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                             CHAPTER ELEVEN
                                     ALABAMA FEVER

   It was a full year later, on February 23, 1822, when I finally received the much anticipated
letter from Young. It was posted in Cahaba, Alabama, on January 5, 1822. I sat down on the
bench in front of Eldred Simpkins’ store and started to read. It went as follows:

“Dear Theo,           
   I’ve finally got the time to catch y’all up on all the wonderful things that have happened to us
over the past few years. Back on March 5, 1817, when Rebecca, our youngest gal, was ‘bout a
year old, me and David sold off our land, packed as many of our belongings as we could in ten
wagons, loaded our families and headed west for Alabama Territory. 
   A whole passel of other families sold out and took off with us. Ole man Richard Bird, with all
a’ his married younguns and their families; Robert Martin and his family from over ‘round
Augusta; all a’ Gray Andrews’, bless his soul, married sons and daughters, ‘cept his son William,
as you well know; ole man John Wilson and his family including his son, William H. who ran a
store ‘tween our old place and the Oconee River. All a’ these folks left Georgia with us. Must’ve
been twenty-five or thirty wagons in all. We brought all our livestock with us, ‘cause we didn’t
know what we could buy once we got over here. Between David and me alone, we brought
seventy-seven Negroes, most of ‘em descendants of Jeane and Gimmie.
   We did our best to get John and Amy Myrick to come with us, but as Amy said, she was
sixty-four, too old to be traipsing around in Indian country trying to establish a new home.
Besides that all a’ their children are grown and married now with families of their own. They got a
ton a’ grand younguns there in Baldwin County, and they’re all doing real well.
   Once we crossed the Oconee River at Fort Wilkinson near the state capitol at Milledgeville,
and then crossed the Ocmulgee River, we were in what was classified as Indian Territory. We
followed the Federal Millitary Road all the way into central Alabama. We made camps as close as
possible to the forts, which were occasionally about a day’s journey apart. There are still some
very hostile Indians, even though they signed a treaty with ole Andy Jackson back in 1814.
   On the third day out, we set up camp on the banks of the Ocmulgee River, and before we
could get the campfires going good, we found that our whole campsite was surrounded by
Indians. Fortunately for us one of their leaders spoke some broken English. I asked him what they
wanted, and he explained it was customary for whites to pay for safe passage through their lands.
If it hadn’t been for all the women and children, I’d a’ fought ‘em right there. That fat, greasy
headed varmit rode away from there with two strings of beads, a whole bolt of cloth, and one of
my fattest steers. I told him that was the last we were going to pay for the whole trip. He just
grunted like a constipated bull ox and rode off.
   We were lucky with the weather. We only had to deal with four or five rainstorms during the
whole thirty-five day trip. The creeks and rivers were low, and the bridges were still in pretty
good shape, considering they were built by the military over six years ago.
   We started out with forty head a’ cows, ten milkers, ten heifers, eighteen steers, two bulls,
twenty-eight head a’ younguns and sixty-seven head a’ Negroes. I’m proud to say we didn’t loose
a single head a’ nothing ‘cepting that steer to the gol-dern Indians. That was the only encounter
we had with them, even though we did see more along the trail. Most of them were in family
groups and filled with curiosity. They just looked, pointed and giggled. 
   We camped at Fort Hawkins, on the Flint River, on March 21st. The soldiers there called the
Indians “red sticks” for some reason and said they were the most dangerous of all the Creeks. I
guess we were fortunate, ‘cause we didn’t have any problems with them at all. We reached what I
figured was the Chattahoochee on the morning of March 28th. Evidently we had ventured off the
main road somehow, ‘cause there was no sign of humanity when we reached the river. We were
looking for what Andy Henshaw had marked on his map as Marshall’s Ferry, at Fort Mitchell.
   We sent scouts up and down the river to find a suitable place to ford it. We finally found a
wide, shallow area below a series of rapids, where the deepest part would only reach the wagon
hubs. We had to travel about an hour upstream to reach it. When we got there, we found a few
Indian women washing clothes in the river. We all did our best to talk to them without any
success. Martha finally approached one of the young women with a brand new bonnet she’d made
and offered it to her. 
