married. I have not heretofore been overly concerned about
this, as I have been content to spend my time at home, tending to my chickens,
reading my books, and playing the pianoforte.
But now I am a little concerned. My older sister married young,
or at least she was younger than I am presently, and several of my cousins
married before the age of twenty-two which is how old I thought I would be
before I would start worrying in earnest that there may be something wrong with
me.
I have gotten to thinking then. What if no one comes west after
us, or at least to settle in the area where we will be. Am I doomed to
die a spinster, or shall I be forced to marry one of my cousins? Or
must I marry a native or maybe a slave? I cannot fathom these choices, as
they all seem horrifying to me.
My mother is quite well and can tend to her own needs, and my two
sisters and my brother no longer need looking after. I was allowed to bring only one book with me:
my
Bible. I do not have my piano. So it seems to me that I should be married so that I won't be bored. At least then I will have a companion, something that I have never had really, my female siblings being six and seven years younger than me, and my brothers being not much less further removed, and knowing no person very well who is not in my household.
Bible. I do not have my piano. So it seems to me that I should be married so that I won't be bored. At least then I will have a companion, something that I have never had really, my female siblings being six and seven years younger than me, and my brothers being not much less further removed, and knowing no person very well who is not in my household.
I suppose I have many other things to be worrying about, such as will
I starve to death, or fall off a cliff, or die of some sickness or another,
being so far away from anyone who would be able to save me.
But I digress again from my descriptions of what surrounds me, and
certainly my environs are vastly different now from anything I have ever
known. What can I describe?
The fort is made from logs that are roughly hewn. It is built in
a square, with an inner wall, and an outer wall. There are holes in both
walls to stick guns through, should there be a need. There is a lookout
tower that is built fairly high as there are woods all around and you can
scarce see much otherwise. At least when you are high, you can see smoke
or dust being kicked up, or other signs of life, especially unfriendly
natives.
Oh dear. I keep hearing Uncle's reassuring voice, telling us that the natives we will be seeing are friendly, that there have been no uprisings in four years at least, and that the unfriendly ones have moved north and westward. But I fear this the most: I do not want to be scalped, like over half of the people at
Oh my. I have worked myself into a terrible state. I shall
count to 100 to calm myself, and if that does not work, I shall read in my
Bible, even though I have never actually paid much attention to it before, my
religious training being quite lacking. Or maybe I should take a walk
somewhere. But where? I do not feel safe among all these men and
these natives. Oh my, oh my.
Nine
15 January 1819
Still Fort Hawkins
Being stuck awhile here at the
Fort means I have plenty of time to write!
About this, I am most happy.
Being completely untalented at cooking, I have been mercifully excluded
from the one task that keeps the other women busy.
I rather imagine myself as a
novelist now. Aunt Elizabeth would be
proud of me, I think. But I need to work on describing things better, making
everything come alive.
I am trying to take Uncle's
reminders to heart that the natives are friendly. Yesterday, I turned away
every time I came close to one. Today, I endeavored to look more fully at them.
I find them so stern. Do they
never smile? My sister Patsy had little
problem getting to know at least one native better. He has the improbable name
of John Lightfoot. I suspect his first name is really something I cannot
pronounce. Or maybe he wants to assimilate better.
John seems to be about Patsy's
age, maybe a little older. Maybe 16. He
was trying to show Patsy a little game with rocks on the ground. Something
about tossing them around and knocking other rocks out of place. I didn't
follow it, but Patsy seemed to take to it.
She giggled a lot! John's
reaction was to grunt approvingly. Do these people not talk?
John's hair was so beautiful,
I'll admit. So black, and so shiny and thick and longish, about to his
shoulders. He had it tied back, but a strand or two had escaped, framing his
face in a flattering way. I began to
notice other things about him. His arms were exposed, belying that he has the
strength of probably two of my brother Tom who is about the same age. It is a
little cool today, but not bad for this time of year, and the sun peeked
through the clouds a bit. In short, perhaps I need not worry that John would be
cold with his arms like that.
