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@Theophilus
Chapter One
My Future In A Pile A’ Cotton
I know a smidgen about my ancestors, a tolerable amount about my present family, and
a good bit about my descendants. Being from a fine upstanding English background, I’m
still puzzled as to why someone gave me the name Theophilus. I guess somewhere there
must’ve been a Greek in my family history.
A fellow named Thomas Goodwin in Pinchbeck, Lincolnshire, England, in 1625,
christened his son, Theophilus. During the following year, a Robert Goodwin from the
same area, christened his son, Theophilus. Also, in 1625, in Pinchbeck, Richard Goodwin
christened his daughter, Theodorus. These three guys must’ve been brothers to come up
with names like that.
I reckon with an uncommon name like mine, Thomas, Robert and Richard must’ve
been a part of my ancestry. Maybe one of ‘em was my great-great grandpa--who knows?
If so, it was probably Thomas, since Goodwins throughout history seem to have a thing
for naming their boy younguns ‘Thomas’.
I know it sounds strange, but I have no idea who my mama and papa or sisters and
brothers were. There are several theories as to which Goodwins I descended from.
Goodwin immigrants to the James River, Virginia area in the 1600’s were thicker’n ticks
on a hound dog, so it seems nigh on to impossible to know which ones I belonged to. I’ll
spare you the boredom of trying to explain these theories.
I was born in 1709 and grew up in the Albemarle Parrish, Virginia, in the
Surry-Sussex-Dinwiddie County areas.
It was 1726, and I was seventeen years old. It was in the fall of the year, and I was
helping Mr. George Wyche with his cotton pickin’. He didn’t plant much cotton, maybe
two or three acres, just enough for clothes for his family and his Negroes. His big crop
was tobacco--must’ve had over a hundred acres a’ that. My job was emptyin’ the cotton
sacks into the barn when the Negroes brought ‘em in.
I had just finished emptyin’ a bunch of cotton and was lyin’ there in the cotton pile,
lookin’ out the back of the barn and down through the valley at all the boat traffic on the
James River. I was in a dream world of my own when a soft, feminine voice shocked me
outta my solitude, “What’cha doin’?” Startled, I jumped up and found myself starin’ down
into the most beautiful dark green eyes I’ve ever seen. Seeing that I was stammering for
words, she broke the silence with, “My name's Elizabeth. You care if I share that cotton
pile with ya? I just love watchin’ those big boats down on tha’ river.” I finally got the
lump outta my throat and said, “No, go ahead.” With that, she plopped down on the fluffy
white cotton, and as her gaze turned toward the river she asked, “What’s your name, do
you live around here?” In my awkward way I answered, “Name’s Theo, I live ‘bout fifteen
miles up tha’ road. With a mischievious grin, she looked at me and said, “I didn’t mean to
take your place, there's plenty of room for both of us, come on.” With that, I lied as I ran
out the barn door sayin’, “I gotta go look for some more cotton.” Right then and there, I
knew I was hopelessly in love with that little green-eyed girl with the long strawberry-red
hair. She was a daughter of Mr. George Wyche and his wife, Sarah. After several months
of proper supervised courtin’, and the blessing of Elizabeth’s father, we were married at
her home in Surry County, Virginia, on March 5, 1727. At this point in my life I couldn't
have been happier. I was eighteen, had the prettiest wife in the whole Albemarle Parish,
and married into one of the prominent families of Virginia. You know, one of Elizabeth’s
past grandpas even signed the Magna Carta in England--whatever that was. Must’ve been
important though; they always made such a to-do about it. In 1728, we had our first
child, and, according to Goodwin tradition, we named him Thomas. Our second child,
John, was born in 1729, and in 1730, we were the proud parents of a third son. Only
because Elizabeth insisted, we named him Theophilus, Jr..
The five of us were happy in Surry County, Virginia. We had been prosperous, made
good crops, were living close to our relatives and didn't have the slightest idea that we
would ever leave Virginia, but things would change.
At the end of the Tuscarora Indian wars in North Carolina in 1713, what was left of
the tribe migrated back to their ancestral Iroquois lands in New York. This opened some
vast, heretofore unaccessible lands for settlement. Because there were no deep water
channels or harbors along the North Carolina coast, and also due to the relentless attacks
by the Tuscarora in defending their lands, North Carolina was the most sparsely settled
and least productive of all the colonies.