   Martha pointed to the river with a question on her face, and the woman said, ‘Chattahoochee’,
and also pointed to the river, then the whole group of Indians chimed in ‘Chattahoochee,
Chattahoochee.’ The woman reluctantly took the bonnet, pulled it on her head with a wide grin
and returned to her washing. The other women kept nodding their heads, pointing to the river and
repeating ‘Chattahoochee.’ I guess they thought this would bring more bonnets. It did, ‘cause all
a’ our womenfolk started digging in trunks for old bonnets. That was a sight to behold, all a’
those Indian squaws, decked out in their colorful bonnets, washing clothes and chanting,
‘Chattahoochee, Chattahoochee, Chattahoochee.’    
   When the last wagon pulled out of the river, the sun was setting. We decided to make camp
right there for our first night in Alabama Territory. That night after a couple a’ snorts of ole John
Wilson’s corn likker, I was cuttin’ the fool and dancin’ ‘round the campfire with my old gimpy leg
chantin’, ‘Chattahoochee, Chattahoochee’.  Richard Bird pulled out his fiddle, and William
Wilson got out his banjo and joined right in with my dance. We must’ve emptied a whole gallon a’
John’s likker. We all had quite a celebration that first night in Alabama. Sho’ wish you could’a
been there, Theo.   
   The next mornin’ after we all et’ and was hitchin’ up to go, Robert Martin stood up on his
wagon seat and told eva’body to gather ‘round. Robert was a staunch Baptist and sort of our
preacher for the trip. He gave thanks to the Lord for our safe journey to Alabama, asked
forgiveness for our drinkin’ the night before, and for guidance and safety for the rest of our trip.
    I sent William and Theo Y. downriver to see if they could find the fort. I had a feelin’ that we
had wandered off the road toward the north. Sure enough, they were back in ‘bout an hour. They
had found Fort Mitchell and said we could pick up the Federal Road about an hour to the
southwest. William said, ‘Papa, I talked to an old sergeant there and, when I told him my name,
he asked was I any kin to Major Julius Goodwin from over in South Ca’lina. I told him he was a
cousin of mine. Said he served under him for a while when they were building Fort Bainbridge
‘bout twenty miles west of here. Said he sho’ was a fine officer.’
   The Federal Road would take us as far as Fort Hull at Montgomery on the Alabama River, but
from there on we’d have to do the best we could on the Indian trails Andy had marked on his
map. We made it to Fort Hull in about five days. We intended to reach the turn in the river
between a village he labeled Selma and the town of Cahaba. The Cahaba River ran from north to
south and emptied into the Alabama. When we left Fort Hull, it took us another full week to reach
that point. There was nothing but thick hardwood forests, small creeks, and swamps. We had to
constantly cut trees and clear underbrush for the wagons to get through. 
   There was an abundance of deer, turkey, wild pigs, and smaller game, so we never had to
worry about fresh meat. We did have to keep a constant look for the panthers that roam these
thick hardwood forest in large numbers. We were especially fearful for our livestock, so we set up
shifts for guard duty ‘round the clock. Occasionally, we were able to pick up Indian trails on
which we made much better time. 
   You know, Theo, I’ve always been led to believe these Creek Indians lived out in the woods
and did nothing but hunt and eat wild game for their food. Always thought they was heathens too,
but I learned a lot about them on the way over. They’re not a bunch of savages like we been told.
Eva’ now and then, while we were on the Indian trails, we’d come to a clearing, with plowed
fields, log houses and log barns, and you know what? They was Indians living in ‘em, and they
wadn’t hostile a’tall, just as friendly as you or me. A funny thing though, even as friendly as they
were, eva’ last one of our Negroes was scared to death of ‘em.
   When we got to the Alabama River, late on April 15th, wadn’t any sign of civilization in sight.