For her part, Susie seems to fit
right in here. Those twinkling eyes and
slight smile seemed to charm everyone, including the natives. She walks
everywhere quite freely, even leaving Father's side which is surprising. He
begrudgingly stood by one of the wagons, watching her weave her way through the
crowd of people.
There are soldiers here, one or
two on guard in the tower, but most seem to have nothing of import to do. They
seem to be biding their time between meals. There are maybe a dozen of them,
quite outnumbered by our sizable group of about thirty. I have never counted
our number, but perhaps I should, lest one person should be stolen away to be
sold into native slavery.
I say that last part in jest. For
it seems these people, numbering about ten, are not threatening. They are
bringing in what appears to be deer skins for trade, and are truly
"minding their own business ".
One of the natives is as tall as
our man Jesse who is much larger than any of us. These two towering trees--
Jesse and the one native--seemed to eye each other more than once. Perhaps
neither has seen another man the same height as himself before.
It is time to eat now. We have
been gone only a week, and I'm already quite tired of eating deer. Susie calls
the meat "venison", but I think that is just a way to hide the fact
that we are eating those gentle creatures of the forest, one by one, and their
skins seem to be valuable to some.
Farewell for now.
Ten
Ft. Hawkins
Still Longer
16
January 1819
Cousin
Luther is dead. Lord in his mercy did not spare him last night. We are all in a
state, for we were unaware that he and [his brother] Laurie were so ill and the
news has come as a shock.
Nan alternately sobs and gasps for breath, as she is
inconsolable. She has been pleading for the Lord to take her instead of Laurie who may not live through today. Much
of the time she is incoherent.
For
it was she who gave the boys the berries she had picked the other day and she
believes this is why so many are ill. She is unable to eat or sleep, and I fear
for her as she is still ill as well and needs her strength.
....
It
is afternoon now, and I have a brief moment to write about all of this, to sort
it all out. Nan is so pale! She is slumped upon the pallet we have made
for her on the wagon bed, and often appears lifeless in her more quiet
moments. I listen for her breathing,
fearful that she might slip away, too.
We
have come to understand that some have become ill who did not eat any of the
berries. This illness must be from some other cause. But this does not help Nan as she is too ill to comprehend the logic of it all.
Eleven
Dysentery
17
January 1819
We
are all in great sorrow and complete devastation. Laurie died before sunrise today, joining his
brother on the other side of the river where the golden sun never sets. Grief is setting in and is affecting everyone,
including the natives and the soldiers.
My sisters have not ceased sobbing, and even John Lightfoot appears
affected. He brought a flower to Patsy, silently offering it to her.
Several
of our number are presently ill with this dysentery. Cousins Charlotte [Crenshaw] and Sarah
[Elmore] are now known to be stricken whilst Junior [ Elmore] and Betsy [Jordan] are on the mend after being
only slightly affected. Sister Nan is
feeling much better in the body, but we are having a time of it convincing her
that none of this is her fault.
An
area of the fort has been set off for the ill, with beds on two wagons. Clean water is in much demand and my brother
Tom has been seeing to it that the afflicted are well supplied. Susie is brewing tea and some herbs that she
says will help, and her strong insistence on the matter is not questioned.
Poor,
poor Luke and Laurie. Their mother is in a state of shock. She is in a delicate
condition and we all fear for her, too, as well as her unborn child. "We
never should have left home, never!" are among her more repeatable
utterances, but none of us can fault her for her feelings of regret, for who
among us is not feeling the same?
Twelve
Funeral
in the Fort
18
January 1819
The
boys were this afternoon quickly buried together in a grave just outside the
Fort. Only a blanket covered them before
they were put in the ground, with a stone marking the spot. Cousin John is making two crosses with Luke
and Laurie's names upon them. He has
obtained some smooth timber for that purpose, and will use his woodcarving
skills to make them suitable.
We
have no one here in the Fort licensed to preach over the bodies, so we took
turns reading from the Bible. We sang a hymn that we know the tune to, but we
struggled with the words. I am sorry to say that few of our are churched, so we
had a difficult time of it. Uncle managed a fine Eulogy for his poor nephews,
though, and we were soon finished. In another time and place, were we all back
home still, all would be much different.
