by Tom Blair
“You’ve lived by your lights, Colonel Clayton,” he said—Colonel Clayton! That’s what the governor of South Carolina called me!—“and may you do so till you die.” His eye went over my twisted leg, and I did feel very old. “I don’t hold against you what your father’s father did to make you a gentleman, and I just hope you don’t hold what I’m doing for my children against me, and I hope you is here when I come back twenty years from now to look around.” No thought that I might be, of course. “God prosper you.”
He bought my unlikeliest wagon with his savings—wouldn’t take it as a gift—and creaked off next day. Well, black he might be, but there was no yellow in him at Spotsylvania Courthouse, and I wished this strong fellow, this friend, and yes, this brother, as well as he deserved.
When Hosey’s family had disappeared into the dust and heat of the road, I stood on what remained of the balcony, where Father had hoped to see me receiving guests as governor. The order of life we had loved was grown over by wild honeysuckle that wrapped the ruins we had yet to clear. The one thing as resplendently ours as before the war was our good name. But our good name, and the very South, the South for which we had fallen into a self-appreciation, all were built on a foundation of slavery. And as cabins built by our slaves so long ago could not stand firm on a foundation of mere soil, first sagging, then falling, the South could not, did not, survive and prosper on a foundation of slavery.
But if I may, I wish to recall through the looking glass of memory—though it be flawed, perhaps flawed too harsh a word; a looking glass that renders clear what was good, and mercifully soft and blurred what was ugly—the magnificent South of my youth. Cotillions, spinning dresses of beautiful belles, colors of spring, riding to the hunt, cards, ports, noble debate, immoral enjoyments, always money, always a sense—a sense of destiny, not a sense of destiny to succeed, because we had succeeded; but a destiny to carry on with a life above others, a self-perpetuating life of God’s chosen, those elegant ladies and courtly gentlemen of the South. And … and we knew we had the unalterable right to protect this life, no less than the holy grail of that Northern Nation gave us the right to secede, “When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them.”
By this standard Lincoln and his misbegotten followers were no less egregious than King George and his court. Only in time, as a beaten man, a hopeless man, a widower with no estate, with eyes lowered by the humility of a broken warrior, did I reflect on the eloquent clause following that which my South held so close to its bosom, a statement perhaps more noble: “… that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
Time to put an end to these maunderings. For most Americans, from earliest times, theirs was a struggle to build a better life. My heroic struggle was, at first, to preserve a glorious life. Only after I lost all that I cherished did I strive to build a better life, not for me, but for others; those who with calloused hands and broken spirits had been bent to the ground by the weight of my families. Thus I reluctantly conceded by my deeds the righteousness of that sad, ungainly man called Lincoln.
Jack Clayton
Emilie
In the 1500s, Spain and England were in a struggle for both economic and military dominance in Europe. With the discovery of gold in the New World, and with the mining and transport of this gold by Spain, England believed that it was disadvantaged. Queen Elizabeth, and later King James, encouraged the exploration and settlement of the New World so that England could receive its share of the newfound wealth. England’s instrument for this national objective was London merchants who funded colonial development in the New World. One of these was the Virginia Company of London. Their first settlement established was Jamestown, in Virginia, in 1603. This colony and its settlers simply vanished within a year.
To sway Englishmen to abandon their homes to repopulate Jamestown, many inducements were tendered; granting of fifty-acre plots to those who paid for their own passage to the New World. Also, descriptions of the New World were seductive in their imaginative tales of gold and pearls easily attained.
In 1606 a second Jamestown colony was established and within two years the colony grew to over two hundred individuals. At first the relationship between the colonists and the native Algonquians was tranquil, with few instances of hostilities. Trade between the colonists and the Indians was more prevalent than skirmishes; however, in 1607 the Indians turned en masse against the colonists. Between deaths from hostilities and starvation, less than a fifth of the colony survived the winter of 1608–1609; referred to in history as the Starving Period. Cannibalism was exercised.
The Jamestown colony was repopulated from 1608 through 1615. A new crop, tobacco, was raised and sold by the colonists and provided economic justification for the cost of continued support of the Virginia colonies. The population of the colonies grew to just under seven hundred individuals by 1620. In the spring of 1622 a united and coordinated attack was launched by the Algonquians against more than twenty villages around the Jamestown settlement. A third of the settlers were massacred. Another hundred died of starvation during the following winter, this being referred to in history as the Second Starving.
Emilie is a young girl whose family leaves a tranquil life in England for the promise of wondrous opportunities in the New World … America.
IF I MAY, I PRAY THAT YOU ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF. MY name is Emilie. My father and mother gave me the name of my great-great-grandmother. Met we never, but many stories of her I was told. All recountings of the most lovely lady.
I Born March 1607 to a tranquil home in Tewkesbury, half a day from Cheltenham in Gloucestershire. Told I that the day of my birth more of May than March. My father met Mother when he was home from the sea. They married with a joy. With me in our home was Nathan, my brother, born to this world three years after me. After Nathan was born Rebecca. Born without breath. We prayed for her each day knowing that we would someday meet.