No buildings, boats, people, or nothing but the wide blue-green waters of the river, the thick
hardwood forests on each side, and a deep orange sun settling from a blue sky behind the trees on
the western shore. I’ve crossed a lot of rivers in my time, Theo, but this one is so big and pretty,
it’ll just take your breath away. I think it’ll always be one of the prettiest sights I’ll eva’ see. As
good a’ friends as we’ve always been, it saddens me to think you’ll never get to rest your eyes on
this masterpiece of God’s work.
   We camped there that night and early the next day, not knowing exactly where or how to cross
the river, I sent my boys, William down-river and Theo Y. up-river, to see if they could find any
sign of civilization. Theo Y. got back as we were finishing up breakfast. He said he rode at least
five miles up the river bank and didn’t see hide nor hair of a soul. It was getting close to
mid-morning when William came a’ ridin’ in shouting, ‘I found somebody! I found a some folks!’
I told him to calm down, get him some coffee, and tell us about it. 
   Martha handed him a cup a’ coffee as he was saying, ‘‘Bout a mile down-river I thought I
heard some dogs a’ barking inland, so I turned away from the river on the first trail I found. I rode
about two more miles, and heard roosters a’ crowin’. Pretty soon I came into a clearing and saw
several houses and a store. A Mr. Benton runs the store and said there was a landing with a ferry
‘bout fifteen miles west of his place. Said there was a trail that would take us right over to the
river across from Cahaba. I told him we was camped on the river an’ it was only ‘bout two miles
back a’ me. He explained the river was running more or less east to west where we are now, but it
takes a sharp turn to the south ‘bout five or six miles west of here. He said we’d save at least a
day if we come on by his place and head west. He said there is a good trail all the way from his
place to the river bank across from Cahaba.’ 
   As we pulled into the clearing, I noticed that the houses were all built outta logs. They hadn’t
even started to weather yet, so I knew they were fairly new. The store was the same, with the
exception of a big sign painted on the top logs saying, ‘Benton’s Store’. There were two men in
the store. Benton said, ‘I settled here in the summer of 1816, but Daniel Hardy over there settled
in here ‘bout seven years ago, right Dan?’ Dan replied, ‘Been more like eight.’ Benton told us
there were several families now living in the area in the settlements of Big Swamp, Sand Hill,
Pleasant Hill and here in Benton. We bought some supplies from him and headed west.. 
   Well, Theo, I have a tendency to draw things out when I get in the mood to do some writin’,
so I’ll try to finish this letter pretty soon. It’s ‘bout time for supper, anyhow.
   We got the whole group across the river by dark that day. Me and David went across on the
first trip. We went to the land office, and I bought one thousand acres sight unseen. The fellow I
dealt with had an honest face, and said he fought with Andy Henshaw in the Indian Wars. He said
Andy told him we was on the way and to make sure and save all that rich valley land up on
Mulberry Creek for us. David bought five hunnert acres north a’ mine on the same river. He gave
us a surveyors map a’ the area and marked out the route for us. Early the next morning we
headed up the east bank of the Cahaba and then took a turn back northeast on the first road we
came to. About an hour later we saw the Alabama River again on our right and passed through
the crossroad village of Selma. 
   That afternoon we reached Burns Store on the west bank of Mulberry Creek. I was surprised
at the size the creek. Seemed to me to be almost as big as the Cahaba River. We restocked with
supplies at the store and made camp for the night. Early the next morning we headed upriver. We
covered ‘bout fifteen miles that day and set up camp as the sun was setting.
   You know me, Theo, I was up ‘fore day the next morning saddlin’ my hoss. I told William to
look out for eva’body and to bring ‘em on upstream after breakfast. When dawn broke, I was on
my way upcreek to look over the new land. ‘Bout eight miles up, according to the survey map, is
where my land starts. It was broad daylight when I got there and Theo, you ain’t never seen no
richer black dirt than what I found. I swear the pines on the ridges of the valley stand at least
eighty feet tall ‘fore you see the first branch. They’re straight as an arrow and and I ain’t a’ lying,
they must be four feet across at the base. The valley is slam full of hardwoods that ain’t eva’ been
touched by man, lessen it was by an Indian. 