I
am trying dutifully to write all of this down, for I suspect that someday these
events may be important. But I am weary of this task, weary of the world, and I
no longer want this responsibility today.
Thirteen
21 January 1819
It has been several days since I
last wrote here. Each day has been gray
and foggy, and this matches my state of mind.
I don't care where I am or how I look or whether I eat. I have slept in our coach much of the time,
hiding here away from the world, hoping that it all will just stop and then go
in reverse.
I don't want to be here at the
fort any longer, and I don't want to go
to Alabama
We have been waiting for everyone
to be well enough to travel, and I believe that by tomorrow we will be. The wagon wheels have been repaired, fresh
supplies have arrived that we were able to buy, the crosses for the boys have
been finished and placed.
There has been much discussion
about whether the boys' bodies could be taken with us, to be reburied in Alabama
I am tired. Maybe that is why I am not so angry any
longer. I have been in closer quarters
to my father than I have been since the divorce nine years ago. It has allowed me to observe him constantly,
even when I'd much rather not.
I see him now as a tired, old
man. A man who is resigned to his fate,
a horse that has been beaten so much that it just is hoping for the end of the
day and a kind word and a carrot.
I understand that the man who
angered me, and who angers me still, does not truly exist any longer. This man that I see now lacks the fight, the
spirit I once knew. That same fight and
spirit, though, that could terrify me and wish that I had never known him.
Father has been sober for these
many years, something I have not been able to give him credit for. It seems that he has not had a drink since
that day that I remember too well. For a
year or two afterward, I do not know where he went or what he did, other than
that he took Susie with him whether she was willing or not.
When I was about 13, Father moved
close to us. He tried to see us every
day, but Mother would not permit this, or so he told me yesterday when he came
to talk to me. He brought me some soup,
the vegetable soup I used to crave as a girl on a cold day, or when you were
not well; the kind that just seemed to make everything better. Susie had made it, just as she had those
years ago. I suspect that she was the
one who remembered about how much I liked it.
I slurped the soup a little
reluctantly at first when he brought it.
But the aroma of fresh onions gotten at a nearby farm on the Georgia
The saltiness and the flavors
brought about by the root vegetables and whatever it is that Susie puts in
there awakened my nostrils, and I realized that I was really hungry. The childhood memories, when all seemed well
with the world, came back to me in an instant.
I was transported back to when we all sat around the table--before my
two youngest sisters were born--when we would share tales of our day, the
adventures we had, our dreams. We would
laugh and sing and just smile. Well,
sometimes one or more of my brothers would tease me, but I didn't really mind.
So I allowed Father to sit in the
coach with me, in the opposite corner, but where we could see each other, maybe
clearly for the first time in years. It
was at that moment I realized how much he had aged, and how quiet he was.
"Louisa", he
began. Then he just stopped, not knowing
what to say. We just sat, and I slurped
my soup, and the noise of it somehow got me to laugh. I laughed and laughed until I cried and wept
the tears of a girl who has held onto anger for much too long. Father reached out awkwardly, but then
withdrew his hand when I did not respond.
He attempted a smile, and then left the coach, I suppose because he
thought I wanted to be alone. I did, but
then, suddenly, I didn't.
I want my compass. I want to know the way. I don't want to be adrift any longer.
Fourteen
Ceremony
22 January 1819
This morning, we finally departed
from Fort Hawkins
The Creek natives who have been
weaving in and out of our doings at Four Hawkins gathered today for a ceremony,
or least I think that is what it was.
They seated themselves on the ground in a circle, assuming a devotional
attitude, reverent-like, slapping their palms upon the ground, crying as though
they were mourning. "Ye-ho-wua!
Ye-ho-wua! Ye-ho-wua!" This is the
chant that they continued for some time, without regard to their surroundings,
or noticing that more and more of us had gathered to watch them.
Eventually, the cries faded and came
to a stop, whereupon they got up and went about their way, some playing some
sort of sport with a stick and a kind of ball.
There was little change in expression, except perhaps of satisfaction
that they had completed something important.