If my father was not a man, an oak tree he would be. No one taller than he in Tewkesbury. His eyes and hair were dark, a narrow face with a jutting firm chin and no beard. His hands were large with skin as rough bark. He spoke little. When he did, the words came from deep. He was kind, shown not from words, but by deeds. Love me he did, but he showed no affection. Mother was the warmth of the family fire. Awake when I awoke, awake when nightly prayers were said. Always there to hold me tight and tell me how loved I was. Rosy cheeks, eyes of the sky, hair of straw, and the smile, always. Father wore dark, Mother light.
Tewkesbury brings a smile to my heart when I gaze at memories. Our stone home, with its hearth of warmth and cooking smells, the shortest of walks from the riverside. Most happy of my happiness was my sweet grandmother, Alice. Mother to my mother. My heart could not love anyone greater than Father and Mother, but no greater than my love for Grandmother Alice. No day turned into night without her affection.
Grandfather passed with heavy hearts for all. Not long after Nathan moved to the loft and Grandmother Alice came to share our cottage. Her cot was placed next to mine. Together we said prayers and held hands in our sleep. She became my teacher of life. To spin, to knit, to play the flute, and to tell me stories of parables, truths and temptations. We read the Bible aloud. Much she explained.
I did not know why, but our home became disquiet. Around our table sat many men with loud talk. On other nights my father would not be home until all were asleep. Mother’s smile came less. She and Grandmother Alice spoke where I could not hear. Nathan and I wondered why. In the spring of 1621 Nathan and I were told that we would embark on a wonderful journey. Told this around the plank table after a grand meal of mutton and squash. Going to the New World in the grand ship with whit
e sails larger than the clouds that passed over Tewkesbury. When asked what should I take, the response made my bones cold. I would take everything. Leave nothing behind, there would be no return. Grandmother Alice would stay. Uncle David and Aunt Lindy, with cousin Abby, would live in our cottage with sweet Grandmother. Could this be?
“Why leave?” I asked. “We’re so happy in Tewkesbury.” Father counseled us of a magnificent new land. Acres for all with opportunity for all. His friend, Mister Raymonds of the Gloucestershire Council, told of the New World. Crops, livestock, and fishes more than one could partake. Told we that in London a play recounted the emeralds and pearls that hung from trees as leaves in the land at our journey’s end. When asked how far, told a fortnight to London and two months at sea. At the end of the journey in the most lovely place, Jamestown, on the James River of the New World. Told that those before us built delightful cottages where we could live. Those before would greet us and bestow upon us gracious hospitality.
When at sea before Tewkesbury, Father was a ship’s carpenter. In Tewkesbury he was a farmer, but not of his land, a gentleman’s land Father plowed, planted, and harvested. Before our journey a great trunk was made by Father under Nathan’s gaze. Solid oak, cut two inches thick. These cut again, a good stride in length. Trunk made as high as wide. A heavy lid of oak, with a curved bow. Hinges, two from the blacksmith, a latch of the same black metal. Two loops of rope, the size of a large man’s thumb, made strong to both ends as handles. In this oak safe went life’s most valuables for the trek.
The time of our journey was set. We were to leave the first week of April. For our journey Father borrowed Mister Clayton’s cart and horse. The cart being as wide as I was tall, and twice in length. It was pulled by a horse the color of wet earth. With us to London traveled Jack, the eldest of Clayton sons, no more than fifteen. After we were secure in London, Jack was to return safely with horse and cart.
As April became nearer my heart was heavy. How could we do this? For Nathan, Mother, Father, and me to leave those behind we loved so. Why would Father take me from Grandmother Alice? Never again would we speak, nor hold hands, nor would she tell me truths that I should know. This choice was Father’s, not Mother’s. I should not, but I did, one day speak to Father and complained and asked why. He said he knew best and that I should not be ungrateful. A most harsh look given, turned and gone. I trembled.
When to Grandmother Alice I recounted my father’s bearing, she counseled my understanding. Told me that socks and shoes are each most important. Shoes without socks rub raw the foot. Without shoes socks shredded by the stones and sticks. Told me Father is the shoe, protects me from the sharpest of life’s instruments. Mother the sock, soft and warms me. Both I need, and neither one is better than the other. Told me that Father and Mother only wished Nathan and me the happiest of lives. The New World was a grand gift to Nathan and me from Father.
On this journey I was to leave nothing behind. Both dresses taken, one folded in the trunk, the other worn. My coat, no longer fit, given to a cousin. Grandmother’s warm wool shawl became mine. New soles for my boots, Grandmother’s Bible for my soul. Only pause was Mantha, should I take? Father thought not, Mother said yes. Only three hands high, she didn’t take much space. Head of wood, eyes always open, mouth with a smile. Flowing hair of black thread, a dress of white, more yellow now. Given me many years ago by Aunt Samantha. A toddler’s toy, Mantha.