   The very next day we started clearing the land. We didn’t get any crops planted in 1817, but
we did finish a nice log house, a barn, a smokehouse, a two hole outhouse, twenty-two Negro
cabins, and four deep water wells. I sent Theo Y. and William down Mulberry Creek with a crew
of five Negroes with broad-axes and cross-cut saws with instructions to clear out the creek of
underbrush and sunken logs from here to the Alabama River. Took ‘em five months, but they got
it done. 
   When I realized how deep and wide the creek was, I figured it would be easy to get goods
upstream from the river. You remember them old flatboats Pappy used to have? He used them to
float his tobacco down Shocco Creek to the Tar River. Well, this creek is lots deeper and wider,
and it ain’t near ‘bout as swift. I had the Negroes build ten a’ them flatboats, ‘bout six feet wide
and twelve feet long. They’ll haul two five hunnert pound bales a’ cotton and four big Negroes
without any trouble a’tall. They only displace ‘bout four and a half to five inches of water when
fully loaded. 
   ‘Bout a year after we got here, a fellow down at the Cahaba land office told me that a bunch a’
South Ca’lina folks bought ova’ sixty thousand acres ova’ ‘cross the river to sell to new settlers.
Call themselves The Alabama Company of South Ca’lina. All that land lies to the south of the
river up at Benton’s Store and straight ‘cross to the east from Cahaba. All the land is in the west
side of Montgomery County and a small part in Butler County. Bet they gonna make a passel a’
money. They’re buying the land at the government price of a dollar and a quarter an acre and
selling it for two dollars an acre.
   We thought we’d lost Theo Y. to a pretty little gal in Hancock County, Georgia, back in 1819.
‘Fore we left, he’d been courtin’ her pretty regular. Her name’s Eustatia Thompson. Theo Y. calls
her ‘Stacy’. He got a long letter from her ‘round August in 1819, and ‘fore we knew it, he was
packing his saddle bag and saddlin’ up his hoss. He took off back ova’ to Georgia, right by
himself and married that eighteen-year old youngun on November 11, 1819. 
   He stayed there only ‘bout four months, ‘cause she went back on her promise to come on back
ova’ heah with him. She was a mama’s girl and wouldn’t leave her folks. Well, Theo Y. finally got
fed up with her, went to the courthouse, found him a judge and got a divorce. It all turned out all
right, though. Seems like when he was heading out back ova’ heah ‘round the first of March, he
found about ten wagonloads of folks wandering ‘round in circles as he said, trying to find the
right trail to Alabama. They was a buncha farmers from ova’ close to y’all.  A place called Mt.
Willing, somewhere close to the Saluda River. 
   Seems they didn’t have no leader a’tall. They were trying to get ova’ to the land they’d bought
from the Alabama Company of South Ca’lina. When Theo Y. told them he’d made the trip there
and back and knew where their land was, they offered to pay him ten dollars a wagon to take
charge and lead ‘em ova’ heah. Well, Theo Y. had ‘em settled ova’ on the other side’n the river
‘fore May in 1820. They named their new settlement ‘Mt. Willing’ after their old village in South
Ca’lina. We sho’ was a bunch a’ happy folks when he came a’ ridin’ back in the yard on May 1st. 
   Theo, you ain’t gonna believe this, but I done got into the store business. Ole man John
Wilson’s boy, William is ‘bout thirty-six now and engaged to David’s daughter, Louanza Jane. He
kept bending my ear all the way ova’ heah ‘bout backing him in the store business. Well, me and
William are partners now. He runs the store ‘bout five miles up the river at the crossroads, and I
keep it supplied with goods all the way from Mobile. 
 Oh, I forgot to mention, I had a man come up from Mobile to set up one a’ them cotton gins for
me. It takes four Negroes and two oxen to operate it, but with what it was costing me to drive
that bulk cotton twenty-five miles to get it ginned, I figgered it paid for itself the first year.

