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                              CHAPTER THRE
                           A SECOND LEASE ON LIVING

   Anne has moved back to the Green’s, George took a full time job at the new gristmill
over on Great Shocco Creek, and is livin’ there. Amy, Peter, and Mark are livin’ with me.
Mark, now twenty-three, is really the one keepin’ the place goin’. He has learned the
plantin’ business well. As for me, I’m still tryin’ to put my life back together after the
death of Elizabeth.
   Tom, John, and Theo, Jr., came over and insisted that I go on the annual muster with
the Granville County Militia. All four of us have been in the militia for the last ten years. I
reminded them I was fifty-four years old; too old to be out traipsin’ around the woods
with a bunch of young boys carryin’ loaded muskets. They were persistent, so I finally
gave in and agreed to go.
   Our company of the Granville militia is led by Captain Sugar Jones, under the
command of Colonel William Eaton. Some of the neighbors in the same company are
William Bledsoe, his brother, George Bledsoe, and his brothers-in-law, Henry Thornton
and Jeremiah Wooten. The militia is made up of a group of volunteers from the area,
mostly farmers and landowners. 
   I never really understood the purpose of this loosely organized group, other than
helpin’ keep the peace. These militia musters, as they are called, are more of a social event
than military trainin’. My biggest concern is the possibility of gettin’ shot by some likkered
up boy with a squirrel gun. Despite my initial objections, I went to the muster. I survived,
and the boys were right, the trip did help.
   Thanks to Mark’s help and suggestions for improvement, we had our best crops in
1763-64. We even planted wheat for the first time and were able to sell several barrels of
flour. In 1764, we planted cotton for the first time, but with all the effort and time
involved in removin’ the seeds, and preparin’ it for use, it wasn’t worth it.
   A large number of people moved into the region over the past twenty-seven years. The
fifteen or twenty families in 1737 has grown to around five hundred in 1764. The city of
Halifax has more than tripled in population, and smaller villages like Louisburg are bulgin’
with new businesses and people. New counties are bein’ formed on a regular basis; in fact,
we are now livin’ in Bute County. It was formed in 1764 from the eastern part of
Granville County. Some of the older settlers like to joke about havin’ lived the last forty
years in Bertie, Edgecombe, Granville and Bute, when, in fact, they haven’t moved a lick.
   On the day that their land became a part of Bute County, Theo, Jr.’s wife Temperance,
gave birth to their first child, you guessed it, Theophilus T. Goodwin. Now, there’s me,
Theophilus, Jr., Theophilus H., Theophilus T. and one of my old hound dogs, Theophilus
CP., answering to that name. CP stands for ole Corn Pone, his grandpappy.
   Like clockwork, Anne comes over from the Green’s - about a five mile ride- to make
sure that Amy, the boys, and I are gettin’ along all right. I always assured her that Jeane is
keepin’ us in line and feedin’ us exceptionally well. She seems to enjoy her visits. Secretly,
I look foward to those visits more than anyone. Even though she is only twenty-six years
old, those dark blue eyes, her beautiful smilin’ face, and those long, wonderful
conversations have me lookin’ at her more as a desirable woman than as a friend. I try to
suppress these feelin’s, but it’s impossible.
   Anne came on one of her weekly visits in early December, 1764. We just finished
dinner when a long row of snow clouds began to roll into the valley. By mid-afternoon it
started to rain. The rain turned into sleet, and by nightfall the snow storm started. Jeane
quickly went into the guest bedroom and started puttin’ extra quilts on the bed. She came
back handed Anne one of Amy’s nightgowns, and told her in no uncertain terms she was
not goin’ home in that kind of weather. 
   Jeane built a huge fire in the kitchen, and it burned down to a good cookin’ fire. She
and Anne cooked us a fine supper of pot-roast, gravy, mashed potatos, beans and hot
biscuits, with plenty of hot coffee to wash it down. After supper, everyone else went to
bed. I put three more huge oak logs on the fire, and Anne and I sat on opposite sides of
the table drinkin’ coffee and talkin’. When the fire burned down to coals we went to bed.
   Later that night, Anne silently entered my room, quietly closed the behind her, slipped 
underthe covers and whispered, “Uncle Theo, I’m freezin’! Can I snuggle up to you?”
That was the last time she ever called me Uncle. 
    In January of 1765, Nancy (Anne) Wyche Runals and I married in Louisburg before a
justice of the peace. Amy, my fourteen-year old daughter, was with us. She’s the only one
in the family that attended the wedding. As you might expect, there were a bunch of
surprised people in the valley when the news got around. The only one who didn’t show
any surprise was Jeane. Every time we were around her that day, we could hear her
mumblin’ under her breath, “I knowed it! I been knowin’ it. I seed it comin’. It couldn’t
hep but fo’ to happen.”
