Becoming Americans

by Donald Batchelor

  Lamon's tavern held three tables with benches and one sleeping room upstairs. Young bucks drank too much and clashed there, on occasions, but Lamon was usually man enough to eject the roughnecks. He couldn't stifle the cursing voices, though, for his clientele was made up of non-saved Episcopals, whose nature it was to fall to fighting amongst themselves in their sinning. That's what the Brethren called it, although most of the Believers had high regard for Duncan Lamon, himself. He was fair and he was honest in the weight of corn or meal he charged for grinding. He was a Presbyterian without a church, and friendly to the Baptists.

  Junior had gone to Lamon's complex of buildings with Father Manning for the last two years when Manning had had corn ground. He'd gone alone three other times, floating barrels down on a little flatboat made of five-foot boards laid over two small canoes. He'd never been into the tavern, itself, and for the first time he wondered, why?

  Lamon's Ferry became an escape for Junior from the confinement of the Brethren's boundaries. He fought the battles with his soul each time, but by the time he'd finished his first drink the fight was over. One barrel made for Lamon bought drinks for himself and friends.

  At times, when she was angry, Mary questioned if the time and effort Junior spent at Lamon's might be better spent in working for their own piece of land. She reminded him that Father Manning had allowed them five acres of cleared land to tend as theirs to earn the money. But, that would take forever, he'd tell her each time. He was waiting an occasion that would earn him the whole sum in one venture. When he sold barrels to travelers, they paid him in cash. Important folk crossed at Lamon's Ferry, he'd remind her. Where else could he have the chance to meet important people? It was there that he'd learned of the death of Governor Johnston and, several months later, of the appointment of Governor Dobbs. He heard details of the power struggle between the Reverend Mister Moir and Governor Dobbs. He heard complaints from other Granville District residents who passed through of growing discontent about the King's rough and grasping treatment of his colonial subjects, and of his support for Granville's thievery. It was at Lamon's that he could meet with John Tucker, recently become a constable, and learn of doings of the courthouse crowd and of local arrests planned by the sheriff. Twice, Junior rode with groups who'd gathered in Enfield to free friends who were jailed. That frightened Mary, but there were things outside the Brethren, he told her.

  On an afternoon of his sixth year of marriage, as he worked on a barrel at Lamon's, bent over, sweating from the summer sun and the fire that charred the inside of his work, John Manning rode up, he and the horse wet from swimming across the river. Junior took his barrel from the fire and stopped his work to re-tie his heavy hair behind his head.

  "Junior! You must come quickly." John gasped it out while halfway off the horse. "The birthing's not going well."

  Mary never had trouble giving birth. She was made for it, she always said.

  "But she's losing right smart of blood, the women say. You best hurry. Take my horse."

  Junior grabbed the reins from John and mounted, telling him to kill the fire and to go tell Lamon. He walked the horse into the low river and swam it across, then up the road, past the Pridgens' and the Bryants', following the worn path to the Little Sapony.

  Mary was the only good thing he'd ever had. His first happiness had come with her appearance at the door of his father's house. She gave him laughing, healthy children. She was a gift from God. And was He now taking her away from him in repayment for his sins? God would not be so cruel.

  His sons ran up at the sound of a fast horse. He tossed the reins to six-yearold Sam and ran into the house.

  Elizabeth Manning sat by the bed. John's wife stood by, holding large cloths that dripped with blood. Nora Hodges, the midwife, was at the foot of the blood-soaked bed, sliding fresh cloths under Mary. Elizabeth Manning and John's wife were crying.

  Junior noticed how hot it was inside the house. The fire was too high and the window was closed. He stepped to the bed and heard a baby crying. There was always a baby crying in this house.

  Mary was still, and very white. When he'd left her in the morning she was large and ruddy-faced. Now she was so small and white, he thought. He stood looking at her, refusing to speak.

  "It's another girl," the midwife said.

  Junior turned to her, and she raised a screaming little bundle for him to hold.

  Junior spent more time at Lamon's, after Mary's death. There were women on the farm to care for his children, and he needed to be away from the Mannings and the Believers. His work gave no reason for complaint from Mathias about contributing to family support, but he kept to himself. Still, his drifting from the Community of Believers brought condemnation from his in-laws and visits of concern from neighbors. His heart was closed to the imprecations of family and friends for confession of his willful pride and disbelief, but his heart was closed to God. He wanted his children to be raised within the values and prayers of the Baptist fellowship, but he found no worth or solace in a God that would punish him so severely for minor indiscretions. He ignored the judgment of old friends.

  At the last meeting Junior attended, Reverend Parker glared at him while speaking against the earthly Episcopal and the non-baptizing dissenters.

  "America has sinned severely for its one hundred and fifty years," he said. "God must punish a nation with scores of prayerless families and an ignorant, vicious generation."