Now, all we gotta do is pick it, gin it, float it down to tha’ mouth a’ tha’ creek and load it on
one a’ them big paddle wheel steamboats headed for Mobile. They’s a boat going up the river
one’st a week now and headed back to mobile one'st a week. 

Theo, I ain’t never seen such a big boat in all a’ my born days. Last
year, in September 1821, I got a hankering to ride that thing, so I rode down to Mobile with a
load a’ my cotton. They put me in a fancy room and fed me like a king all the way down there and
back.
 Talking ‘bout that trip reminds me, on the way back up the river, we stopped at a place called
Ft. Claiborne to pick up some folks headed upriver. I met one of ‘em, called hisself Dan Sullivan.
He had a young wife with ‘im. She looked to be ‘round seventeen or eighteen, at least ten years
younger than him. Said they just got married. His wife was Jennie Griffin ‘fore they got married
there in Ft. Claiborne. The subject got ‘round to South Ca’lina. Said he was from up ‘round
Abbeville. Said he was born and raised along Cuffeetown Creek. He told me he and his brother,
James, came ova’ here in 1815, but his brother died from the fever ‘bout a year ago. When I told
him I had kinfolk ova’ ‘round Edgefield, he said ‘Wouldn’t be a man named Theophilus, would
it?’ Well, when I heard that, I liked a’ dropped my teeth. He proceeded to tell me ‘bout y’all’s
cheese and cracker dinner at the blacksmith’s place back in 1815. He said if I eva’ wrote to you,
to tell you ‘bout our meeting. He and Jennie bought two hundred forty acres ova’ ‘round that new
settlement called Mt. Willing.
 I got ‘bout eight hunnert acres in cotton, gettin’ near ‘bout a five hunnert pound bale off a’
eva’ acre each year and making ‘bout seventy-five dollars for each bale. When you cipher that
down, we’re making five times as much per acre as we did in Georgia. Me and David are plannin’
on buildin’ a water-run sawmill upstream on his part of the river. If all goes well, we’ll have it up
and runnin’ by the end of the summer. With the number of new settlers movin’ into this area, we
ought to do pretty well with it. David’s been talkin’ ‘bout fixin’ it so we can use it for a grist mill
too, but I ain’t too sold on that idea. 
 I need to bring this letter to an end, but I do wanta tell you that in the summer of 1819, a few
of the folks got together and put up a nice little log church down to the southwest of our place.
We call it Ebenezer. A fellow named Isaac Suttle does the preachin’ for us. Don’t know if he’s
any kin to the Suttles back in No’th Ca’lina or not. He’s a big, heavy set man, with a thick black
beard and  piercing steel-gray eyes that seem to look right down into ya soul. He’s sho’ a powerful
preacher. Believe it or not, after his first revival he baptized over fifty folks. He can put the fear a’
God in ya in a’ hurry. Now Theo, you ain’t gonna believe this, but since I been listenin’ to him for
the last two years, I ain’t touched nary a drop a’ corn likker. Too scared to.
 I guess you already know, but back on December 14, 1819, they made us the twenty-second
state. Sho’ was a happy buncha folks ova’ heah when we got the news. They made Cahaba the
state capitol. Since it’s only bout twenty or twenty-five miles downriver from us, it sho’ does
make it easy takin’ care of my land dealings. I started out with one thousand and, as of last
month, have three thousand acres. Most of it’s uncleared, ‘cause I only got enough Negroes to take
care of the eight hunnert I’m plowin’ right now.

 Theo, I got more land than me, you, David, and all our younguns put together could possibly
farm, and I’m plannin’ to buy as much as I can. The Lord ain’t makin’ no more of it, and the way
this young state is bustin’ out with new people, I want as much of it as I can get. Just this year, I
was able to buy a thousand acres northeast of Selma on Mulberry Creek. It is next to my present
land to the south. It’s all in Dallas County and gives me control of the creek just about all the way
to the Alabama River. I’ve been trying to get my sister, Mary Ann, and her husband, Ira Portis, to
come on down from No’th Ca’lina and settle down there. Theo, I’ll sell you two or three
hunnert acres for just what I paid for it, which ain’t much a’ nothing, if you’ll just come on ova’.