It was winter, 1736. Abraham Green, his wife Amy (Elizabeth's sister), Elizabeth, and I
were sittin’ around the fireplace. Elizabeth was tryin’ to rock our newest son, Henry, nine
months old, to sleep. We named him after Elizabeth's grandfather, Henry Wyche.
I said to Abe, “You know, there’s so many people crowd’n into Surry County right
now that by the time our younguns are grown, there ain’t gonna be enough good land left
to grow turnips on, much less a good crop a’ tobacco.” Abe was a small man, wouldn’t a’
weighed a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet, but with his strong build and deep
booming voice, people had a tendency to listen when he talked.
He said, “Theo, I was down at tha’ tavern the other day, and I heard there’s a bunch a’
free land down in the upper part of No’th Ca’lina, and all you gotta do is clear it, pay a
few shillin’s to the King every year, and keep one slave for every fifty acres you plant.”
I said, “How’d you find out about all this? Sounds too good to be true.” Abe replied,
“Well, old man John Gresset was sittin’ at a table in tha’ corner, and I went over, sat
down, and we started talkin’. Seems he was among some a’ tha’ first settlers down there
in ‘bout 1710. His whole family, a wife and three younguns, were butchered by tha’
Tuscaroras. After that, he stayed and helped fight the Indians until they finally whupped
‘em back in 1713.
John told me this upper piedmont region was covered with wild game, had plenty a’
wild fruit and berries, and that there were even herds a’ wild hogs, horses and cows for the
takin’. He said, ‘You wouldn’t believe all the creek and river valleys down there, all of
‘em just full of rich black dirt and most of ‘em big enough to float a good sized flatboat’.”
The more Abe talked, the more excited I got with the prospect of free virgin land,
untouched by settlers, and being able to open up this new wilderness. The more abe and I
talked, the more apprehensive Elizabeth and Amy became. Elizabeth, always the more
reasonable in our family, was concerned about leaving our already developed lands and all
our relatives.
In spite of our wives’ objections, Abe and I were saddled up before dawn on the chilly
morning of March 11, 1737, ready to strike out for the upper piedmont region of North
Carolina. As I was tying down the last strap on my saddle bags, I said to Abe, “You know,
we might be gone a couple of weeks, and it ain’t no tellin’ what we might run into out
there. Did you pack plenty a’ powder and shot?” He looked straight into my eyes as
though I had lost my mind and asked, “Theo, does a hound have fleas?”
Abe, standin’ on the opposite side of Tar, his three-year old black gelding, with his chin
restin’ on the saddlehorn and pattin’ the butt of his rifle, continued, “You ain't ever seen
me head out nowheres ‘thout ole Betsy here, and long as we might be gone, I got just
about as much lead as this hoss can tote.” He finished with, “I done lived too long and
worked too hard to be butchered by one a’ them damn renegade Ca’lina Indians. That’s
why I've got my pistol and knife, too.” Abe was a talker and had the reputation of bein’
the best shot in Surry County, so I felt pretty good with him as a travelin’ partner.
Abe had picked up a good map from John Gresset, and accordin’ to him, the roads were
pretty well maintained as far down as the village of Halifax, North Carolina. John said if
we could cover about thirty-five miles a day, we could make it in two days. We only had
to camp on the road one night on the way down.
We stopped at about dusk on the first day and set up camp by a small stream runnin’
through a thick stand of oaks and hickories. After we unsaddled the horses, I pulled my
rifle from the saddle holster, and said, “I'm gonna walk up this creek for a spell and see if I
can pick us up sump’n to eat, ‘cause I’m ‘bout to starve. I've had enough a’ that dried
pork and cornbread we stuck in the saddle bag.” About a hundred yards up the creek, I
slipped up on a nice flock of turkeys, picked out a plump hen, carefully set my sights on
her head and dropped her.
When I got back to the camp, Abe had a big fire goin’. When I walked over to the creek
to dress out the turkey, Abe came over, looked at the bird, and started shakin’ his head in
a disapproving manner. I said “What’s wrong , you don't like turkey?” With a wry grin,
Abe said, “Sho’ I do, but you done shot tha’ hell outen the best eatin’ parts. They’s a two
inch hole through both her breasts. Whyn’t you just shoot her head off?”