Each day became shorter, but longer with unhappiness. The last night before departure, after my prayers with Grandmother Alice, we lay in our cots and spoke, spoke softly, spoke throughout the night. Told me of the wonderful life I would have, told I would see sights never seen by her. London, with buildings taller than trees. This I could not imagine. Told me I would board the most magnificent of ships with most handsome and brave Captain. In the New World I would live in a most fine cottage in happy contentment. There, she said, I would meet a wonderful young man and we would marry. In the new land with acres for all, my husband and I would own our own cottage. With two large rooms, both with windows, and a loft for the children. There would be a fine hearth, and I would make the finest of meals, cakes and muffins. She thought I would have two sons and two daughters. I told sweet Grandmother Alice the first daughter will be named Alice. She kissed me.
Later, in full darkness of night, Grandmother Alice made me promise when in the new land, if I saw a full moon, I would speak quietly to the moon. She promised that she would gaze upon any full moon and listen for my words. She asked that if a problem beseech me I ask the moon for help and pause, then listen for her answer. Her answer will be a whisper I barely hear. But, answer she would.
As we spoke through the night of many things, the morn began to peek between the shutters. When I could see the eyes of Grandmother Alice as the first pink light shone, there were tears. We held each other. Grandmother prayed that I be safe. Then it was time to dress and the journey begin.
The cart was full. Most dear the carefully made trunk, full of clothes and soft goods. Also in this trunk, copper pots and utensils. Most treasured, a silver candlestick holder given by my father’s mother. Half our family’s plates we took, half we left for Aunt Lindy. Food for the journey was stored. A mound of cornbread, dried fish, and three small kegs of cider. Mother and I in the back of the cart. Father and Nathan beside the cart. Jack led the horse. Father wore a great gray coat. With his size, when standing still, he looked like a statue. Nathan in Grandfather’s brown wool coat, patches on the elbows with sleeves too long. A well-worn brown coat for Jack, with a cap of matching color.
The road went east. Through range of hills north and south, then roads through poppy fields we traveled. Stopping to rest the horse and drink from a stream. First night was at Hawling. There some token of money for a room with others. Our trunk slept next to Mother’s cot. Much noise and many smells. Before sleep, Mother came to me. A kiss, then a package, brown paper around cloth. A present from Grandmother. I folded the paper back. The cloth I knew, the color of a blanket left behind. From this cloth a coat three hands high, for Mantha’s long journey. Across the breast, in thread of fine and white, a heart embroidered.
Early up, off again to the east. This day our journey passed through Natgrave and Torkdene. Each day different, each day the same. Father would take the horse by the lead to pardon Jack. At times he would stroll behind the cart. I measured Jack’s gait. Black boot after black boot. Right arm swinging with the stride, left hand in his waistcoat pocket. Eyes not wandering. He was a shy lad. Spoke little and asked for nothing. I guessed him just becoming a man. Once, when stopped to rest the mare from the afternoon sun, I offered Jack a cup of cool spring water. Smile and nod, but nothing said.
Mother and I sat backward, facing the trail of dust. On one side of me my mother, the other side a slowly turning wheel, one spoke loose. With each turn the spoke voiced a groan as it shifted in its place. One turn of the wheel, one groan. Like ticking of a clock measuring the passing of time, each groan marked the march of distance from Grandmother Alice and our home and hearth in Tewkesbury.
Jack shared Father’s tasks, all chores done before he sleep. He spoke with Father as they walk. Father did not speak with boys. But next I saw Nathan and Jack by a pond bouncing pebbles with sideways throws.
Several days into our journey, a steep portion of path rose before us, like many before. Lightened the load and Father and Jack carried trunks and tools to the rise. Then with the cart less burdened, encouraged the mare with Jack pulling the lead and Father pushing with his bulk. Running next to the cart Nathan tripped. The solid oaken wheel passed over his hand. A scream of pain. With horse and cart at the top, Father ran to his side. Three fingers broken, not agreeing with the rest. With his knife Father cut and whittled seven wooden tongues. Two each as splints for Nathan’s fingers, one for Nathan’s bite to ease the pain when bones were pulled and straightened. Nathan took my place on the cart, I walked.
All unsettled the next morning when Jack could
not find his father’s horse. Not stolen, just strayed to a hay field. Jack said a lesson learned; he’d sleep with one end of rope tied to him, the other to the brown mare.
After a long day’s journey, arrived at Harfeyld and lodging, a small room of rough-hewn wood walls with a thatched roof of open disrepair. This leaning against a fine stone cottage. A family of four resided within the cottage. Father, a mother and son and daughter. I recall their name was Newman. The same as my Uncle James. The missus of the cottage took care to welcome Mother and me into her chamber to wash and freshen. A beautiful porcelain pitcher and bowl, covered with painted flowers of a garden. A cloth of soft cotton was offered. Mother and I with great contentment removed the dust of the journey. That night a platter of warm mutton and pickled herring was brought to share. No better food had I ever. The following morning our journey began again. My heart ached. Why did this Newman family stay in their cottage of contentment while we were on a weary journey of unknowns?
At first I thought Jack was not special. But my father, not easily pleased, seemed content with his diligence and labors. For many days Jack did not speak to me. But on one fine bright day he walked to a stream to fill the bladders tied to the cart. Then to the tree under which I shaded myself. He told me the stream water was cool and sweet and that I should partake. I thanked him and made conversation regarding nothing of importance. He spoke with kind words. His brown eyes darted from one side to another, but never to mine.