I
was born on a farm near Hamburg, Perry County, Alabama, in 1842.
Elias George and mother, Ann Bass George, were the parents of
nine children -- four sons and five daughters, of whom I was
third from the youngest. All lived to maturity, married and raised
families, except one brother, "Jeffy," two years my
senior, who at the age of eight years was thrown from a runaway
horse.
My parents were missionary Baptists,
and we were early taught to reverence the name of Jesus, respect
the Sabbath day, be kind and charitable to the poor, to servants,
and to animals. There was family worship every night before retiring,
and my mother would have the servants come in and to join us
at such times. We were a happy family because children and servants
were taught obedience to those who ruled them. We loved our servants
and they loved us.
My father, being a slaveholder, had
a large plantation on which many supplies for home consumption
were raised, such as corn, cotton, potatoes, barley, and peas.
The home was a large, rambling two-storied building, and each
of the various rooms had a fireplace. But the room that charmed
me most was the nursery -- a large room with windows facing southward,
overlooking the pasture, and in the springtime there was much
interest in the horses and the little lambs as they chased each
other and gamboled in the field.
Our black mammy Chloe, was installed
as guardian and caretaker of the nursery. Its inmates included
three children, from one to five years old and two nurse girls,
Mariah and Harriet, who were ten and eleven years old. The girls,
under the supervision of mammy Chloe, would see to our bathing,
dressing, and feeding. When the weather permitted, we were kept
out doors in the sunshine and although the girls ran and played
with us, our black mammy was ever near and watchful that no harm
befell us.
It is difficult to make it understood
what love we had for Mammy and the girls. This attachment lasted
even to old age. Mammy died just a few years .. (original sheet
cut off).
I would not have one think that our precious mother neglected
her little children under these conditions and surroundings.
She had duties devolving upon her, which could not be done by
others. There were nine children to clothe and feed. While she
had servants who cooked, washed, ironed and sewed, she supervised
each department. There were no sewing machines nor ready-made
clothing. We were strangers to most of the conveniences in common
use today. Even soap and candles were made at the plantation.
My father raised everything possible at home and a yearly trip
to New Orleans resulted in the equivalent of a carload of provisions,
dress goods from England or New England and many other things
needed for the plantation. Oranges, apples, dried fruits, and
candy were bought by the barrel.
How well do I remember the picturesque
surroundings of our home. There was a long sloping hill to the
rear of the house, at the foot of which was a cold, gushing spring,
and directed channels went forth to the house lot, chicken yard,
and other needed places. A milk house was built over this spring,
the floor of which was laid of large, flat rocks, so arranged
that the stream was conducted over a channel two or three inches
lower than the floor and wide enough to hold several pans of
milk and butter. Our home was surrounded with mockingbirds, swamp
sparrows, field larks, whip-poor-wills, blue jays, and cardinals.
They were never disturbed and consequently, many became quite
tame, often feeding with the chickens, geese, ducks, turkeys,
and peafowls. The whip-poor-wills could be heard at night in
the swamp below, sometimes coming into the garden as though they
wanted to serenade us from the branch of an oak tree near the
house. I recall an evening twilight when one ventured on the
lawn near the house-steps and called lustily "Whip-poor-will!
Whip-poor-will!" and after satisfying himself, he flew to
his companions in the swamp and soon the air was filled with
their "Whip-poor-will! and "whip-will, the widow!"
Their concert lasted through the night, interrupted occasionally
by the deep, sonorous voice of an owl loudly calling, "WHO!
WHO! WHO! WHO! WHO! ARE YOU!" The loud laugh of another
owl answered, "WAH! WAH! WAH!"
. . . It is needless to say that the
dear old home where my mother and father had lived since their
marriage and which had been the birthplace of their nine children,
was doomed. Also, a beautiful new home near Marion, Alabama,
was being completed. This was a large, two-story house, quite
modern in all its appointments (for that time). The inside work
was superior to anything of its kind today; the plastering was
very hard and glazed. The parlor and hall were heavily frescoed
around the edges of the ceiling, with a large wreath of flowers
in the center of each for the chandeliers. My older sisters and
brothers were at the age when they needed to be in college, as
they had outgrown the country school. To educate them had been
the incentive for building in Marion, as it was a residential
city of schools and churches.