Perhaps this ceremony came
because they knew we were leaving. Or
perhaps they do this ever so often. Or
perhaps it was because of our loss these past few days. But it was very moving, and it made me think
of them a little differently than I had a few days ago. I still fear them a little, but it occurred to
me that these were not the savage people who were vengeful, who would slaughter
a whole village, scalping as they went.
At least I want to think that they wouldn't.
I never spoke to any of
them. John Lightfoot was the only one
who engaged with my family, and only because he saw something in my sister that
allowed him to think that he could show her a game. He was correct in that assessment.
I believe that I shall always
remember this, years hence. There was
something sad about it, but maybe it wasn't supposed to be. I may never know.
But I will remember.
[Transition. This is a placeholder for future writings.]
Louisa and her
family finished the trip from Laurens , SC to the Falls of the Coosa (River) Alabama
We do not know
whether Louisa's parents ever reconciled or whether they simply lived near each
other once arriving in Alabama
We begin again
in 1824, when Louisa is 25. Five years have passed. Josiah Williams, her
father, is probably living nearby with her brother Thomas Jefferson Williams,
who was 21 and still unmarried; brothers Daniel Williams, age abt. 30 and
Warner Williams, 26, are both married with households nearby. [Note: need to
add these two to those who traveled together from SC. Warner married Charlotte
Ross in September, 1820, no further information on Daniel except that he has a
son Thomas.] Nancy Williams, who is 19, and Martha, 18, who marries a Mr.
Phillips, date unknown, are probably still at home with Louisa and their mother
at this time.
15
Methodists
12 May 1824
It has been a while since I have
made an entry. The plain truth of it is,
I filled up my earlier journal with all of my scribblings and I had to wait
until I was able to purchase another one.
Supplies that come from the older
states are dear to come by, but most especially seemingly frivolous like a
journal. This one is actually a ledger,
but no matter. I can write again!
Books are scarce to come by. Not very many people read very well, if at
all, and reading is considered a luxury for the idle. That is, except, I supposed, for Methodists
who seem to value the pursuit of education.
We are seeing more and more of
the Methodists arrive every day. They
were here at the Falls of the Coosa before
even we arrived, talking with the natives and the Africans who are being
brought here on a continual basis.
By "Africans", I mean
to distinguish from the slightly more refined Negroes who have been among our
number for generations. Africans are
coming here now almost directly from Africa, being brought by northern and
British ships most days to Charleston
It appears to be the curious task
of the Methodists to try and tame these people by bringing them to Jesus and
teaching them English and how to read.
It seems to be their intent to have these poor creatures read the Bible
for themselves. This distinguishes the
Methodists both from the Papists and from the Hard Shell Baptists, who seem to
think that the Bible cannot be understood thus. Of the former, we have none in
this area, and of the Baptists, they are growing every day, but not as quickly
as the Methodists.
Methodists have three advantages
that I can see: they love books which
they are able to obtain on a regular basis from circuit-riding preachers coming
through; they love to sing these lovely songs with catchy tunes (I can forgive
the lyrics if the tunes are nice); and they love to eat. My goodness!
They have food at every occasion, and recently, this has been quite
often.
Tonight I have been invited to
one of these Methodist gatherings at Reverend Mr. Terry's residence, whose farm
is nearby. We shall see how it
goes. At least the food should be good.
16
Fried Chicken and a Good Song or
Two
13 May 1824
Last evening was of the sort
that, when you stop to think of it, was probably better in the retelling than
it was in the reality. Perhaps that is
because the more I think on it, the more delight I have in the memory.
Patsy, Nan ,
Thomas, and I rode to the Terry place by wagon, as it was raining and a bit too
far to be walking in the wet and then returning in the dark. We arrived at a little past five o'clock,
late enough for us all to have finished our tasks for the day, and we were the
last to arrive of the group that assembled.
There were perhaps fifteen of us,
including the six Terrys, so our little family increased the gathering in a
noticeable way. The first thing that I
noticed in the parlor was the pianoforte.
Oh my heaven! What incredible joy
to envisage such an instrument of happiness.
It has been a good five years
since I took leave of my family's dearest possession, left behind with my
sister Elizabeth in Laurens when we left.
