_The Story of the First Jewish Settler in Alabama._
Colonel Hawkins, the Indian agent for the government at Pole Cat
Springs, Alabama, in 1804, leaned across the pine table to extend a
cordial hand to his visitor. Abram Mordecai, who stood before him,
although almost fifty, gave one the impression of a much younger man.
Lean and lithe as a panther, with shaggy black hair and keen eyes, his
distinctly Jewish features were so tanned and weather-beaten that he
looked far more the Indian than the Jew. He nodded gayly to his
employer before he flung himself into a chair, his gun-stock between
his knees, his great brown hands clasped behind his head. As he sat
there dressed in the buckskin shirt and trousers of his half-civilized
Indian neighbors, every free movement of his large body suggesting his
life in the wilderness, the Jewish adventurer presented a perfect
picture of the pioneer of his day.
"I have come, Colonel Hawkins," he began in his usual abrupt manner,
"to ask your help in building a cotton gin. Yes," as the other showed
surprise, "I know the enterprise seems a strange one for a rover like
me to suggest, and, perhaps, a foolish undertaking in the wilderness.
Yet the wilderness must pass and we must build now for the days to
come."
"Go on, Mordecai," encouraged his chief. "What are your plans?"
"I know how eager you are to civilize the Indians in our region and
teach them the arts of peace," went on Mordecai. "Thus far we have
done nothing but trade with them for pelties and healing barks and
oils. But could we not have the squaws raise the cotton and bring it
down the river in their canoes and prepare it in our gin for the
market in New Orleans?"
"Good." Hawkins nodded approvingly. "First we must gain permission of
the Hickory Ground Indians for the erection of our gin, for it will
not be wise to risk their enmity at the outset. But there is not
another gin in the state. Where shall we find a pattern; where shall
we get the workmen to fashion one for us; or the needed tools?"
"I have thought of that," Abram Mordecai told him. "There are two Jews
of Georgia, Lyon and Barrett, who have both the tools and the skill
for the task. I met Lyon when we were both young men serving in the
army under General Washington. You can rely upon him for faithful
service."
A little smile curved the agent's lips. "You Jews!" he exclaimed. "Is
there any enterprise in which you have not had a hand? Even back to
the building of the pyramids in old Egypt! It is like a Jew to plan
the first cotton gin in Alabama--and to bring two of his race to build
it."
"We are indeed builders," answered Mordecai a little dryly, "but not
always for ourselves." He rose. "Shall I send for them?"
"The sooner the better. And it will be good to meet your fellow
Hebrews again, eh, Mordecai?"
Abram Mordecai, already at the door, turned a moment. His eyes, a
striking hazel in the tan of his roughened face, grew wistful for a
moment. "I am more Indian than Jew, more savage than white man," he
answered gravely. "Perhaps it is a pity," and he was gone.
Mordecai, the child of the wilderness, where the struggle against
savage and beast of prey sharpen the wits and teach the pioneer the
need for rapid decisions, lost no time in executing his commission. As
soon as word could reach Lyon, he informed his old comrade of the work
he had in mind for him. The next post told Mordecai that the two men
with their tools, gin saws and other materials loaded upon pack
horses, were already on their way to Alabama. He waited eagerly for
their arrival. The gin meant more to him than a source of revenue,
were he successful in the cotton market. For, as Hawkins had observed,
the Jew was not content to be a mere trader and hunter, like so many
adventurers of the back woods. He longed to build, to create something
lasting even in that ever-changing wilderness. And perhaps, mingled
with his impatience, was a queer longing to see his own again, not
merely white men like Colonel Hawkins, but Jews such as he had known
before leaving his native Pennsylvania so many years ago. He smiled to
find himself actually counting the days before he could expect Lyon
and Barrett to arrive.
They came at last one evening near sunset, two brown-skinned rovers
in half-savage dress affected by the backwoodsmen of that day; Lyon,
grave and silent, Barrett, with a boy's laugh, despite the sprinkling
of gray in his curly hair. Mordecai stood at the door of his hut to
greet them. A little behind him, humbly respectful like all the women
of her nation to her lord and master, stood a squaw clad in a blanket
with strings of beads woven in the long, dark braids of her hair. Her
bright, black eyes sparkled with interest as she surveyed the
strangers; but as they came nearer, she turned quickly and went back
into the hut, where she continued to prepare the evening meal. But
Mordecai advanced toward the travellers, his hand extended in welcome.
