MOVE TO CANAAN--AUNT BLYTHE
The cultivation of rice necessitated keeping the fields flooded with
river water until it became stagnant, and the whole atmosphere was
polluted by the dreadful smell. No white person could remain on the
plantation without danger of the most virulent fever, always spoken of
as “country fever.” So the planters removed their families from their
beautiful homes the last week in May, and they never returned until the
first week in November, by which time cold weather had come and the
danger of malarial fever gone. The formula was to wait for a black frost
before moving; I believe that is purely a local expression; three white
frosts make a black frost; that means that all the potato vines and all
the other delicate plants had been killed so completely that the leaves
were black.
At the end of May my father’s entire household migrated to the sea,
which was only four miles to the east of Chicora as the crow flies, but
was only to be reached by going seven miles in a rowboat and four miles
by land. The vehicles, horses, cows, furniture, bedding, trunks,
provisions were all put into great flats, some sixty by twenty feet,
others even larger, at first dawn, and sent ahead. Then the family got
into the rowboat and were rowed down the Pee Dee, then through Squirrel
Creek, with vines tangled above them and water-lilies and flags and wild
roses and scarlet lobelia all along the banks, and every now and then
the hands would stop their song a moment to call out: “Missy, a
alligator!” And there on the reeds and marsh in some sunny cove lay a
great alligator basking in the sun, fast asleep. As soon as the sound of
the oars reached him, he would plunge into the water, making great waves
on which the boat rose and fell in a way suggestive of the ocean itself.
The way was teeming with life; birds of every hue and note flew from
tree to tree on the banks; here and there on top of a tall cypress a
mother hawk could be seen sitting on her nest, looking down with anxious
eye, while around, in ever-narrowing circles, flew her fierce mate, with
shrill cries, threatening death to the intruder. No one who has not
rowed through these creeks in the late spring or early summer can
imagine the abundance and variety of life everywhere. On every log
floating down the stream or lodged along the shore, on such a summer
day rows of little turtles can be seen fast asleep, just as many as the
log will hold, ranging from the size of a dinner-plate to a
dessert-plate, only longer than they are broad--the darkies call them
“cooters” (they make a most delicious soup or stew)--so many it is hard
to count the number one sees in one trip. Besides all this, there is the
less-pleasing sight of snakes on the banks and sometimes on the tree
overhanging the water, also basking in the sun so trying to human beings
at midday. But my mother was enchanted with this row, so perfectly new
to her, and the negro boat-songs also delighted her. There were six
splendid oarsmen, who sang from the moment the boat got well under way.
Oh, there is nothing like the rhythm and swing of those boat-songs. “In
case if I neber see you any mo’, I’m hopes to meet yu on Canaan’s happy
sho’,” and “Roll, Jordan, Roll,” and “Run, Mary, Run,” “Drinkin’ Wine,
Drinkin’ Wine,” “Oh, Zion!” I am filled with longing when I think of
them. I was born at the seaside, and from that time until I was
eighteen, the move from the plantation to the sea beach at the end of
May, and the return home to the plantation the first week in November
were great events and a perfect joy.
Of course, it was different for my mother, for the tearing up of stakes
just as she had got accustomed to her new home and new life, the packing
up of everything necessary for comfort for every member of the household
for the summer and autumn was terrific. It required so much thought, so
many lists, so much actual labor. At the same time carpets, curtains,
and all the winter clothing had to be aired, sunned, and put up with
camphor against the moths. She was pretty well worn out and tired by
this new aspect of her future life, this upheaval and earthquake to be
gone through twice a year, so that when she stepped into the boat she
was not her gayest self; but, when the things were all stored in, the
lunch-baskets and valises and a big moss-wrapped bunch of roses, and the
dogs at her feet; when papa, seated by her, took the rudder ropes, when
the boat shot out into the river and the hands broke into song, preceded
by each one calling aloud to the other, “Let’s go, boys, let’s go,” she
told me it was the most delightful revelation and sensation of her life
almost. She had never been in a rowboat before; she had never been on a
river. She had grown up in the interior, far in the hill country near
the upper waters of the Savannah River, a rocky stream, where no woman
ever thought of going in a boat. This swift, delightful movement, with
the glorious sunshine and fresh morning breeze--for they always made an
early start, there being so much to be done at the other end--made the
row only too short.
But new pleasures awaited her, for the flat with the horses had gone
ahead of them, starting with the ebb tide, at four in the morning; and,
when they landed at the wharf at Waverly on the Waccamaw (which belonged
to my father’s elder brother, General Joseph Allston, who died leaving
his two sons, Joseph Blythe and William Allan, to papa’s care and
guardianship), they found the horses all ready saddled, and they mounted
and rode the four miles to “Canaan,” where they were to spend the
summer. It was on the seashore, just at an inlet where the ocean view
was; and, as mamma saw the great waves come rolling in, she was filled
with joy anew. To me it has always been intoxicating, that first view
each year of the waves rolling, rolling; and the smell of the sea, and
the brilliant blue expanse; but then I was born there and it is like a
renewal of birth.