Hell, I’ll do better’n that, I’ll just give it to ya if you’ll come on fo’ eva’body and his brother
crowd in heah from South Ca’lina. I know all a’ y’all got tha’ short end a’ tha’ stick when ya
granpappy died, but I hope you’ll let me sort a’ make up for it in this way. Come to think of it
tho’, y’all didn’t get none a’ tha’ stick, did ya? I hope you don’t think I been doin’ too much
braggin’ in this letter, ‘cause it ain’t braggin’ a’tall. It’s just the Lord has blessed us so much, and
if there’s any way possible, we would dearly love for you and Becky and all a’ y’alls family to be
ova’ here to share in these blessings.
 As always, yo’ best friend,
                                                        Young Goodwin (signed)”

 When I finished that eight page letter, I was ready to jump on my hoss and strike out west for
Alabama. Took me fifteen or twenty minutes to read it and when I finished, Eldred came out and
said, “Theo, you been sitting there readin’ for a long time, must be an interesting letter. I handed
it to him and replied, “Sho’ is, it’s ‘bout Alabama, from one a’ my half-uncles. Go on and read it if
you want to.” Eldred walked back into the store and started reading it out loud to the four or five
men sitting ‘round the pot-bellied stove. 
 When Eldred finished, they sat and talked excitedly ‘bout Alabama for the next thirty minutes,
and one by one slowly meandered out with their heads down in deep thought. When the last one
left, I took the letter from Eldred, folded it carefully, put it in my inside coat pocket and said,
“You know, Eldred, me an you prob’ly just started a big epidemic of fever.” When he replied,
“What are you talking ‘bout, what kind of fever?” I answered, “Alabama fever.” He laughed and
said, “You’re right about that.”
 As an afterthought, I asked him, “Eldred, did you know any of those folk from Mt. Willing,
Young talked about in his letter?” He replied, “Sho’ did. You remember Lodowick Hill? His two
boys, Theophilus and Henry, was with ‘em. Mr. Hill was so distraught, lotta’ folks claim that’s
what led him to his death last month.” I was shocked and asked, “You mean Lodie’s dead?”
Eldred said, “Yeah, did you know ‘im?” I answered, “Sho’ did, came down here from No’th
Ca’lina with ‘em. In fact, my boy William, and Henry were good friends while they were growin’
up and in school together.”
 When I got home that afternoon, Becky, William, Mary, Young G., and Sarah were sitting
‘round the table out in the kitchen, enjoying the warmth of the stove. I said, “Y’all better get T.J.
to bring them younguns on inside. It’s turning pretty cold out there.” Becky went to the back
door, opened it and yelled out, “T.J., you, Harriet, Jack, and Simpson get on in here now, it’s
getting too cold for ya to stay outside.” Willie T. was holding onto the bottom of Becky’s dress
yelling, “Too col’, too col’, come in!” 
 When they were all inside, playing on the floor with Willie T., I pulled out the letter, handed it
to Sarah and said, “All a’ y’all younguns get quiet now. Ya Aunt Sarah’s gonna read us a story.” I
was amazed, for the next fifteen minutes while Sarah was reading, the children listened intently
not making a sound until she got to the part about the panthers. At this point Simpson
interrupted, “Was they sho’nuff real panthers, Grandpa; was they?” I tapped my index finger on
my lips while nodding ‘yes’ and said, “Now, let Aunt Sarah finish.” 
 When Sarah finished, everyone was silent and thinking. Simpson again broke the silence with,
“What’s a constipated bull ox, Mama?” The kitchen erupted with laughter, and we spent the next
hour talking about the letter while Becky, Mary, and Sarah were cooking supper. Of course, they
were all sad and surprised to hear the news about the Hills.
