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                                                        CHAPTER SIXTEEN

                                 SUGAR CANE 



   We reached the village of Big Swamp late that afternoon. After we set up camp at a large
freshwater spring northwest of the village, Julius and I rode into town and went into a small
general merchandise store. I asked the young clerk behind the counter where I could get some
information about the trails or roads from here to Cahaba. He said, “You sho’ lucky you came in
when you did. That man standin’ back there by the cracker barrel knows more ‘bout this neck a’
tha’ woods than anybody livin’. His name is Crenshaw. He’s a civil engineer, was one of the
earlier settlers of the village and was responsible for mappin’ most of the trails and constructin’
the few bridges found in this area.  Come on, I’ll introduce y’all to ‘im.” 
   As we approached, he said “ Mr. Crenshaw, I got some folks here who need to talk to ‘ya.” At
that, the stout, balding, middle-aged man peered up from some bridles he was examining, stuck
out his hand and said, “My name’s Stephen Crenshaw.” 
   I shook his hand and said, “I’m Theo Goodwin, and this is my son, Julius. We’re headed for
land up on Mulberry Creek on the other side a’ tha’ Alabama River and would like to ask you a
few questions.” He replied, “Go ‘head, I’ll answer ‘em if I can.” I said, “Well, we’re lookin’ for
the best way to get over to Cahaba, and understand there’s a pretty good sized swamp ‘tween
here and there. Could you make some some suggestions?”
   A friendly, smiling man, he said, “I can see why you don’t wanta get ass-deep in that swamp
full of cottonmouths, bobcats, and bears. Let me draw you a map.” He then turned to the clerk
and said, “Percy, would you get me some writin’ paper and a quill?” 
   He gave us a brief history of the village. He said, “The village took it’s name from what the
Indians call Big Swamp Creek, in the middle of that swamp you’ve been talkin’ about. The worst
part of it lies to the southwest of here. The creek is the outlet for floodwaters in rainy season.
When it’s flowin’, which is rare, it flows into the Alabama River close to a community called
Benton.” 
   He continued, “But you don’t want to go up that way. The safest and best route to Cahaba is
west across Big Swamp Creek and through the village of Sand Hill and then west-northwest to
the river. The trails that way are in pretty good shape, unless we have a big rain, and it’s been
bone dry around here for the last three weeks. If I were you, I’d get an early start in the mornin’
and get on across that creek to Sand Hill before makin’ camp. If you set up camp anywhere along
that creek, and you get a big rainstorm, you won’t have to worry about makin’ it to the river. The
water drainin’ from the swamp will take you there.”
   Since we’d seen so many Indians along the trail from the Federal Road, Julius asked, “Do we
need to worry ‘bout any hostile Indians between here and the river?” He laughed and answered,
“Hell, yes. Anybody’s a damn fool if they don’t worry about hostile Indians. Only thing is, we
don’t have any of those around here. The only Indians we have are as friendly as a pussy cat, but
they’ll steal you blind if you don’t watch ‘em. I’d post guards at night and keep close watch on
your dogs and milk cows. Those seem to be their favorite plunder.” Crenshaw drew us a good
map. We thanked him and headed back to camp.
   We were up at dawn the next morning and heading west toward the Big Swamp Creek. The
early morning sounds emerging from the thick woods had all the horses a little skittish. The
Negroes were walking so close to the wagons, I was afraid some of ‘em might get caught under
the wagon wheels. As we approached the bridge over the creek, the western horizon started
turning darker. By the time the last wagon crossed the creek, the sky was completely covered
with heavy black rain clouds. All the wagons that were rigged with poles for canvas were being
covered. Julius shouted to Sarah, “Ride on ahead to see how far we are from higher land. As soon
as you come to an upgrade in the trail, ride back and let us know.” Sarah and Hickory were out of
sight in no time at all.
   When the thunder and lightning started popping around us, Julius sent the outriders back along
the wagons telling us to pick up the pace as fast as the oxen could go. The rain started to fall in
buckets as Sarah came riding back. She shouted to Julius, “The swamp valley starts uphill ‘bout
thirty minutes from here.” The road under us was thick, black, and had the consistency of moist
clay. I turned to Becky and said, “If we don’t get out a’ this stuff in a hurry, we’re gonna be in
trouble.”