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The end of summer brought troubling news to the drinkers at Lamon's Ferry. The yearlong rumors of coming war with France proved true. A Major George Washington of the Virginia militia had engaged in battle with French troops at a site called Great Meadows in the Ohio Valley, an area where speculators and settlers were challenging the claims of New France. The Virginians were soundly defeated by the French troops; the survivors allowed to return home. The French had seduced most Indians of the northwestern frontier to their aid, and there was concern about England keeping her Cherokee and Catawba friends. Settlers were pushing at their boundaries, too, and drifting into the mountain valleys of the Smokies.

  Governor Dobbs had called on the North Carolina militia to go north and aid Virginia in repulsing the French and their Indian allies. That brought loud guffaws from everyone at Lamon's. Edgecombe's militia had no captain, no arms, and no ammunition! And, the same conditions existed across the colony. Only six years earlier, the town of Brunswick had been shelled and taken by the Spanish; the year before they'd taken Beaufort; still, the defenses of the province had been ignored.

  More disturbing to Lamon's patrons was word that some of Carolina's Indians were uprising. Edgecombe County had no Indians, but Bertie's Tuscarora Town was just across the Roanoke River from Junior's old part of Edgecombe. He wondered about the safety of Tom Biggs.

  The drinkers traded war stories.

  One old man had lived through the Tuscarora War, he said.

  Junior told the story of his Uncle James and his Great-uncle Richard on the day that war began in Bath.

  "We should have killed them all forty years ago!" the old man said.

  Conversation raged against the common enemies, and Junior found himself with pounding temples and racing blood. That excitement didn't come from cockfights and races and drinks that he'd enjoyed since Mary's death. He'd go fight an enemy he could kill! The Indians, or the French!

  He wasted little time in thinking about it. The next day he told the Mannings and the boys that he was leaving. The boys asked him to bring them something back, then ran outside to play. Manning told him, "Go with God," then went back to his pigs. The children didn't need him, and neither did the Mannings.

  Two unpaid gambling debts and three barrels bought Junior an old horse from John Tucker, and he rode off for the Roanoke, retracing the route he'd taken seven years earlier.

  The settlement at Howell's Ferry had grown and improved considerably, including a new boat to cross the river. Junior re-checked the tightness of
his oilcloth purse before jumping his horse into the river, not willing to spend any of his little money on the luxury of ferries.

  New small and large houses dotted the countryside. This part of the county was very prosperous, being near the navigable stream of two rivers, with large fields and large numbers of slaves harvesting the crops. On horseback, it took Junior much less time to reach the old farm where he'd grown up than it had in walking away.

  The old house was gone, and another built in its place, not much better, but new. He looked for anything familiar, but only recognized their old barn. It had been built better than the old house had.

  He rode eastward on the road to Edenton, arriving at the house of his cousin Tom Biggs in late afternoon. No one came to greet him, and he knocked on the door.

  Junior didn't recognize the young woman who answered. She was beautiful, but she looked particularly drawn and tired.

  "Mistress," he said. "My name is Junior…Stephen Williams, and I'm looking for my kinsman, Tom Biggs."

  The woman stared at him and pursed her lips.

  "You came too late," she said.

  "Too late for what, my lady?" he asked.

  "You came too late," she said, then pulled wide the open door and stepped back to let him enter.

  The room looked so familiar and warm that it made Junior smile. Warm memories of Tom Biggs and his family flooded him and he turned, smiling to his hostess.

  "Is Tom not here?" he asked.

  "They pulled out his fingernails, then his eyes, then impaled him…" she calmly began.

  "The devil you say!"

  Short, painful sobs came from the woman, as though she couldn't catch her breath, and then a low, painful wail until her breath was gone. Junior cursed himself for being so abrupt and crude with his cursing, but such horror for this beauty! He took the wavering woman and held her in his arms, understanding some of what she felt.

  Junior's Uncle Willy had been a hard-working man, unlike Junior's own father. Tom had inherited good land, good servants—bonded and bought—and a good house with outbuildings when his father died. He'd worked it hard, himself, and had limited his adventurous spirit to trading with the Indians and sleeping with their women. Tom Biggs had waited until he was twenty-four to marry, and done so then only because his mother had brought a kinswoman down from Norfolk County that she thought would suit him. He had been taken with this Creekmore girl from Norfolk and wed her in a Church ceremony to please her and her mother. Margaret had lost their first two children at birth, and she was praying for the Lord to bless her with a living child when the Tuscarora killed Tom, with a dozen other men and women, in a week of terror that they claimed was in revenge for insults and unjust treatments. Tom was caught in the Tuscarora Town by mistake, his wife told Junior, making a delivery of prized tobacco to the savages. Young, and with no children to survive him, Tom had also delayed the re-writing of his will, thus leaving his widow with nothing, and the entirety of his estate to his Uncle John Biggs. The widow Biggs was penniless and distraught. Her mother-in-law had died a year earlier and Margaret had made few friends in the county since arriving, being content with the management of the house and servants.