But to my father, nothing was too
great a sacrifice for [Louisiana] this "Land of Paradise"
-- not even the many friends and relatives with their earnest
protests, or his popularity as a minister of the gospel. Nothing
could outweigh his desire to possess a home in this unexplored
wilderness---a venture of toil, self-denial, hardships, and untried
experiences. Without taking it to the Lord in prayer, and seeking
divine guidance of Him whom he served, he straightway sold his
valuable plantation and lovely new home at a sacrifice, and was
soon in readiness for the journey by caravan. Early in the spring
of 1848, the day for departure arrived. Three or four families
decided to cast their lot with us in going west, which at that
time was as far distant as is California now. The trip had to
be made in private conveyances, drawn by horses and mules, and
it would take weeks to reach our destination. Besides this, my
father was taking with him 400 Durham cattle which were to be
driven by herdsmen.
The caravan included about 50 covered
wagons, carriages, carry-alls, and buggies. These and the horseback
riders assembled at our home, and many friends came to bid us
"un bon voyage". How well do I remember that first
day, which to me seemed a gala affair with many more to follow.
I was too young (six years) to realize what it meant to those
on whom the burden fell, nor what awaited us in the future. The
morning was bright and beautiful, and although the sun gladdened
the earth, it was unable to penetrate the gloom which hung like
a pall of dark foreboding in the hearts of some who reluctantly
bade a last farewell to loved ones.
My mother rode in a carriage with
four of her young children; a brother older and a sister and
brother younger than I. The driver's seat was high in front,
and in the style of the period, the nurse's seat was in the rear.
This was supplied with a step or foot rest and arms, as with
an armchair. The first day being cold and crisp, mother had the
driver stop at a store as we passed through Greensborough, and
bought us children beautiful wool hoods and each a tin cup, painted
red and blue, with "Boy" or "Girl" stamped
on it. These were suspended from our necks with ribbons.
The caravan necessarily traveled slowly
and when we children were tired of riding, mother would let us
get out and walk, always attended by the nurse . . . Long before
night, the captain (father) always went ahead to find and arrange
for a suitable camp ground where wood and water could be obtained,
for provisions also to be made for the cattle as well as the
teams of mules and horses. Having found such a place, he would
wait for the crowd.
The camp ground reached, the overseer
of the negroes superintended the location of wagons, tents, and
animals. The negroes' tents were grouped by themselves and the
white families were in a different location. Each family of negroes
had its separate tent; each woman cooking for her own family,
while the men got the wood, attended to the feeding and caring
for the stock and pitched the tents. There were log fires in
front of family tents, and after all were fed and the little
children were in bed, the white families would visit each other,---sit
around and exchange experiences and jokes till nine or ten o'clock.
The negroes would have their social time until the gong sounded
for retiring; after which quiet soon reigned, except for the
occasional lowing or neighing of an animal. At five o'clock,
the gong again sounded and all were up and hustling with preparations
to travel. Then at noon, a stop for a couple of hours was made,
with rest and lunch for man and beast.
We had to cross the Tombigbee River
in Alabama which we found to be a half-mile wide from recent
rains. It took two or three days to make the crossing, for the
cattle had to be ferried across. Upon taking one load, the cattle
became frightened and stampeded, and several leaped from the
flat-boat and were carried by the swift current down stream,
and two or three of these were never recovered.
Having surmounted this obstacle, we
proceeded on our journey with nothing of importance to note except
that one night we camped in a lovely grove of oak trees enclosed
with a rail or worm fence. A railroad track ran along the outside
of this enclosure, and we were warned not to cross the fence;
that a train would pass by very soon. We hadn't waited long when
a shrill whistle heralded its approach. We all stopped and gazed
at the wonderful monster, as it seemed to me, for in those days,
railroads were rare to country people.