    Young G. ordered the Negroes to break some limbs from the underbrush and use them to
prod the oxen and milkcows to a faster pace. Just as our wheels were beginning to sink into the
thick mud, we reached a slight incline and  sandy soil. I handed Becky the reins and said, “Pull on
up to the top ‘a tha’ hill. I’m going back to make sure all the wagons get out a’ that mess.”
   About an hour after the rains started, we had all the wagons and stock on the western ridge
above the muddy swamp. We were on a sand ridge covered with huge pines and scrub oaks.
Julius and Young G. decided to stop there for awhile to rest the animals and send scouts on ahead
to see if there were any more low areas that might give us trouble after this rain. It was still
pouring when Julius came over to our wagons. Over the sound of the rain, I shouted, “Ole
Crenshaw was right wadn’t he? Just look back down that hill at the road.” 
   The road was covered in places by water, and you could actually see it rising. Julius said,
“Yeah, I’m sure glad we got an early start this mornin’, or else we’d be sittin’ down there in the
middle of all that.” The heavy rains continued until about noon that day. Everyone spent the rest
of the morning huddled in the wagons under the tents. The Negroes all gathered up under the
wagons. I commented to Becky, “William sho’ did us a favor when he rigged our wagons with
these old army tents. They’ve been a life saver today.” This brought more tears from Becky, as
she mumbled, “I just hope they’re all right, I’ve been missin’ ‘em something awful.” When the
outriders returned they informed us that the road ahead was on high ground, but there were a few
mud holes we’d have to look out for.
   As we got back on the trail, you could look back down the road for about two miles and see
nothing but water rushing north toward Benton and the Alabama River. I breathed a deep sigh of
relief and began to concentrate on the road ahead. After dislodging several wagons from mud
holes in the trail, we finally reached the small village of Sand Hill. It was almost dark, so we set
up camp on the west side of the village. When we finally lay down for the night, Becky rolled
over, snuggled up to my back and whispered, “Theo, it’s days like this that make me wonder if we
did the right thing by leavin’ home.” I tried to console her by saying, “There’s gonna be better
days ahead. We’ll be at our new place in ‘bout four or five more days.”
   We made much better time the next day and camped ‘bout four or five miles from the river.
About mid-afternoon on March 23rd, the last wagons pulled off the ferry and into Cahaba. It was
no surprise at all to me when I saw Young limping up and down on the land office porch. He
greeted us with, “Where’n tha’ hell y’all been? I been down heah for the last two days waitin’ for
ya. I figured y’all must’ve been bogged down to y’all’s knees ova’ yonder in that swamp
somewhere, from all that rain we had.” After ‘bout fifteen minutes a’ hugging, shaking hands and
talking, Young led Theo T., Mark Jr., and Joe Parsons, along with all their married younguns into
the land office.
   They all came out smiling from ear to ear. They had bought just about the whole south end of
Jefferson County around Adger on Mud Creek, just to the west of the Cahaba River. Young had
put a little earnest money down for ‘em, as soon as he heard they were coming. 
   After they got to the porch, they were all thanking Young and paying him back the money they
owed him. He then walked over and said, “Theo, I done bought some a’ tha’ best land you eva’
walked on for you an all a’ yo’ younguns. There’s twenty-five hunnert acres of it up to tha’
northwest a’ our place. Y’all can pay me just what I paid for it, and y’all can buy as much or as
little as y’all want. I got some down south in Dallas County fa’ Mary Ann and Ira Portis. We’ll be
passin’ through theirs on the way north.” 
   As I started around the land office to the outhouse, Young caught up with me and whispered,
“Jus’ ‘tween me an you, Theo, I got five hunnert a’ the best land set aside for just you an Becky,
an it ain’t gonna cost y’all one red cent.” I quickly retorted, “I’ve got plenty a’ money to buy my
own land, you ole goat. You ain’t gonna do that. How much did it cost you? I’ll pay you right
now.” He came back with, “All of it was classified as public land, an I only paid a dollar and a
quarter an acre for all of it.  Besides that, you know yo’ papa, Henry, died fo’ you eva’ knew him
well and ‘fore I was even born, but that don’t mean you wadn’t due some a’ Pappy’s wealth. You
know my mama didn’t give y’all nothin’, and believe you me, Theo, there was plenty to go
‘round. Now, I vowed when y’all left me an David back up in No’th Ca’lina, if I eva’ got in
position to, I was gonna pay all a’ y’all back. Well, the good Lord has blessed me with more than
I’ll eva’ need, so I’m a’ doin’ it.” 