We had a fine supper of roasted turkey, built up the fire, and settled down for a much
needed night’s rest. Long before daylight the next mornin’, I felt Abe shakin’ my shoulder
and whisperin’, “Don’t make no quick moves, just reach over and git your gun and train
your eyes ‘cross to the other side of the fire.” Beyond the fire, from the glow of the coals,
I saw four yellow eyes peerin’ at us.
Abe whispered, “I’ll take tha’ one on the right and don’t fire until I say shoot.” We
both fired at precisely the same instant, one varmit fell, and the other let out a blood
curdlin’ screech and bolted toward the creek. In a split second he turned and charged
straight at us. Without powder and shot in our guns, I thought I was ready to meet my
Maker. When he reached the edge of the fire, he pounced at us.
Another shot rang out, and a huge panther fell dead right between us. Abe stood up,
slowly blew the smoke from his pistol, placed it back in his scabbard and said, “Dammit, I
said take the one on the right.” I quickly corrected him, “No, you said ‘I’ll take tha’ one
on the right’.”
We quickly piled all the wood we had on the fire and began to examine the carcasses.
Sure enough, the first one was shot in both eyes and the second one had only been hit by
the pistol ball. We figured the panthers were attracted to our camp by the smell of the
turkey leavin’s over by the creek. I was standin’ there marveling at how relaxed and
smooth Abe had been in the face of death when he said, “That second one scared tha’ hell
out’n me. I gotta go over to the creek and wash out my britches.”
We finished a breakfast of turkey leg and cornbread and by daybreak were headed south
toward Halifax. Every time I looked at Abe, with his fresh washed britches and underwear
danglin’ from his saddle horn to dry, I would burst out laughin’. All the way to Halifax we
laughingly tried to figure out whether he had whispered, “I’ll take tha’ one on the right”,
or just “take tha’ one on the right”.
With the exception of the panther episode, Abe and I safely made the trip there and
back in eight days. I was able to purchase three hundred and twenty acres of partially
developed land from William Hoggett. It was good bottom land on the east side of
Conway Creek, which emptied into the Tar River. A couple of earlier settlers, Thomas Hill
and his brother, Robert, witnessed the sale. At this time there were only around twenty
families in the entire piedmont region of upper Edgecombe County. The land included a
livable dwellin’, a couple of cabins, plus a large barn for the animals. I felt that this
purchase was a bargain at only ten pounds. We completed the sale on March 14th and
were back home on the 18th. We knew the move with the oxen, wagons, furniture,
families, Negroes, animals and farm tools would take two to four weeks, dependin’ on the
weather. Our goal was to be there by at least May, in order to get a crop planted. By the
time the last wagon was loaded, the excitement was at a fever pitch. Our four boys, Abe
and Amy’s kids, and the Negro younguns were fit to be tied. Not only did we have to
contend with their antics, but with all the relatives who came to see us off.
Elizabeth’s brother, Peter Wyche and his family were there, includin’ a mischievous
two-year old daughter, Anne, who insisted on pullin’ Henry’s hair and startin’ fights.
With all the fightin’, shoutin’, screechin’, huggin’ and cryin’, it was a pleasure to settle
into the quietness of the journey, where the only sounds were the creakin’ of the wagons
and the occasional bellowin’ of the oxen. On the mornin’ of March 28th, as the sun started
risin’ over the James River, we were on our way.
Our travel party included five covered wagons, ten oxen, five milk cows, one bull, and
four horses. One wagon was caged with wooded slats to hold chickens. Besides the grown
folks there was a passel of younguns-both Negro and white.
As we planned, the day after we left, we joined another group of four families who
were headed for their new land just to the south of the Tar River in North Carolina. They
would be settlin’ lands about fifteen or twenty miles to the south of our Conway Creek
land. Abe and I both felt better after we joined these additional wagons; after all, on a trip
through this new wilderness, the larger the group, the safer the trip would be.
I had the feelin’ it would be quite some time, if ever, before we would be able to settle
back into the quiet, easy-goin’ life style we had grown accustomed to.
We arrived on May 2, 1737, in time to plow the fields and get a crop in the ground.
Our two families remained together until we were able to build a suitable dwellin’ for Abe
and his family. After the crops of tobacco and Indian corn were planted, we cleared the
southernmost ten acres of our land to build a house for Abe and Amy. We built a five
room house with a large adjoinin’ kitchen. They were able to move in by the first of
August. Later that summer, after buyin’ three hundred adjoinin’ acres to the south, Abe
added four Negro cabins, a barn, and a smokehouse.