  Margaret told her story to Junior and he related the tragedy of his own loss to her. It had grown dark before they were aware of it and Margaret called out to one of the bonded servants to prepare a place in the barn for Junior to sleep the night.

  Lacking an Indian war to fight, Junior proposed to deliver Margaret and her scant belongings back to her parents in Norfolk County. An idea had formed in his mind as he lay down to sleep that night, but it was much too early to present it to the widow. He needed a mother for his children, and he needed a wife to keep him warm on cold nights. Most of all, he needed a woman to fill the empty place in his heart and in his bed. He'd forgotten what it was like to sleep alone, left with the drive for physical union that Mary had shared and satisfied.

  The cart was light and moved easily over the rough road. Junior unfolded his oil-cloth purse and paid for the ferry to carry them across the Albemarle Sound to Edenton. They passed a night in the town with gossipy relatives of Margaret's, then set out the next day over flat land that was thickly populated with people whose families had been in Carolina for generations, their old houses expanded with lean-tos or used as kitchens for newer, grander houses. Large, open fields of corn, wheat, and tobacco were dotted with blacks of different hue, harvesting their masters' crops. Junior thought of his old friend Tony, and wondered how many pounds Tony would fetch on the market, now. Surely, enough to buy him land in Edgecombe. His father was a foolish man for losing Tony.

  Junior left Widow Biggs with her Creekmore family and rode his horse the last few miles to Deep Creek. He'd not mentioned a proposal of marriage to her, but he'd courted her with kindness and respect on the journey, and he knew her gratitude would stand him in good stead when he returned to offer her his name.

  Deep Creek was only vague memories to Junior Williams, but the smell of marsh air and beech trees brought the memories back. He remembered his fascination with the big wheels and machinery of the mill but, as he approached, he saw that the fact was even larger than his memory. Piles of lumber sat on either side of the road, and the smell of sawdust rose from piles that stood above his head on horseback. The more familiar dust and dry smell of ground corn replaced it as they neared, the demand for that use of the wheels being more important than saws were after harvest season.

  The mill at Deep Creek had become the center of a little village. On the north bank of the creek a cooper had built his shed and then a house. Beside him, a blacksmith had done the same. The mill, itself, was on the north side now, built on a half-acre that had once been Williams land, Margaret's family had told him, and that James Williams had bought back for three barrels of corn. James had mortgaged heavily for the funds to build the new mill, but it was a successful gamble. A large, solid building held the ponderous wheels that groaned at twisting the grist stone. This new dam was built across a wider part of the creek than Joseph's had been, a hundred yards downstream, and held back much more water when the gates were closed at high tide. At low tide, the sluice gates were open for the water to drain out, over the large overshot wheels. A sturdy bridge crossed the trickling branch that was the head of the creek. Junior's horse clomped across, and he rode down the creek to where the old house sat on a rise nearly opposite the new mill.

  The house with the gambrel roof was as Junior remembered it, but with a fence surrounding the well-kept gardens of flowers, herbs and vegetables. The stable and the barn were new and much larger than the old one. There was activity everywhere, on both sides of the creek, and children, black and white, played by the water's edge. A black servant took his horse when he rode up to the house, and another told him she would fetch the mistress.

  Elizabeth Williams was flustered when she realized who Junior was, and she wiped her hands, again, on her apron and dispatched the servants with the news. She ushered him into the house and poured cool wine, then went to work preparing him a plate of food. Her excitement was a surprise to Junior, and he couldn't remember such attention since he'd agreed to be baptized. He turned to see his father in the doorway, and hesitated for a moment at the old man's appearance.

  The hair was mostly gray, thick and wavy, falling loosely to the still-broad shoulders. The coat and breeches were old and patched, but of fine, imported wool. The eyes were bright blue, questioning, and more alive than Junior remembered them. His father didn't have the appearance of an old man.

  Stephen Williams stood in the doorway for a moment, watching his son eat. The boy had become a man. Junior rose to hug him, but Stephen held his grown child at arms length, then gave the boy a Christian kiss of fellowship. Word had come to Deep Creek that his son was saved, a true believer in the Lamb of God. Already, Stephen was eager to take the boy to meeting with him and Nancy. He prayed to God that his son was of the right-believing side of Baptist converts. Only those who were
correctly persuaded had a chance of joining the elect-of-God in Paradise.

  James Williams was willing to receive his nephew. The boy looked intelligent and strong. Still, a little work would be necessary to make him look respectable in church, and another concern was word that had it that the boy had been struck by the Baptist contagion, too.

  James and his brother, Stephen, had different ideas about religion. The older brother sat in his pew every Sunday, and he insisted that his wife and children be there beside him, but to James the church served as a buttress against the erratic passions of life, such as those shown by Stephen and young converts like him. James was generous to charities, he was kindly in his dealings with relatives and friends, but the emotional excesses of Stephen and his Baptist brethren made him most uncomfortable. He tolerated Stephen's open prayers for his conversion, but he frowned on his brother's proselytizing around the mill or within the family.