My mother enjoyed her life here. It was much simpler than that at the
plantation, with fewer servants, and that she much enjoyed. They had
breakfast at six o’clock every morning, and as soon as breakfast was
over, papa mounted his horse and rode to Waverly, where the boat met
him. His horse was put in the stable and he rowed to Chicora, went over
all the crop, the rice-fields first, landing on the bank opposite the
house and walking round all the planted fields, seeing that the water
was kept on the rice just at the right depth, that the fields which had
been dried for hoeing were dry enough to begin on them with the hoe.
There is a real science in rice-planting, and my father was thoroughly
versed in it and most diligent in seeing after the treatment of each
field. He was always followed by the trunk minder, Jacob, and in every
field Jacob went down the bank to the water edge and drew out a stalk or
two of rice for papa to examine the root growth, by which the water is
managed. This accomplished, papa crossed to the house, where a horse was
ready saddled. He mounted and rode all over the upland crop, corn,
potatoes, oats, peas; went into the house, which Maum Mary kept fresh
and clean, wrote a few letters, drank a glass of buttermilk and ate
some fruit, got into his boat again, and returned to the seashore for a
three-o’clock dinner, having done a tremendous day’s work; and he never
failed, with all his work, to go into the garden and gather a bunch of
roses and pink oleander to bring to mamma. Of course, his homecoming was
the event of the day to my mother.
Soon papa’s aunt, Mrs. Blythe, came to be with them for the summer,
which was a great pleasure to mamma. She was a woman of noble character
and ample means, who was specially devoted to my father, having no
children of her own, and recognizing in him a kindred nature. Aunt
Blythe was a true specimen of the “grande dame” of the old South. She
had been brought up to responsibility, to command herself and others;
she was an old lady when mamma first knew her, but tall and stately in
figure and beautiful in face. She brought her own barouche, horses, and
coachman and footman, and her own maid and laundress--in short, a
retinue. I never saw Aunt Blythe, as she died before I was born, but the
tales of her generosity and her grandeur which were told by white and
black placed her in the category of fairies and other benign spirits. I
was named after Aunt Blythe, a rare instance of posthumous gratitude, I
think; and my mother, in the way she did it, showed a sympathetic,
romantic understanding of Aunt Blythe’s nature. She had been sought in
marriage in her early youth by her first cousin, John Waties; but, when
he approached her father and asked for his consent, he refused
absolutely, as he disapproved of the marriage of cousins. So Aunt Blythe
and her lover agreed not to be married during the father’s lifetime.
Alas, alas! John Waties died very soon! He left all his property to his
fiancée, which made her the rich woman of the family. This property
included a large and valuable rice-plantation, with a large number of
negroes. Aunt Blythe felt this a great trust and responsibility and most
difficult to manage, for it was almost impossible to get an overseer who
would treat the negroes with gentleness and justice. The men who sought
the place of overseer in those days were invariably from the North,
their one idea being to get as much work from the hands as possible,
and, consequently, make as much money. Aunt Blythe could not live alone
in this isolated spot, the barony of Friendfield (it is the plantation
now owned by Doctor Baruch and kept by him as a game-preserve), and,
after trying one overseer after another, and finding them cruel and
regardless in their treatment of her people, she accepted one of her
many suitors, Doctor Blythe, who had been a surgeon in the Revolutionary
War. She was then able to live on her plantation and to see that her
negroes were kindly and properly managed and looked after. Mamma became
devoted to Aunt Blythe and wanted to name her second daughter after her,
but my father wanted her named after his mother, who had died a few
years before his marriage, so he named her Charlotte; but mamma wanted
Aunt Blythe’s name in, so she asked to have the name Charlotte
Frances--Aunt Blythe’s name was Elizabeth Frances--and papa consented,
but he always called the beautiful little girl Charlotte, while mamma
called her Frances. She died when she was about four, a grief my mother
felt to the very end, with strange poignancy. When, some years after
Aunt Blythe’s death, I made my appearance on the scene, mamma named me
for her; but, instead of giving me the very pretty name of her excellent
husband, she gave me the name of the man she loved, John Waties. So,
instead of being Elizabeth Blythe Allston, I was named Elizabeth Waties
Allston; not nearly so pretty a name, but it really made me the child of
romance, I think. It was a beautiful thought and would have greatly
pleased Aunt Blythe if she had known.