Not a day has gone by that I did not think on it, wishing that somehow
we could have brought it with us on our journey to this place.
Our little band was more than a
bit wet upon our arrival, and we needed to dry off a little before proceeding
on in. But I did not wait to do so, for
this wonderful vision nearly brought me tears, and I found myself next to it
straightway.
Seeing my keen interest, Mrs.
Terry inquired if I might wish to play.
Oh! Indeed did I so wish, that I
forgot my manners and any reticence I might otherwise have, and I took the
chair offered me and began. At first, I
could not remember but the most simple of tunes, which, luckily, our host and
hostess did not take offense at. But
soon I was offered a hymnal to play more suitable things, but I declined, not
being familiar with the songs, and being far out of practice.
Mrs. Terry took her seat,
explaining that it was the custom to sing a hymn before supper, and she slowly
and carefully played a tune that most there seemed to know. My siblings and I, however, did not, so we
stood politely by as the hymn was sung.
Finally came the moment for the
prayer and the meal, and we set to the offerings like jackals upon the
lamb. Oh! Fried chicken has not tasted so wonderful as
it did last night. Perhaps this is
because we were quite hungry and the beckoning smell of it wafting its way to
us whilst singing and praying enticed us immediately to its delights. We were treated also to potatoes and peas,
the latter of which was recently picked.
The bread was passable, although I think that perhaps it had seen the
oven a little too long.
Afterward came the object for
which we had been invited. We again
prayed and sang another hymn, and thence came a lively discussion on a Bible
passage, which passage I have completely forgotten. For my concentration, if ever I had any for
such things as a Bible passage, was directed more than a little toward another
presence in the room.
One of the three gentlemen
besides the Terrys and ourselves was a young man who at once made me laugh
while also causing me to give pause. His
name was John, someone whom the Terrys have recently employed to help with the
farm, and he was so earnest in his discussion of the passage that it was all I
could do not to show my utter amusement.
My sister Nan
was seriously engaged in the discussion, but Patsy noticed my amusement, and
started gesturing when she thought no one else was looking, imitating the young
man in his zealousness. This she did
solely for my entertainment and I scarce could hold in an outright laugh. Thomas then noticed that something was afoot,
and we three had to hide our expressions lest we be found out.
But alas, found out we were, as
another young man looked sharply in our direction. John, for his part, never noticed, carrying
on about salt and its role in the scripture.
At least I think that is what he was talking about, for we were so
distracted that somehow we found ourselves praying again, and then were
dismissed for the night. Nan lingered
behind for a bit, discussing further something about the chosen topic, her full
attention on the man who had been less than amused at her siblings' antics.
17
17 May 1824
Father
Today Father came by to see me,
at a time when he knew that Mother and the girls were off seeing Uncle at Huntington
He had knocked on the door
timidly; a quiet sort of knock, the kind of knock when you are not sure what it
is that you are going to say, or how you are going to say it.
Father, you do not have to knock,
you can just come in, said I as I opened the door with an exasperated
sigh. About three years ago, Mother had
invited him to move into the house but he declined, thanking her for her
kindness. He went quiet, and then he thanked her again before leaving. He never said no, he never said yes.
I offered Father some tea because
that was the polite thing to do, but I hoped he would decline. He did. I was relieved. I did not want to fix it for
him.
I invited him into the parlor;
again, the polite thing to do.
Louisa, he started, then fell
silent.
You are looking well, I lied. The
way you do when it is the polite thing, but you don't respect the man enough to
care otherwise.
He winced with the kind of reflex
you have when you know that someone is lying.
He began again.
When your sister Elizabeth wanted
to marry Wilkerson, I forbade it because I thought he would ruin her life. I knew him from the tavern. I knew what
liquor he was most fond of, and that he laughed with the women who came around.
More than once, he left with one of them.
When Elizabeth
He fell silent again. I looked over Father's shoulder, out the
window behind him. I did not want to have this conversation.
He started again.
I knew that Elizabeth
I think that you don't trust
marriage. You do not have a good view toward men, with good reason.
With this, I laughed aloud.