   I asked, “What about Mark Jr. and Theo T? They’re your nephews, too.” He answered, “Why
you think they were able to buy so much land?” He motioned back over his shoulder with his
thumb and said, “Me an ole Boggs in there have been friends for years. He let me pay half the
total bill for their land ‘fore y’all eva’ got heah and agreed to keep his mouth shut ‘bout it. They
only paid seventy-five cents an acre for it and that’s all yo’ boys are gonna pay me, too. Now, I
ain’t tellin’ ‘em nothin’, and you don’t either.” I laughed and said, “You’re a sneaky, stubborn ole
goat, but I guess you’re still my best friend.”
   He laughed, gave me another big hug and said, “I brought two a’ my Negroes, Pugg and
Willis, down heah with me. Why don’t you and Becky ride with me in the carriage and let one of
‘em drive your wagon? We got a lot a’ catchin’ up to do.”
   We went up the Cahaba River to the bridge and made camp for the night. All the Jefferson
County folks would head on up the river the next morning. We would cross the river and head
northeast to Mulberry Creek and then upriver for a couple of days. Young had a room at the inn
in Cahaba and said he would join us early the next morning. 
   Theo T., Mark Jr. and their families came over to our campfire that night to visit for the last
time. Unlike the last parting over on the Federal Road, this one was a happy and joyful
get-together. 
   Sam Parsons even pulled out a couple of his private jugs for the occasion. After they passed
through the crowd a few times, Josh, Theo T.’s boy, started playing his fiddle. James, one a’
Mark’s boys, pulled a mouth organ out a’ his pocket and joined in. A. M., Julius’ oldest boy, went
to the wagon and and got his juice harp. Much to everyone’s surprise, ole man Joe Parsons came
out with a guitar, which he played beautifully. After the first jug was empty, Sam joined right in
with the music, playing bass on the empty jug. What started out as a quiet get-together around the
campfire turned into a big celebration. 
   Before sunrise the next morning, Young came riding up in his carriage. Willis was driving, with
Pugg sitting beside him in the driver’s seat. It was one of those fancy rigs with the seats facing
each other. It had side doors and a top to keep out the rain. Pugg took over the driving of our
lead wagon, and Buckeye continued to drive the second one. 
   As the sun climbed over the Alabama River, Theo T., Mark Jr., and the Parsons pulled out,
heading up the Cahaba River. The rest of us, the families of Julius, Young G., Harris, and Wiley
Goodwin, the families of William  Andrews, Dempsey Hatcher, Ira Portis, and of course, Becky
and I, in Young’s carriage, and Sarah, mounted on Hickory, crossed the bridge and headed
northeast. 
   Immediately after we crossed the bridge, Young said, “Theo, I’ve got a good business
proposition for you and Becky, that’s gonna make y’all rich and me richer.” I replied, “Sounds
good to me, let’s have it.” He said, “Last fall, cotton was sellin’ for thirty cents a pound right out
a’ the gin houses. The buyers shipped it downriver to Mobile and sold it to brokers for thirty-two
cents a pound. The brokers put it on steamships, sent it to England and then sold it to the cotton
mills for thirty-seven cents a pound.” He paused and said, “Y’all still with me?” I said, “Yeah, I
think I’m way ahead of ya. I know where you’re headin’.” 
   He continued, “I got a gin and the manpower to put out ‘bout twenty bales a day, the flat
boats to get it down to the docks, and just this past winter, bought a paddle wheel steamboat, that
can make the trip to Mobile and back twice a week. I furnish the Negroes to man the boat and
hired an experienced young captain, Frank Johnson, to handle it for me. We worked out a deal
where he can make a buncha money, sort of a partnership.