All of this has taken me from that first summer of my mother’s married
life on the seashore. It was a very happy one, the long mornings spent
in sewing and talking with one who knew people and life, which my mother
did not at all; and, above all, who knew this very peculiar life,
surrounded by hundreds of a different race, with absolutely different
characteristics and ideas. Mamma told me that once she had said in a
despairing voice to her:
“But, auntie, are there no honest negroes? In your experience, have you
found none honest?”
“My dear, I have found none honest, but I have found many, many
trustworthy; and, Adèle, when you think of it, that really is a higher
quality. It is like bravery and courage; bravery is the natural,
physical almost, absence of fear; courage is the spiritual quality which
makes a man encounter danger confidently in spite of inward fear. And so
honesty is a natural endowment, but trustworthiness is the quality of
loyalty, of fidelity which will make a man die rather than betray a
trust; and that beautiful quality I have often found. When found, you
must give it full recognition and seem to trust absolutely; one trace of
suspicion will kill it; but one may make a mistake, and it is well, with
every appearance of complete trust, to keep your mind alert and on the
subject.”
My mother exclaimed: “Oh, my dear auntie, I do not see how I can live my
whole life amid these people! I don’t see how you have done it and kept
your beautiful poise and serenity! To be always among people whom I do
not understand and whom I must guide and teach and lead on like
children! It frightens me!”
Aunt Blythe laid her hand on my mother’s hand and said: “Adèle, it is a
life of self-repression and effort, but it is far from being a degrading
life, as you have once said to me. It is a very noble life, if a woman
does her full duty in it. It is the life of a missionary, really; one
must teach, train, uplift, encourage--always encourage, even in reproof.
I grant you it is a life of effort; but, my child, it is _our life_: the
life of those who have the great responsibility of owning human beings.
We are responsible before our Maker for not only their bodies, but
their souls; and never must we for one moment forget that. To be the
wife of a rice-planter is no place for a pleasure-loving, indolent
woman, but for an earnest, true-hearted woman it is a great opportunity,
a great education. To train others one must first train oneself; it
requires method, power of organization, grasp of detail, perception of
character, power of speech; above all, endless self-control. That is why
I pleaded with my dear sister until she consented to send Robert to West
Point instead of to college. Robert was to be a manager and owner of
large estates and many negroes. He was a high-spirited, high-tempered
boy, brought up principally by women. The discipline of four years at
West Point would teach him first of all to obey, to yield promptly to
authority; and no one can command unless he has first learned to obey.
It rejoices my heart to see Robert the strong, absolutely
self-controlled, self-contained man he now is; for I mean to leave him
my property and my negroes, to whom I have devoted much care, and who
are now far above the average in every way, and I know he will continue
my work; and, from what I see of you, my child, I believe you will help
him.”
My mother told me that this talk with Aunt Blythe influenced her whole
life. It altered completely her point of view. It enabled her to see a
light on the path ahead of her, where all had been dark and stormy
before; the life which had looked to her unbearable, and to her mind
almost degrading. Aunt Blythe urged her daily to organize her household
so that she would have less physical work herself, and that part should
be delegated to the servants, who might not at first do it well, but who
could be taught and trained to do it regularly and in the end well. With
Aunt Blythe’s help she arranged a programme of duties for each servant,
and Aunt Blythe’s trained and very superior maid was able to assist
greatly in the training of mamma’s willing but raw servants.
The old lady was most regular in taking her daily drives and always
insisted on my mother’s going with her. It was a great amusement to her
to see the preparations made. Aunt Blythe was big and heavy and always
wore black satin slippers without heels. Mamma said she had never seen
her take a step on mother earth except to and from the carriage, when
she was always assisted. She wore an ample, plainly gathered black silk
gown, with waist attached to skirt, cut rather low in the neck, and a
white kerchief of fine white net for morning, and lace for dress,
crossed in front, and a white cap. We have her portrait by Sully in that
dress. She always carried a large silk bag filled with useful things,
and as they met darkies on the way, Aunt Blythe would throw out to each
one, without stopping the carriage, a handkerchief or apron, a paper of
needles, or a paper of pins, or a spool of thread, or a card of buttons
or hooks and eyes, or a spoon or fork--all things greatly prized, for in
those days all these things were much scarcer than they are to-day, and
there were no country shops as there are now, and, consequently, such
small things were worth ten times as much as now to people, though they
might not really cost as much as they now do. Sometimes it was a little
package of tea or coffee or sugar which she had Minda, her maid, prepare
and tie up securely for the purpose. Naturally, “Miss Betsey Bly” was
looked upon as a great personage, and her path in her daily drives was
apt to be crossed by many foot-passengers, who greeted her with profound
courtesies, and apron skilfully tucked over the arm, so that it could be
extended in time to receive anything.