We had one of our best crops ever in 1822, all cotton; the first year in my whole life I never had
to worry ‘bout working with that sticky, stingin’ tobacco. We cleared ‘bout three thousand
dollars that year, and I was pleased ‘till William reminded me by saying, “If we’da been in
Alabama, we’da prob’ly made ‘bout fifteen thousand on a hundred and fifty acres.” 
 After the cotton was ginned, sold and on the way down the Savannah River, Young G., told us
he and Elizabeth were getting married on Christmas Day that year. Becky said, “I’m proud of you
and for you, Young. It wadn’t anything we weren’t expecting. I don’t think you coulda found a
nicer, Christian girl, but why in the world did y’all pick Christmas Day, for gosh sakes?” Young
replied, “I don’t know, Mama, You’ll have to ask Elizabeth and her mama ‘bout that, they’re the
ones makin’ all the plans.” 
 Later, when we were alone out on the porch, I asked Young, “What are you gonna do ‘bout
making a livin’? Where y’all gonna live?” He answered, “Well, Papa, you know I’ve been in the
militia for two years now, and Julius said he’s gonna promote me to major next summer before
our annual muster. With what you’ve paid me and the little bit I’ve saved from the militia pay,
I’ve rented two hundred and forty acres with a house on it out west of Edgefield from a man
who’s done took off for Alabama. I paid him a hundred dollars for this year and told him I’d try to
sell it for him if I could. I figure with two hundred acres of cotton, I can clear maybe two or three
thousand each year for the next couple of years to get up some money for me and Elizabeth to
move over where Uncle Young is.” 
 Knowing that boy as well as I do, I’m sure he’ll accomplish everything he sets his mind to. I
was glad to find that his ultimate goal is to migrate to Alabama. I’ve been knowing secretly, ever
since I first read Young’s letter, that we would all be heading west in the near future.
 We got up ‘fore day Christmas morning in 1822. I had to build a big fire in the parlor fireplace
‘cause it was below freezing outside. Young G. had ridden up to Frances and Tom’s the day
before. I suggested to Becky that we not even try to go up to Young’s wedding. It was too cold
for eva’body to bundle up and make that hour’s ride. She and Sarah wouldn’t hear of it. Sarah
said, “Papa, I’m gonna be there, even if I freeze to death.” 
 I just shook my head, went to the kitchen and built a fire in the stove. Becky and Sarah came
on in and cooked us a big breakfast of ham, scrambled eggs, grits, biscuits and coffee. William,
Mary and all the grandchildren came in just in time for breakfast. When we finished eating, Sarah
and Becky disappeared and came back in a few minutes with several packages wrapped in brown
store paper. They had been sewing for about ten weeks, making new Sunday winter clothes for
Mary, Harriet, Jack, Simpson and even for two-year old Willie T. 
 They also brought in a big box of brown looking candy. That was the best stuff I ever put in
my mouth. I asked Becky, “What is this stuff?” She replied, “It’s not stuff, Theo, it’s candy.
What’d you think it was?” Then she continued, “Sarah stopped over at Wiley and Amy’s when
she was out riding the other day, and Amy gave her some of it. She told Sarah she had bought a
box of some new stuff, called cocoa at the store in Edgefield. Well, Sarah liked it so much she left
there and headed straight for Edgefield and brought some home.” Sarah took over and said, “The
man at the store said it’s called chocolate and is made from the seeds of a tree called the cacao.” I
know one thing, all of us, and especially the younguns, enjoyed it even better than the breakfast.
 Becky, Mary, Harriet, Jack, Simpson, and Willie T. all bundled up under heavy blankets in the
carriage with T.J. driving. Me, William, and Sarah, dressed in our warmest clothes, and rode
horseback. It took us ‘bout an hour to get up to the Red Bank Church and ‘bout another hour to
thaw out. Thank goodness, someone got there early that morning to build a fire in the big
pot-bellied stove. It was glowing red when we got there. Immediately after the Christmas service,
Young G. and Elizabeth were married by the preacher. 