   Frank’s not married and lives right there on the boat and seems to love it. I bought it from a
Captain Quill. He named it after his wife, Nettie. It’s called the Nettie Quill. It’s one of only two
boats runnin’ the river right now. A politician named Sam Dale put one on the river ‘bout three
years ago. Calls it the Sam Dale. Frank’s brother, Andy Johnson runs it for ‘im. With the way
folks is a’ movin’ in, there’ll prob’ly be more boats than you can shake a stick at in a’ few years.
Fact is, I hear Dale’s got another one under construction right now. The Nettie Quill pays for
itself, haulin’ supplies up-river and cotton down-river. When y’all git settled down, me and
Martha want y’all to ride it down to Mobile with us. Sho’ is a fine trip.” Becky replied, “We’ll
sho’ be lookin’ foward to that.” 
   Young seemed to be excited all the time, and when he got started talking it was almost
impossible to stop him. He continued, “Another thing, since y’all told me William and Mary got
some land down close to Fort Deposit, I’ve been thinkin’. Frank stops down at Big Bend landin’
eva’ time he comes upriver. He’s always got somethin’ for the fort. From tha’ landin’ it’s only
‘bout twenty miles inland to Fort Deposit. The road inland is kept in good shape by the military all
the way to the Federal Road. Wheneva’ y’all get a hankerin’ to see ‘em, Frank‘ll load y’all on
down at tha’ dock an let y’all off right there at Big Bend. With a good hoss’ an a fast carriage,
y’all could leave the mouth of Mulberry Creek and be at their place in the same day.”
   With that news from Young, Becky broke into the biggest smile I’ve seen on her face in a
month. She grabbed Young’s hands and said, “Young, you really sho’ it’ll only take a day? Is it
really that close?” Young replied, “Why, sho’ it is. I’ll have to talk to Frank. I know headin’
down-river he leaves the Mulberry Creek landin’ soon as day breaks, stops at Cahaba, then at
Kings Landin’ and the next stop is at Big Bend. He makes better time goin’ down than he does
comin’ up. Becky, I ain’t sho’, but he might even be able to put y’all off at Big Bend ‘fore noon.
If that’s the case, y’all could ride down to the docks, spend the night, and be at their place ‘fore
dark the next day.” Becky turned to me and said, “Theo, soon as y’all get the crops in, me and
you are headed down tha’ river.”
   Young immediately turned the conversation, mostly his, back to business with, “I got a lease
on a big ocean-goin’ steamship from the boat works down in Mobile. I’ve leased it for two trips
eva’ fall. I bought a big warehouse right on the docks in Mobile for storage. I’ll ship my cotton to
mills in Liverpool, England, sell it, load the boat with cloth, and what eva’s sellin’ good ova’
heah, bring it back to Mobile, sell part of it there and bring the rest back up here and sell it at mine
and Wilson’s store.” 
   Becky, being the most practical one in the family, said, “Young, I’m sho’ impressed with what
you’re doin’, but where are you gonna get enough cotton, and secondly, where do we fit into
your plans?”
   He said, “Let me answer it this way, Becky. I’ve got more field hands than I can shake a stick
at right now. One a’ my biggest problems is keepin’ ‘em busy. We already got ova’ one thousand
acres planted in cotton this spring, and other than choppin’ it once or twice when it comes up,
they ain’t got nothin’ else to do ‘til pickin’ time. I hope y’all don’t take no offense to it, but I’ve
already started ‘em clearin’ yo’ land. They oughta be through by the middle of April and have it
ready for plantin’.” I said, “Absolutely not. I’m tickled to death.” 
   He continued, “They’re clearin’ it all, ‘ceptin’ ‘bout five acres up on a oak covered knoll,
where I figured y’all would wanta put ya house. If y’all get a crop in by the middle of April, it’ll
come in ‘bout a month after mine and be ready for the second shipment to England. If it works
out fine, I’d like for you and as many a’ yo’ boys who want to, do the same thing. That way you
can use my Negroes for plantin’ and pickin’.” I said, “All what you said is fine with us, but where
does our money come from?”