At last we reached the Mississippi,
which we crossed at Vicksburg on a ferry . . . We finally reached
our destination which was a beautiful grove of oak trees, in
the midst of which was an eight-roomed cottage. Also, there was
a summer-house covered with coral honeysuckle and woodbine and
in the yard there was an abundance of flowers.
My father had purchased this farm
with 600 acres of improved land and under cultivation, to serve
as a temporary home until there were further developments. This
home was three miles from Marion, a village in north Louisiana,
in Union Parish. It was settled and named for Marion, Alabama
by its earliest settlers who had come from that place. Father
had bought 4,000 acres of timbered land within four miles of
Marion, which was to be cleared and converted into a plantation
-- with cottages for the negroes, a dwelling for the overseer,
and with gardens and outhouses. This kept all hands busy for
the first year, with only time enough to cultivate the 600 acres
of the home place. [There was
a virulent fever epidemic and her mother, Ann Bass George] .
. . had been for the last time to see her sick servants. She
found the maid dead and the cook in a dying condition. Mother
prayed with her and comforted her as best she could. Upon leaving,
Julia put her arms around mother's neck and said, "Miss
Ann, meet me in heaven".
The next day mother was not feeling
well, but did not go to bed. That night, she had a congestive
chill, and at four a.m., she went to meet Julia in heaven. Her
death was so sudden and unexpected, that father was beside himself
with grief and for several months the physicians were afraid
he would lose his mind.
We three children were now wholly
dependant on relatives, friends and servants. Although mother
died in a room across the hall from where we were, we knew nothing
of her death till three weeks later. The first thing that seemed
to call me back to consciousness was brother Elias crying and
begging for mother. Father was holding him on his lap and when
he continued to plead, father burst into tears and told him mother
had gone to be with God in heaven . . .
After the death of my mother, father
seemed so disconsolate and broken I spirit, that his friends
and older children encouraged him to find a companion for himself
and a mother for his children. He finally wrote to Mrs. Ross,
a very excellent lady of character, culture, and refinement,
reared and educated in Richmond, Virginia and who was then living
on a plantation that adjoined our former home in Alabama. This
lady and her sister, Sarah and Mary, were both widows; Mr. Bryant,
husband of Mary, had died soon after moving to Alabama, and Mr.
Ross, Sarah's husband, died not long after we came to Louisiana.
It was satisfactorily arranged between my father and Mrs. Ross,
and the following spring (1852), father went back to Alabama
and they were married. It took two or three months to arrange
her affairs and get all things in order for the moving to Louisiana.
As the sisters would not be separated, transportation for the
two families had to be made and each had many slaves and several
children. It was a big responsibility but it effectuality diverted
father's mind from his own personal grief.
Finally, the second caravan left the
same neighborhood for Louisiana, similar to the first which had
gone four years before, with many vehicles and covered wagons.
All arrangements for homes and land had been made previously
and were awaiting their arrival.
One afternoon, when Sue, Jane, and
I were attending school, a handsome youth, about 18 years old,
came into the classroom and asked for the George sisters,---introducing
himself as Jim Ross, our stepbrother. On looking out of the window,
we were surprised to find the street lined with carriages, buggies,
wagons, and horses. The young people had come in advance of the
wagons, while my father's wife and her sister were in a carriage
to the rear. My father was on horseback and there were several
others . . .
Our teacher excused us and we went
out to meet our new relatives who insisted that we go home with
them, which we were only too delighted to do. We didn't even
ask permission of our aunt, with whom we were boarding, but sent
word where we were.
Father was so busy seeing that the
negroes were settled, that he did not know until that night that
we had come home with the crowd. When he finally came into the
house, three eager girls unexpectedly threw their arms around
him. Imagine our amazement when he did not respond, but seemed
dismayed at our presence. He said that we must return to school
early in the morning, because there was cholera among the negroes,
contracted while passing through the Mississippi swamps. A negro
woman had died of it that night just as the wagon in which she
rode, stopped at the gate. The next morning before breakfast,
a girl 12 years old, came in and said she was sick. Father examined
her and gave her the cholera remedy, but at noon she was dead.
The place was immediately quarantined. In two weeks 16 negroes
had succumbed.
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