 The year 1823 was an ordinary year with an average crop of cotton. In November of that year,
Mary told us, “Me and William are expectin’ another baby ‘round the spring of next year. I sure
hope it’s a girl. We’ve had three boys in a row now, and Harriet needs a little sister. If it’s a girl,
we’re gonna name her Nancy Jane, after my mama.”
 Sure enough, on May 10, 1824, Nancy Jane was born at our house. Mary had walked down
for a visit and brought the children with her. William, T.J. and I came in from the fields early,
‘cause a big thunderstorm was brewing. When we walked in, the bottom fell out. We all went out
on the front porch to watch the rain, and it suddenly turned into hail as big as chinaberries. Mary
said quietly to Becky and Sarah, “Y’all better help get me inside, my water’s broke.” Less than
fifteen minutes later, we heard the baby screamin’ her lungs out. She’s the only youngun I know
of that was born in the middle of a hail storm. 
 I posted a long letter to Young on December 1, 1823. Eldred said it would get there in ‘bout a
month. I informed Young that I was planning on heading that way in in the spring of 1825, and to
please send a good map. I explained that it would take over a year for me to try to get the whole
Goodwin clan thinking the same way I do. That is, to make up their mind to move. On May 20,
1824, I received a letter back from Young. It was only two pages including the map. It was
posted March 15, 1824. It read as follows:
“Dear Theo,
 We’ve all been excited eva’ since we got yo’ letter last month. Since I last wrote you in 1822,
a lotta good things have happened ova’ heah. That Alabama Company of South Ca’lina sho’ is
selling a bunch’a land cross the river in Montgomery County. New settlements are popping up
eva’ where ova’ there. We got a pretty good road cleared out now, all the way from David’s
place to the mouth of the river, so when y’all cross the river, you won’t have any trouble making
it up here from Cahaba in ‘bout two days. In fact, once you reach the town of Big Swamp, the
road is in pretty good shape all the way to the river. I found out that a few families from the
Edgefield District settled in ova’ there a couple of years ago. Y’all prob’ly know most of ‘em. 
 Send me another letter and tell me exactly when y’all plan to leave, so we’ll know when to
start lookin’ for ya. I hope you don’t mind, but I sent a letter to my sister tellin’ her y’all was
comin’ over. Her and Ira have agreed to buy some land from me down the river in Dallas County.
They been waitin’ for enough people headed this way to travel with. You know they still live
below Pappy’s old place there in No’th Ca’lina. I told her I’d let them know when y’all was
leavin’ so they could maybe travel with y’all from Edgefield. Her mailing address is Rev. Ira
Portis, Ransom’s Bridge Post Office, Franklin County, North Carolina. 
 The state is planning to open up thousands of acres a’ land for settlement up north a’ us along
the Cahaba River in lower Jefferson County. ‘Bout two days ride up there. Me, David and my
boys, John and Nauplett, rode up there last month to look it over. Sho’ is some good rich land up
there ‘round one of the tributaries called Mud Creek. There’s no one for miles and miles, and the
only way we were able to ride through there was on old Indian trails with ‘bout ten years of
underbrush growin’ in them. 
 If anybody eva’ settles up there, their best route in will be up the Cahaba River to Jefferson
County, not the way we went. You know my half-brothers, George, John, Peter, Mark and Theo,
Jr. are dead now, but if any a’ their younguns got a hankerin’ to head this way, I can get ‘em a
bargain on some good land up there. I’ve sorta lost touch with ‘em, ‘cept for George. You know
he moved ova’ to Wilkes County, Georgia, just after we did, back in 1805. Won some land not
too far from our place in the lottery. I got to see him now and again ‘fore we left. I hear he died
just a couple of years ago. Anyway, if you see any of their younguns, tell ‘em what I said. Well,
I’ll close now. Looking foward to seeing y’all next year. Your Uncle and friend,
 Young Goodwin”

 CHAPTER TWELVE                                                                         BACK