With Abe's help, I was able to make a good crop of tobacco. Durin’ the spring and
summer the Negroes kept it wormed and suckered. In the late summer we cut it, hung it
on long poles, and left it out in the sun for about six weeks to cure. In rainy weather we
would move the tobacco poles into the large barn and hang them. After the tobacco cured,
we packed it into large wooden barrels called hogsheads, rolled them down to the creek,
and loaded them onto flatboats for shipment down Conway Creek to the Tar River, where
the tobacco was sold.
Under Elizabeth's direction, we had made a nice spring and summer garden. We had
plenty of white potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn, peas, and beans. We also had a couple of
rows of peppers and onions. I set aside about three acres for garden vegetables, and it was
up to the Negroes to tend it.
They didn't like gardenin’ too much--called it “women’s work.” Funny thing though, I
never saw a one of them back up from a table loaded with these fresh cooked vegetables
and cornbread.
It took Elizabeth and the house Negroes about a week to preserve and make jellies out
of all the blackberries, huckleberries, and wild scuppernongs the children gathered.
After the crop was in, the leaves began to turn to blankets of orange, red, and yellow,
and there was a cool crispness in the fall air. Our closest neighbors, Thomas Hill and
Robert Hill, told us about the wild hogs. The many attempts and subsequent failures at
establishin’ settlements in the 1600’s and early 1700’s, led to the evolution of large herds
of wild hogs. There were also smaller herds of wild cattle and horses, but the hogs seemed
to thrive on the abundance of wild roots, fruits, and berries. Thomas told us about the
successful roundup they had last fall. We were anxious to get started, so we built a strong,
open-end, log pen in which to trap and slaughter the hogs.
After the first freeze in early October, Abe, Thomas, Robert, and I, along with the dogs
and Negroes for drivers, were ready to head up the valley on both sides of the creek to
drive as many pigs as we could rout out, back into the pen. All of us had been warned of
the wild boars with their dangerous, razor-sharp tusks.
Robert said, “Y’all be extra careful now and always have a tree in mind to climb in case
one a’ them bo’ hogs with tusks git after you. One a’ my best dogs, ole Sassafras, took on
one of ‘em last year and got ripped to shreds in no time a’tall.” As Robert was tellin’ this
and other stories of past hog roundups, I couldn't help but notice one a’ my biggest and
strongest Negroes, Gimmie. The more Robert talked, the more Gimmie’s lower jaw
started droppin’. The lower his jaw dropped, the wider his eyes got.
When Robert finally finished, Gimmie eased quietly up behind me and said, “Missa
Theo, if it’s jus the same wit you, I’ze jus’ as soon stay heah an’ close dis pen fa’ ya when
y’all drives ‘em back in.” I said “That’s fine with me, but don't you go runnin’ off when
you see that drove a’ hogs bearin’ down on ya.” At that, Gimmie quickly rounded up two
more Negroes to help him at the pen.
My oldest boy, Thomas, nine years old, was pitchin’ a fit to go on the roundup with us,
but after this story and stories of how fast some of the drivers had climbed trees to escape
the boars, Elizabeth wouldn’t hear of it. He and John did climb a big oak tree by the pen,
so they could get a good view of all the goin’s on.
We didn't lose any drivers or dogs to the boars, but as we were drivin’ the fifty-six
hogs, includin’ eight ferocious boars, through the last thicket into the pen, I could see the
whites of the pen Negroes' eyes. I thought we would lose some of them to sheer fright. I'll
have to hand it to Gimmie though, he didn't run, he just stood on top of the pen, with his
mouth dropped opened watchin’ every move of the hogs.
We quickly placed the logs to close the pen and, accordin’ to Thomas, we had done
well. The squealin’ and snortin’ of the hogs carried for miles. To me, the most dangerous
part of the whole roundup was gettin’ the eight boars out of the pen. They wanted to stay
and fight, but with the ten dogs, we separated them and finally drove them back into the
woods.
We planned to butcher the hogs immediately, but, unfortunately, the weather stayed
almost summertime for the next three weeks. We had gathered a good crop of Indian corn
and used part of this, along with pails of acorns and chestnuts the boys had gathered, to
keep the hogs happy and fat.