I do want marriage. But I am
willing to wait for the right man, I thought, for I was not going to say
anything. I would not give him the
dignity of an answer.
...
I had to break off my writing
earlier today. This is all so difficult
in the retelling. I have to sit and
think, and not be so emotional. I want
to tell this dispassionately, as though it is someone else, or as though it
were in a novel.
I wished it were.
Mother and the girls have
returned, but I feel that I have to write this now, so I shall continue. Or try to. I have told them that I am
writing, do not disturb me please, said in a tone that told them they best not
say anything to me whatsoever.
...
Father then pressed on, and spoke
of my brother.
Your brothers, or at least
Daniel, are not giving you any reason to trust men, either. His drinking and womanizing are well-known traits
in this small community. It is not a
reputation that he will be able to easily escape.
At this, Father had a coughing
fit. I had become accustomed to his
coughing and scarcely noticed it any longer.
But today, he coughed longer and harder than ever before, and he was
compelled to produce a small handkerchief, whereupon he excused himself to
another room. I could hear him
spitting. He returned shortly
thereafter.
We sat silent for a while.
He looked downward, but then
directly looked at me, anguish on his face.
I have had a black heart, that
caused me to act roughly and recklessly, one that caused your mother and you
much pain.
He paused, then continued, almost
at a whisper.
I'm sorry.
I let those words brew a while. I had not heard them in many years, and then
only once.
Something in me unchained
itself. I felt my face getting red. My hands trembled, and then my whole body
shook with rage.
Do you understand the hurt and fear you caused that day? Threatening Mother with a knife? Saying the things you did?
I continued.
But what you did, what you
did...!
Susie...
Grabbing her like that...
Father, I was ten years old. Ten years old!!
I stopped, gathering my thoughts
before I continued, now emboldened. The
beast in me showed its horns.
I don't remember that, he said,
pain in his voice. But I believe you, I believe that these things happened,
although perhaps not in the way you remember it. He broke off. And then, this.
Susie was... there? He asked
hesitantly and slowly, truly with surprise in his voice. I suspect that he didn't really want to know
the answer.
Father, you, you... did things. I will not go on but to say that they were
obscene.
At this, his face went pale, his
mouth opened, then shut, wordless.
Father, the things you said and
did. They are...unforgiveable.
Father began to cry.
I did not want to remember these
things, he said. But I remember the look
on your face, how afraid you seemed. I
remember thinking, I've done something awful.
I remember asking your forgiveness...
I don't deserve it.
With that, he stood up, excused
himself, and left the house. I watched
him through the window. He walked very
slowly, coughing as he went, a gray, shriveled up old man. I hardly recognized him any longer. And then, something overcame me. Exhaustion.
And peace.
18
Remembrance
18 May 1824
I cried last night, softly at
first, but then in torrents. Nan looked in, and found me on our shared bed rather than
at my writing desk. I buried my head in
my pillow, hoping to hide from her.
She sat beside me for a while,
and then quietly asked if I might like some tea, or perhaps some warm soup left
over from the meal that I had skipped while in this state. I shook my head no, and tried to stop crying. She
never asked me what was wrong but quietly got up, closing the door as she went
down the steps. I could hear muffled
voices.
It grew dark, and Nan came to bed.
Patsy slept with mother, and they, too, retired for the night. I had stopped crying by then. Exhaustion now kept me awake, being too
overwrought to sleep.
I lay awake thinking.
I thought again of that day, when
all turned black and ugly. Mother had
taken little Patsy next door to Uncle's house.
They stayed a long time, while Susie stayed with us three younger
children. Nan
was four at the time, Thomas six, and Patsy a tender two. My brothers Warner and Daniel had not been
home, and my three oldest siblings were grown and married.
Susie did not let on that she felt one way or another and had recovered sufficiently to see to it that we ate our supper. Soon thereafter, Mother, Uncle John, and Patsy came through the door, Uncle saying loudly that Father shall be held accountable if it takes everything that he has.
My brothers came home, curious
why Uncle should be there. He replied
that he would be spending the night to ensure that the peace was kept,
surprising my brothers a little, but they did not ask further questions. This was not the first fight my parents had
been in.