    On Saturday mornin’, a week after our marriage, we were surprised to see a line of
wagons and carriages comin’ up the road and into the yard. All of my children planned this
surprise get-together for Anne and me. 
    Henry, Lucy and their little wild rounder, Theo H. were the last to arrive. Henry
suffered one of his asthma attacks early that mornin’ but seemed to be all right when they
arrived. Theo H. was three and a half years old, goin’ on ten. He was curious about
everything and would go bear huntin’ with a switch if someone told him to. George and
his future bride, Rebecca Robinson, were there. Abe and Amy Green came over from the
Conway Creek area. 
    Needless to say, there was quite a crowd for dinner that day. Thank goodness, every
family brought a covered dish. I can honestly say I've never seen such a spread of vittles,
before or since. 
    On August 16th, 1765, Mark and I watched our first flatboat load of tobacco being
readied for shipment when Theo, Jr. came ridin’ up to the dock. He yelled, “Papa, we’ve
got to get up to Henry’s place as soon as possible! He’s real sick, and it looks like he
might not make it. He keeps askin’ for you.” John Myrick, a neighbor's seventeen-year old
son, was on his way to Louisburg for the doctor. I saddled a horse and immediately left
with Theo, Jr. I yelled back at Mark, “Hitch up the carrige and pick up Anne and Amy.”
When I got to Henry’s house, Lucy was in the parlor cryin’. Temperance was doin’ her
best to console her without much success. I rushed into the bedroom to find Henry
breathin’ in very rapid, shallow gasps. When he saw me he was barely able to force out the
words, “Take care of Lucy and Theo.” I vowed to him I would.
    I convinced Lucy to bury Henry in the plot next to Elizabeth and the twins, and for her
and Theo H. to move in with Anne and me for a while. Theo H. was only four years old,
and it was the saddest thing to look into his little face and see that he really couldn't
comprehend the events that had just taken place in his young life. We buried Henry on
August 18, 1765.
    With Lucy and little Theo H. livin’ with us, there was quite a change around our place
for the next several months. Within a week after they moved in, he explored every corner
of the place. He almost drove Jeane crazy with questions. He would sit at the kitchen table
and ask her about every move that she made.
    One morning he decided that he was goin’ to gather the eggs for Jeane, since he had
watched her do it. No one realized he was gone until we heard him screechin’ from the
chicken yard. One of the old roosters cornered him in the chicken house and spurred him
badly on both legs.
    When his legs were almost healed, he walked into the kitchen with a small rat snake he
caught out in the barn. He walked up behind Jeane, who was busy mixin’ a cake, tugged at
her dress, held the snake up toward her face and said, “What’s dis?” Abe swears he heard
the screamin’ over at his place. Talk about an upside-down cake, I think that’s where they
started. It took a tall ladder and about half a day to get the cake batter off the ceiling.
    A week to the day after the snake episode, Theo H. decided to see what was in the
smokehouse. He found a piece of firewood to stand on in order to reach the latch. He
opened the door, went in and found himself face to face, or vice-versa, with what he
thought was a striped squirrel. It took a whole cake of lye soap to scrub off the stiflin’
odor. We burned his clothes. Thank goodness, we weren't smokin’ any meat at the time,
but the meat from that smokehouse never did taste right after that. Would you believe all
this, and they have only been with us for one month!
    After Henry's estate was settled on December 6, 1765, Lucy told us she wanted to
move back home and run the farm herself. It was unusual for a widow to maintain a
plantin’ operation. She has only two Negroes, Pansy, Prince’s oldest child that we had
given to them when Theo H. was born, and Harper or Coot, as we call him, Jeane and
Gimmie's youngest boy. Pansy and Coot were both seventeen when Theo H. was born and
very much in love, so Henry bought Coot to help with the farm and keep Pansy happy. 
    With the help of Theo, Jr., Mark, and me, and the use of our Negroes, Lucy was able
to keep her place showin’ a profit. Peter agreed to keep books for her. That boy really
knew how to get the most out of every shillin’. After the first year, she was actually able
to pay us for use of the Negroes.
    Peter, always lookin’ for ways of makin’ more profit, asked me to sit down in the
parlor with him one day. He said, “I’ve been doin’ a lot of serious thinkin’ after helpin’
Lucy. She has been able to turn a nice profit on her one hundred seventy-five acres. She
only has to maintain one Negro cabin. She doesn’t have to feed anybody, other than the
four of them, and she is not taxed on any Negroes other than Pansy and Coot.” What
Peter was tryin’ to tell me was that Lucy is showin’ more profit per acre than we are
without all of the extra responsibility of maintainin’ Negroes.