Lucky for us, the first week in November, 1737, was colder’n all git out. It was so cold
water froze in the water bucket--perfect weather for butcherin’ hogs. All four families got
together for the killin’ and butcherin’. Within the next four days we had all the meat curing
in the smokehouse. We could see the boys didn’t particularly like the killin’, but after a
quick sharp blow with the blunt end of an axe, the hogs felt no pain.
We dipped them, head, then butt, into wash pots of boilin’ water and scraped away the
bristles. They were then hung upside down, by their tendons, on strong sharpened pegs
along the barn wall. The Negroes dug a deep trench underneath the pegs. We cut their
throats, and let the blood drain into the trench. We then butchered the carcasses.
We cut the hogs into shank and shoulder hams, pork chops, and sidemeat or bacon. We
ground most of the shoulder hams in the kitchen and added sage and peppers to make
sausage. Parts of the intestines were turned wrong side out, cleaned, scraped, washed and
used for sausage casings, and the rest were turned, scraped, washed and given to the
Negroes. They either boiled or fried them and called them chittlins, short for chitterlings.
They also got the ribs, feet, and heads. They took the brains and eyeballs out of the hog
heads. They threw the eyeballs away and saved the brains to scramble with eggs. The
heads were then boiled until the meat, including the ears, lips, and tounges, came off. The
meat was ground, mixed with pepper, salt, sage, and vinegar. It was then placed in a
butter mold and compressed to remove the fat. The Negroes called this hogshead souse. I
tried some of it and have to admit it’s right tasty when cooled and sprinkled with pepper
sauce.
We divided the meat equally among the Hills, Goodwins, and Greens, and each family
felt it had enough to last through the year. The hams and sausage, along with some of the
bacon were hung in the smokehouse. There it would be slowly cured and flavored by the
smolderin’ hickory charcoal. We salted down the rest of the bacon in barrels for curin’.
The excess fat of each hog was cooked down to be used as lard for cookin’. The crispy
left over skins from this process were called cracklins. They were mighty fittin' when
baked into cornbread.
We put a couple of green hams, some pork chops and fresh bacon in the spring house,
beside the milk, butter and eggs, to eat over the next few days. We had plenty of meal
from the corn crop for makin’ bread. We had also been able to buy two bushels of coffee
beans, something new to us. Coffee, a product from the West Indies, when ground and
boiled in water, made a fine drink.
At daybreak, the day after the hog killing, I woke up to the smell of hot boilin’ coffee,
the sound of sizzlin’ green ham in the huge pan over the fire, and the smell of fresh baked
cracklin’ bread and scrambled eggs. I thought my belly would beat my backbone to death
before I could get to the table.
These hogs, our garden, an abundance of deer, turkey and other wild game, along with
0ur chickens and milk cows, enabled Elizabeth to always set a nice table. Elizabeth kept
things in order in the kitchen, but it was Jeane, a young Negro, who made mealtime so
worthwhile. When it came to cookin’, she was a flat-out genius. She had learned from her
mama, Misty, Mr. George Wyche’s cook.
Ever since the hog roundup, John had been intrigued with hogs. After those three
weeks of being the ringleader in feedin’ the hogs, he had convinced his mother, against her
better judgment, to let him keep a young one and try to tame it. Though he was only eight
at the time, he built a small pen and faithfully fed and watered it.
In a few weeks we were all surprised to see the pig followin’ John wherever he went.
He named the pig Snort and would have let her sleep with him if we had allowed it. To be
completely honest, I'm not sure that she didn't sleep in John’s room on a few of those cold
winter nights. We did hear some mighty strange snorin’ sounds out of the boy’s room that
winter, but it was too cold to get up and check them out.
Snort had the run of the place for a few months until Elizabeth caught her makin’
havoc with the recently planted spring garden. After that episode, Elizabeth let her know
in no uncertain terms, that she was a strong candidate for the butcherin’ block. Had it not
been for John’s cryin’, along with the hot weather, I think she would have been butchered.
We noticed that Snort seemed to be gainin’ a little weight and were astonished later that
summer when she gave birth to 12 new shoats. After that, Snort enjoyed a position of
highest esteem in our family. In the next few years, Snort, with the assistance of a few
wild boars, was responsible for 63 domesticated hogs bein’ added to our stock. The hogs
became John’s responsibility as he grew older, and before long it became a good source of
income for the family. Our salt cured pork, stored in wooden barrels, became one of our
major farm exports.
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