   “Well, what I need is cotton, and I’ll pay you ten cents less per pound than what it’s goin’ for
at the docks. And, as long as we can keep our crops staggered a little bit, Theo, that means my
Negroes can help with the plantin’, and the pickin’ and I’ll do the ginnin’. Of course, I’ll have to
charge you for that, but I’ll be able to make twelve to fifteen cents on all the cotton y’all can
grow.” 
   I asked, “How many bales you think we’ll be able to get off four hundred ninety-five acres eva’
year?” He answered, “With rain at the right time, y’all ought ‘a get at least four hundred bales.” I
said, “And how much you gonna charge for the labor and ginnin’?” He said, “That’ll run you ten
dollars a bale, but you gotta remember that includes the plantin’, pickin’, an ginnin’. All y’all gotta
do is to make sure it’s planted and harvested at the right time.”
   I said, “My God A’mighty, Young, that means if it’s sellin’ for only twenty-five cents a pound,
and you pay us fifteen cents a pound, figurin’ eva’ bale weighs out at five hundred pounds, we’ll
make ‘bout thirty thousand dollars a’ year. Taking the labor and ginnin’ cost a’ four thousand
dollars from that, means we’ll clear ‘round twenty-six thousand dollars. We never figured we’d
ever make that kind a’ money in our lives.” Young said, “I tole y’all you’d get rich. But y’all gotta
remember, I’ll be gettin’ ‘bout thirty cents a pound on the same cotton. That’ll be sixty thousand
dollars plus the four thousand dollars for labor an’ ginnin’ makes sixty-four thousand dollars.
When I pay you the twenty-six thousand, that leaves me thirty-eight thousand dollars. Then, of
course, I have to feed and house the labor, do the ginnin’, transport it downriver, lease the ship
and then sell it.”
   My response was, “You know, we didn’t even expect to get a crop in this spring with all the
land clearin’ we’d have to do, but if that arrangment suits Becky here, I’m more ‘n happy with it.”
Becky said, “You think I’m crazy, Theo? Anybody in their right mind would be happy with that
arrangement. Sho’ we’ll do it, Young.” She continued, “But, first things first. Theo, I don’t wanta
be livin’ in no army tent for the next six months. Soon as we get there, I want you to start on a
house.”
   I asked Young, “Will you take time when we camp tonight to explain this to my sons and
sons-in-law?” He answered, “Sho’ I will, but my Negroes can take care of only ‘bout fifteen
hunnert more acres. With yo’ five, that leaves room for ‘bout one thousand more.” I said, “Wiley,
Julius, and William Andrews, have their own Negroes, so that means me, Harris, and Young G.
will be usin’ your labor.” That night while we were all sitting ‘round the campfire, Young
explained his plan to all of them. They were all very much in favor.   Dempsey Hatcher also
agreed, but said “I’m plannin’ on growin’ only ‘bout fifty acres a’ cotton. My main goal is to raise
enough steers to feed eva’body in tha’ county, so most of my land will be planted in corn and hay
for cattle feed.” He also said, “I’d like to try a few acres a’ sugar cane.” He turned to Young and
asked, “You eva’ plant any a’ that?” Young said, “Yeah, we always try to plant fo’ or five acres
eva’ year just for syrup for us and the Negroes. Found it always grows better if it’s planted on
low land close to water. Never tried sellin’ it though. One a’ my Negroes, Solomon, who takes
care a’ my cows, always mixes a little in when he’s feedin’ tha’ stock in tha’ winter. He says it’s
good for ‘em and makes ‘em eat better.”  Young continued, “Tell you what, Dempsey, however
much syrup you can make, we’ll do our best to sell it for ya up at the store. I’ll see if Captain
Johnson can pick you up one a’ those cane grinders in Mobile and bring it up heah for ya.” Then
Young’s face lit up like it always does when he gets a new idea or thinks of another way to make
money. He said, “Dempsey, you know them folks down in the big city a’ Mobile prob’ly don’t
even know what a big ole biscuit, split open and covered with butter and good syrup tastes like.
Betcha we could sell a million barrels a’ that stuff down there. Me an you need to do some talking.