"_Shalom Aleichem_," he began, his tongue faltering a little over the
old Hebrew greeting he had not used for so long. "I am glad you have
come at last."
"_Aleichem Shalom_," answered Lyon. "It is long since we have met,
Abram Mordecai." He took his old comrade's outstretched hand and
indicated Barrett with a curt nod. "My friend," he said, briefly. "He
will help us build the gin."
"You are both welcome," their host assured them. "Becky," he called,
and the Indian woman appeared at the door, "unload the horses and bed
them for the night with ours," and he indicated a roughly constructed
barn a little way from the hut which it so resembled. "But first bring
a pail of fresh water from the spring that these gentlemen may wash
after their journey."
Becky, still devouring the newcomers with her eyes, curiously, like
those of an inquisitive squirrel, caught up a wooden bucket that stood
by the open door and started down the winding path that led to the
spring. "My wife," explained Mordecai, pretending not to see the look
of surprise with which his former friend Lyon greeted his statement.
"Yes," half in apology, "I know it seems strange to you. But for so
many years I felt myself a part of the Creek nation, that when I was
ill with malarial fever and she nursed me back to health, I was glad
to lessen my loneliness and make her my wife according to the customs
of her people. Yet," and he smiled a little bitterly, "yet, strange as
it may seem, I still remember that I am a Jew."
He led them into the little cabin with its one window and floor of
clay. At one end stood a rude fireplace made of bricks where a huge
kettle swung Indian-fashion above the logs. At the other end of the
room several heavy blankets indicated a bed, the only furniture being
a few rough chairs, a table and an old trunk half covered by a gayly
striped blanket such as Indian women weave. "A rough place, even for
the wilderness," confessed Mordecai, "but I dare attempt no better. Of
late, the Indians once so friendly, have grown surly and suspicious;
they rightly fear that the white man will wrench the wilderness from
them. Especially Towerculla, a neighboring chief, who hates the ways
of the whites and has been murmuring against me ever since he has
heard that a cotton gin will be erected through my agency. So who
knows when I will be driven from this place by the red men--providing
that they allow me to escape with my life."
"And have you no white neighbors?" asked Barrett, who had seated
himself upon the trunk, where he sat loosening his dusty leggins.
"There is 'Old Milly'." Mordecai's hazel eyes twinkled a little. "She
is the wife of an English soldier who deserted from the army during
the Revolution. After her husband's death she took up her abode here.
She is a woman of strong and resolute character and has considerable
power over the Indians of this district, who stand greatly in awe of
her. She lately married a red man and is really a great person in our
little community, for she owns several slaves and many horses and
cattle. Tomorrow I will introduce you to my only white neighbor. But
here is Becky with the water," as the squaw entered with the brimming
pail. "Wash the dust from your faces that we may sit and eat, for you
must be nearly famished."
The travelers, having washed in the wooden basin that stood on one of
the chairs and shaken some of the dust from their garments, now came
eagerly enough to the table, which the silent Becky had prepared for
them. Upon the bare boards she had set several mugs and heavy crockery
bowls, pewter forks and a large, steaming vessel of the stew which she
had taken from the fire, as well as several cakes made of corn flour
and cooked in the ashes. Such fare was familiar enough to the
pioneers, but the two guests could not help staring at the book that
lay at each plate, a worn _Sidur_ (prayer book), the ancient Hebrew
characters looking strangely foreign in the primitive forests of
America. Abram Mordecai saw the two men exchange glances and flushed a
little beneath his tan.
"A foolish thought of mine," he murmured. "When I left my father's
house in Pennsylvania I carried one of these in my pack, wrapped in
the _talith_ (praying shawl), he had brought with him from Germany.
And later I found the two others in the bundle of a Jewish peddlar
murdered by the Indians. The Indian agent at St. Mary's sent me to
ransom him and several other captives taken by the Creeks, but I came
too late. Somehow, I could not bear to throw them away or destroy
them. They have been with me in all my wanderings and more than once
when I thought it about time for the fall holy days have I read the
prayers and wished that I might have a few of my brethren with me to
observe them aright. And tonight--" for a moment the confident,
self-reliant adventurer seemed as embarrassed as a bashful child, "and
tonight I hoped that since there would be three of us at grace, we
might read the benedictions together--if you care to--and I would know
how it feels to be a Jew again."