We all went to bed, except
perhaps Susie who was banging about at the kitchen hearth downstairs. I wonder now what she was thinking back then;
it cannot have been easy for her.
The next day, Susie was gone,
Mother explaining that she was with Father which I could not imagine. I understand now that Susie belonged to
Father from before he and Mother were married, and she was one piece of
property that he could take with him.
It was years later that I
discovered some of the affidavits that had been sworn out for the divorce. I had read how mother said she had bruises on
her arms, and cuts on her cheek from a time that Father had come back to try
and persuade her to drop the divorce. It
said that the children had witnessed "flagitious behaviour" with a
Negro girl whom he kept in the house.
I read my father's affidavit in
answer to these allegations. He said
that the bruises "if any there were", came from him holding onto her
as he begged her to take him back. He
said that any other cuts and bruises came from her tripping accidentally. He denied any flagitious behaviour.
The other paper that my mother
had held onto was an accounting of what Father had in property, how much he was
earning from the farm and other sources, and an order for alimony of one-third
of it for the care and education of the three girls. My brothers were by then living with my Uncle
John.
I talked to a solicitor once, and
asked him about divorce at that time in South
Carolina
19
Reconsideration
19 May 1824
I started to remember this
morning some of the small things that, strung together, become meaningful
suddenly.
I remembered that day in the
coach that I have written about, feeling so alone and lost.
But I remembered other things,
too.
I remember that it was Father who
bought the pianoforte that I miss so dearly, and that he had employed the tutor
who taught me from the age of five to play.
This memory brings with it a tear or two yet again, for music is very
dear to my heart.
Father also employed a tutor for
my vocal lessons, although not for very long.
Still, that tutor taught me the confidence to sing publicly, and showed
me how to breathe correctly. Although
forced to pay for my education beyond the age of 10, Father was permitted the
ability to choose the tutors. He chose a
tutor for Nan and I, we being old enough to
benefit from an education that was general but adequate.
Father also later (at 16) employed
a tutor for one year who taught me about poetry, and gave me rudimentary
understanding of French and German so that I could converse intelligently in
polite company. Father saw little use in
the learning of Latin and Greek, although he himself was remarkably well
educated in those subjects. I also have
bitter memories associated with the good ones, for Father discontinued my
tutoring until a court order forced him to resume.
I have several good remembrances
about Father since we have come to Alabama
I remember a daffodil, the first of the season, that he brought to Mother, leaving without a word once he gave it to her.
I remember the kindnesses that he
has shown Susie, never asking her for anything so far as I could tell from the
times I was at Father's place perhaps only 200 feet down the hill from us. He helps her with the laundry and the cooking
and the cleaning as best he can, being too ill any more to work in the fields
or oversee them. Thomas had taken over
that job.
I got to thinking on Susie, and I
smiled. Years ago, I had decided that
she had been an innocent party to all that had swirled about her. There had been a little over a year when I
did not see her or Father; nor did I
care at the time to know where they were.
Another house servant was lent to us by Uncle to do most of the chores,
but we all missed Susie.
From the time they reappeared,
until the time we left for Alabama
I began to consider more about
Susie on that journey from South
Carolina
Those hymns were a fascination to
me. I loved the tunes, but never
listened to the words. To this day,
those hymns bring me a sense of comfort, hearing them.
She continues to sing, and to be
with the Methodists whenever she can. On
Sundays, she walks to the Terrys and stays all day. I
understand that the slaves and the whites worship together there, something
that no other religion I know does. The
whites depart by noon, and the slaves stay on for their learning.
Father and Mother have always,
since I remember, given the slaves the Sundays off, from sunup to sundown
anyway. This habit, too, was learned
from the Methodists, even though my parents quit going to church long ago,
before I was born.
I think on how Susie tells me
something about the lilies of the field, and not to worry for the Lord shall
provide and take care of us all. She
thinks I worry too much, and that I stay by myself, too much. She tells me to get out, to wander the
fields, or go to the waterfalls nearby.
Now that I think of it, those
falls are beautiful indeed, especially this time of year, and I think that a
walk there is warranted.
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