   About mid-morning the next day, we reached the Portis land and bid goodbye to them and
their younguns. The Portises had twenty Negroes and a buncha strong boy younguns a’ their own,
so they figured on getting a crop in the ground by the middle of April. Young said, “Ira, it’s only
‘bout five miles as the crow flies over to the dock at the mouth of Mulberry Creek. You won’t
have no trouble a’tall gittin’ yo’ cotton ova’ there. Me and David gonna be headed back down
here to see ’bout y’all in a couple a’ days.”
   In what seemed like ‘bout five more hours we reached Young and Martha’s place. Their house
was built on the same order of John and Amy Myrick’s place back in Georgia, except the lower
part of it was made of brick. Young had set up molds and made the bricks from red clay and
straw. He said the worst part in making them was keeping a fire hot enough to bake them hard.
The upper part of the house was made of pine that David cut up the river at the sawmill. It was a
beautiful place, sitting high on a large hill to the left of the road. 
   Martha insisted that we stay with them for the night, and we all readily accepted. We were
weary from a month of cooking over campfires and sleeping in wagons. I said, “As soon as we get
unhitched and the stock in the pasture, I need a big nice cool drink a’ water.” Young said in a
loud voice, “Don’t none a’ y’all worry ‘bout unhitchin’ or tendin’ the stock.” He then hollered
out, “Pugg, you git some help and tend to the stock for ‘em, and if them cows need a’ milkin’, git
some a’ yo’ women to take care of it. Willis, git 
some a’ yo’ boys to take care a’ them dogs, and don’t let ‘em git in no fights with ours.” 
   He then said “Y’all come on in, and if you’d rather sit out where it’s cool, there’s always a
better breeze out on the back porch.” The porch extended all the way around the house to the
kitchen walkway. As we walked around to the back, I was in awe at the number of Negro cabins
that extended from behind the outhouse completely down the hill to Mulberry Creek. Must’ve
been a mile of ‘em.
   I exclaimed, “My gosh, Young, how many Negroes you own now?” He answered, “Last count
there was ‘bout a hunnert head. You know most of ‘em descended from Jeane and Gimmie
somewhere back down the line. I’ve kept pretty good tabs on ‘em and bought a few new ones
now and then. Don’t want no problems with too much a’ tha’ same blood line. Of course, when
old Grey Andrews died, ‘bout ten head a’ good stock got mixed in with ‘em.” 
   After all the greetings and huggings, all the menfolk found a rocker and settled down on the
back porch. Most of ‘em either lit up a pipe or cut ‘em a chaw. Young disappeared for a while
and came back with a gallon jug of corn likker. He said, “Now, being a good Baptist and also
being a deacon at the church, I don’t normally imbibe in this evil fluid from the Devil’s cauldrons
that breaks up families and causes otherwise fine Christian men to fight, cuss damn, and spit red.
But, on the other hand, I know on special occasions like this ‘un, this wonderful elixir has a
tendency to take the weariness out of a man’s joints, relax his hard workin’ brain, loosen his
usually quiet tongue, bring out his true, innermost thoughts, and make him quiet sociable.”
Martha was right behind him with a tray full of glasses saying, “Young, for gosh sakes, you gonna
talk ‘em to death. Pour ‘em some whiskey.”
   Later that night, Young brought out a big land map, spread it out on the dining room table and
pointed out all our land. Julius paid him for five hundred acres adjoining Young’s land to the
northeast. Wiley bought the five hundred north of Julius. Harris bought the next two hundred and
fifty acres. Then came Young G.’s two hundred fifty right below our five hundred acres. To the
north of us, William Andrews and Dempsey Hatcher split the next five hundred acres. They all
paid him seventy-five cents an acre and were all surprised at how cheap Young was able to get it.
   The next morning, March 26th, after a breakfast fit for a king, we all headed out for our new
land. Young assigned one of his boys to each family to go with us and show us the exact
boundaries. Young mounted his horse and rode with Becky, Sarah and me. On the way, Young
said, “Theo, from here to the far end of yo’ land covers ‘bout fifteen or twenty miles of nothin’
but Goodwin land.” 

   When we reached our land, Becky said, “Stop the wagon.” She got down, got on her knees,
picked up a handful of rich black dirt, and gave thanks to the Lord for allowing us to successfully
complete our long and arduous journey to what she called her promised land.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN                                                                                                                      BACK