Barrett laughed, his hearty school boy laugh, as he flung himself
unceremoniously into a chair beside the table. "It's many a day since
I've said or heard a _brocha_ (blessing)," he said, "but I'll go
through it without any book, thank you."
Lyon said nothing, as he took the place Mordecai assigned him at the
foot of the table, but there was a tender look about his grave mouth.
Perhaps he realized how difficult it had been for Mordecai to confess
his loneliness for the customs of his people; but, according to his
wont, he said nothing.
Smiling almost childishly, Mordecai passed a bowl of water to each of
his guests that they might wash their hands, which they did, murmuring
the blessing as they did so. Then, taking his place at the head of the
table, he poured water over his own hands, saying the Hebrew
benediction as he wiped them upon a faded red napkin which lay beside
his _Sidur_. Somehow, after his brief confession, he felt ashamed to
tell his guests that the napkin had belonged to his mother and had
rested beside the neglected _Sidur_ for so many years. Then, breaking
a bit from the bread and handing it to each of the men, he repeated
the blessing for which, although he had not recited it for so many
years, he need no prompting from the worn black book beside his plate.
"Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who bringest
forth bread from the earth," he said in Hebrew.
Becky, as her husband called her, stood in the background as silent as
a bronze statute until the little ceremony was over. If she was
impressed by the strangeness of it all, she gave no sign. For so many
of the customs of her husband's alien race were strange to her that
she had long ago ceased to wonder or desire any explanation. Now at a
sign from Mordecai, she took away the bowl of water, and, filling a
plate with the savoury stew, took it to the corner of the hut, here,
crouched upon the blankets, she ate her supper, quite content to
watch the white strangers from a distance.
Mordecai served his guests, then himself, and over the stew and corn
bread the men exchanged stories of their experiences in the
wilderness. The host told a little of his own adventures since leaving
the east, of his life as a trader with the Indians, of the peace
treaty he had brought about with the Chickasaw nation, of his journeys
south to New Orleans and Mobile, his furs and medicinal barks piled
high in the barge with no companions but the painted savages to assist
him. A life of highly-colored adventure with variety enough to satisfy
any spirit, but even now Mordecai was growing restless and longed for
another enterprise to occupy him after the cotton gin should be
completed.
Then, the meal being over, Mordecai, with the same shamefaced
bashfulness he had shown when speaking of the _Sidurim_, turned the
pages of the book, saying almost wistfully: "I know that tonight is
not a festival or Sabbath with us, gentlemen, but if you would care to
go over the psalm with me----"
"We've been waiting a long time for this and we'll give good measure,"
laughed little Barrett, but his eyes did not jest as Mordecai in the
quaint old sing-song of the synagogue began "When the Lord turned
again the captivity of Zion" and Lyon gravely followed.
"And now," Mordecai's face fairly glowed with pleasure, "now we will
have the special grace, since there are three of us at the table."
"Let us say grace," he began, with hardly a look at the Hebrew.
"Blessed be the name of the Lord from this time forth and forever,"
responded his guests.
"With the permission of those present," went on the host, "we will
bless Him of whose bounty we have partaken."
"Blessed be He of whose bounty we have partaken," answered the others,
"and through whose goodness we live."
As Mordecai repeated the Hebrew phrases, learned in his almost
forgotten _Cheder_ (Hebrew School) days, a great longing came upon him
and the tears coursed down his cheeks. To return again to this home,
to keep the customs of his people and to die at last with Jewish
friends about him and the Hebrew's declaration of faith upon his lips!
But, as he closed the book, his eyes glanced about the little room and
they grew dark with pain. The gun standing in the corner, the furs
drying upon the wall, Becky crouching upon the blankets--all spoke to
him of a life he had lived too long to exchange for the quiet
existence of which he sometimes dreamed. He rose, and, with an abrupt
gesture, pointed to a shaggy robe before the fire place.
"I have no better bed to offer you," he said, "but I know you are not
used to a soft couch. You must be tired from your journey. Becky will
tend to your horses so you had better sleep now, that tomorrow we may
start out early and visit Colonel Hawkins. He would see you before you
begin work on the cotton gin."
The cotton gin, the first to be built in Alabama, was completed in due
time, and Barrett and Lyons, their pack horses again loaded with their
tools, were ready to return to Georgia. If Mordecai felt any pain at
having his co-religionists depart, he was skilful in concealing it.
For, after his confidence over the supper table, he had slipped back
into his stoical reserve and not even the taciturn Lyon was more
silent or chary of speech in anything that did not directly concern
the business in hand. So it was merry little Barrett who alone
mentioned the occasion that for a moment had brought the strangers of
the wilderness together and had made them brothers.
"We'll be coming back again when we want a taste of Becky's good
stew--and a blessing afterwards," he jested as he swung himself into
his saddle and reached down to shake hands with Mordecai.
"Or to build another gin if the Indians do not molest this one and
drive me off," answered Mordecai lightly, but the jest lingered in his
mind. His life among the superstitious savages, his solitary hours in
the wilderness, had helped to tinge his shrewd, practical mind with a
strong mysticism. He tried to dismiss the matter; but, as he walked
back to his hut that evening, Barrett's light words haunted him and
gave him no rest. "Perhaps," he muttered, "perhaps, before my life is
over, we will meet again and there will be three of us at grace."
But his fancies fled and his dreamy face grew hard and alert as he
came to the clearing before his hut. There, in the midst of his
Indian followers, all armed with long poles, stood Chief Towerculla,
threatening Becky. The squaw had placed herself in the door of the
hut, where she stood with folded arms, listening to the Chief's angry
threats. If she felt any fear, there was no trace of it in her
expressionless face. Nor did she seem relieved when Mordecai pushed
between her and the angry Indian and demanded what business had
brought him there. She merely shrugged a little, hitched up her
buckskin skirt and resumed her task of pounding corn between two
stones at the door of the hut, appearing to take no interest in the
quarrel that followed. For like a good squaw, she did not think it
seemly to interfere in her husband's business affairs.
"And now, Towerculla," began Mordecai in the Indian tongue which he
spoke fluently. "Why do you come here and seek to frighten my squaw in
my absence? And why have you brought your men with you?"
The Chief grunted in disgust. "And why do you bring the pale face here
to build?" he answered Mordecai question for question. "Our squaws are
well satisfied to work in the fields, to make oil from the hickory
nuts, to weave blankets. But you would have them sell you cotton to
make you rich; you would build a store and other white men would be
greedy to trade with our women and build other gins and other
stores--and soon there would be many of your people while we--" he
waved his hand toward his warriors, "we children of the red men would
be driven further into the wilderness. You have already driven us too
far, you white men. I am willing to spare you for the sake of 'Old
Milly,' whom we do not fear, for she is one of us. And she has pleaded
for you more than once. So I will allow you and your squaw to depart
in peace. By tomorrow morning leave for some other place--for it is
not good to dwell here any longer."
For a moment Mordecai was too astonished to answer. Then he laughed
boldly into the Indian's angry face. Towerculla sprang for him, but
Mordecai swiftly stepped aside, and crouching, sprung upon the Chief
and struck him to the ground. For a minute the two struggled together.
Then the Indians fell upon Mordecai and released Towerculla, who rose
from the dust, his face terrible in his anger. Mordecai struggled in
vain against the blows of Towerculla's followers. As he sank to the
ground overpowered, he caught himself murmuring, "They cannot kill me,
until we three say grace together again," even while he longed for
death to cut short the agony which was beginning to wrack every limb
of his cruelly beaten body. Then out of the mist of red which seemed
to swim before his eyes, a merciful black cloud descended and he knew
nothing more until he regained consciousness and found himself in "Old
Milly's" cabin, with Becky, still calm of face and quiet of voice
bathing his wounds with cool water from the spring.
"What has happened?" he asked, trying to rise, but falling back
moaning in his pain.
"Old Milly," a tall, sharp-faced woman, who sat weaving a basket as
skillfully as any squaw, answered him. "Towerculla would have slain
you, had not Becky brought me in time. He is not a good enemy to have,
Abram Mordecai. When you are stronger, you must take his advice and go
away. The Indians did not burn the barn, so your horses are safe, but
the house was in flames before I could reach it and persuade
Towerculla to leave you in peace."
Becky rose and walked to the table. Returning to where her husband
lay, she placed in his hand three books with worn black covers and a
faded red napkin. "I ran and got these when I saw they were destroying
our cabin," she told him. "I knew you had kept them long; that they
were dear to you as the gods of our people are to us--like a charm,
maybe, to keep death away. And perhaps, when the white men come again,
you will want to have them on the table and sing."
For the moment, Mordecai forgot that Becky was only a squaw,
undeserving, according to the custom of her people, either thanks or
praise. "You are a very good wife," he said, gently, "and I will buy
you real gold earrings with the first money I earn from the cotton
gin." And since he was so weak, neither woman dared to tell him for
several days that the vengeance of the Indians had extended to the gin
house, which now lay a heap of black ruins hear the river.
Broken in body and ruined in fortune, Mordecai accompanied by the
faithful Becky, bade farewell to Colonel Hawkins and journeyed further
into the wilderness. For the Indian agent prudently refused to erect
a second gin while the Indians still planned to injure Mordecai, and
the adventurer himself felt that it would be hopeless to seek to gain
the friendship of the embittered Chief. Trader and trapper, he led his
solitary existence in the south, with no companionship but Becky's,
until her death left him entirely alone.
He had regained his former vigor by this time and sometimes dreamed of
returning to his boyhood home. But from the pioneer towns springing up
wherever he passed, he knew that a new civilization was rising in
America; that he was of the generation that must pass away as surely
as the Indian and he realized that he would feel sadly out of place in
the surroundings that he had known as a boy. Yet, dreamer that he was,
he never ceased to picture himself, a sober stay-at-home citizen,
living out the last years of his life in communion with his fellow
Jews, who had never left their quiet firesides. Nor in all his
wanderings did he ever part with the three _Sidurim_ and the faded red
napkin. For as he grew older, the fantastic notion grew ever stronger
that before he died he would again say grace with the builders of his
cotton gin.
Almost a century old, he wandered back at last to Montgomery county,
seeking the very spot where his hut had stood before Chief Towerculla
had driven him away. Now the settlement of Dudlyville, so close at
hand, made him feel cramped and uncomfortable. Colonel Hawkins had
long since left Pole Cat Springs; Chief Towerculla, driven away by
the white men he had always feared, was dead; "Old Milly" no longer
lived in her savage kingdom with her husband and her slaves.
But he felt too tired to travel further; perhaps he realized that no
matter where he went he would feel lonely as the survivor of another
day and generation. So he built a tiny cabin for himself, even putting
together some crude furniture. Here he lived, never seeing a human
face unless he walked to the village to secure supplies, which the
settlers, vaguely touched by his loneliness, never failed to press
upon him. He talked to them sometimes of the days before the
wilderness had been conquered, speaking too, of the first cotton gin,
which the Indians had destroyed. "I love the spot," he used to say,
"but it is growing too crowded; yes," with a shake of his white head,
"too crowded for one who needs plenty of fresh air to breathe. Next
spring I must journey on." But when spring came, he would wait until
fall, and again through the long winter. For his old ambition had left
him and though his heart still wandered afar through the forests, his
feet were too weary to follow it.
But one evening he felt strangely strong and refreshed. He had worked
hard all the afternoon cleaning his little hut and now the humble room
looked as spotless as spring water and vigorous scrubbing could make
it. Even the table and chairs were scoured and the fireplace cleaned,
while, to complete the day's task Mordecai had emptied an old barrel
in the corner, burning the heap of odds and ends which had accumulated
since his return. But now as he stood behind the table he held in his
hand three black books and a faded napkin which he could not bring
himself to destroy. As he stood there with the rays of the setting sun
falling through the open door on his shaggy white head, old memories
burned in his faded eyes and a strange, dreamy smile played about his
mouth.
"I have found the books--it is time for them to come and say 'grace',"
he murmured to himself. "I have put my house in order. I know it is
time for me to go away--into the Great Wilderness--but not until we
have three at grace once more."
Carefully placing a book at each place, he drew up two chairs and a
box, spread the napkin at the head of the table and set out his few
poor dishes and humble evening meal. Then he took his place, opened
his book and waited. The Hebrew letters seemed strangely blurred; for
the first time in his life his keen eyes failed him. But, glancing up,
he thought he saw his two guests, Lyon and Barrett in their places
waiting for him to begin the blessing before the meal.
"I am ready," he said, and even as he spoke, his head dropped upon the
open book and Mordecai's restless spirit was at rest forever.