I asked him what was he suggestin’, because I certainly respected his opinions,
especially when it come to managin’ money. I said, “Do you think I should sell all the
Negroes and then hire them from someone else to do the same work? That doesn't make
any sense.” Peter's answer shocked me to the bottom of my boots. He said, “Absolutely
not, you've got more land than you know what to do with. Free the Negroes, let them
have on a hundred acres each, build their own homes, and give you half the profits for the
use of the land. In other words, eliminate all the responsibility, and sit back and enjoy the
profits.”
    At first, I thought Peter had lost his mind. Everybody knew there was no such thing as
a free Negro, and if there was, they wouldn’t be allowed to own or manage any land. They
weren’t even allowed to learn how to read or write, and the common opinion was that
they weren’t capable of it anyway. After lyin’ awake most of the night, I began to realize
that what Peter said made perfect sense, but it was impossible at the time. I sometimes
think Peter was born a hundred years before his time.
    Anne informed me right after Christmas in 1765, that she was pregnant. I had noticed
the weight gain but knew better than to tell her that she was getting a little pudgy. I have
never seen Anne so happy. I took the news with mixed emotions. I was happy about the
baby, but after all, I was fifty-six years old, and that four-year old grandson, Theo H., has
just about done me in. I told Anne, “I’ve come to the conclusion that havin’ babies is for
the young.” She immediately responded in an excited voice, “That's it, that's what we'll
name him, Young Goodwin.” She was absolutely sure it was goin’ to be a boy. I sort of
wanted a girl, especially after tryin’ to keep up with Theo H. for the past several weeks.
    Young was born on April 7, 1766. For the next few weeks I think that every woman in
the valley came by to see the newest Goodwin. Amy Bledsoe came by with her four-year
old daughter, Rebecca, or Becky, as they now called her. Amy didn't plan to bring her, but
Becky just had to come and see her new cousin.
    Little Becky was so prim and proper and was delighted when Anne let her hold Young
in her lap for a while. That little girl, even though only four years old, was the sweetest,
most polite thing I’ve ever seen. When I think of Theo H., I wonder why God made such
a difference in little boys and little girls. Shortly after Young was born, Theo, Jr. and
Temperance had their second son in June, 1766. They named him Solomon.
    It was early fall, 1766. Anne and I were rockin’ on the front porch, when Lucy came
gallopin’ into the yard on her bareback horse. She jumped off and ran up on the porch
shoutin’, “Theo’s gone, I can’t find him anywhere!”
    I was headed to the barn to saddle my horse when I heard Theo H. hollerin’ as he ran
toward me from the corn field, “Pappy, Pappy! I brung you a wabbit, I brung you a big ole
wabbit.” He was runnin’ full speed, and draggin’ a rabbit, with Henry's two huntin’ dogs,
Blue and Stump, right with him. He was still shoutin’ excitedly when he got to me. “Ole
Bu’ jumped ‘im, an he runned inna hole, an Stump digged ‘im out an kilt ‘im.” He was
holdin’ the rabbit by the back legs, and the rabbit's head was touchin’ the ground.
 He was still chatterin’ as Lucy and Anne ran around to the back yard. “Stump hadda
dig a big ole hole an’ Bu hepped. Kin I hep you skin ‘im Pappy, kin I hep, huh?” I've never
seen a more excited youngun in my life. Theo H. was still talkin’. “Ole Stump wuz gonna
eat ‘im, but I took ‘im away fum ‘im. I’ll hep you skin ‘im. Awright, Pappy?”
All three of us burst out laughin’ at the same time, and that’s probably the only reason
that Theo H. didn’t get his little butt worn out. By the way, Theo H. and I had
smother-fried rabbit, biscuits, and gravy for supper that night, and, as he so graciously put
it, while pattin’ his pudgy little bare belly, “Sho’ was good, wadn’t it, Pappy?”
    Ever since Anne and I sold a hundred acres on Sandy Creek to John Watkins on July
22, 1766, for twenty pounds, I’ve had the feelin’ that Anne would like to have a new
house in a new area. Even though Elizabeth died three years ago, there are things that
constantly remind us both that this was her home.
    In August of 1767, we sold our house with four hundred acres to Samuel Freeman for
three hundred ten pounds. We included a stipulation with the sale that the twenty square
foot burial plot would still belong to me as long as I lived. On the same day, we bought
two hundred acres from Samuel Freeman. The land was on Shocco Creek adjacent to John
and Elizabeth's place. We now had only two hundred twenty-five acres left on Sandy
Creek. This was low swampy land, which we eventually sold to John Hoof for only
ninety-three pounds and six shillin’s.
    Anne must have worn out five quills and used a pint of ink in drawin’ the plans for the
new house and quarters. Four months and two hundred pounds in costs later, we moved
into our new house. There were four bedrooms and a combination spinnin’, sewin’,
quiltin’ room upstairs. There were two more bedrooms downstairs along with a large
parlor and dinin’ room. The front entrance was covered with a gabled roof supported by
four identical pine columns. Underneath this roof was a long balcony extendin’ out from
the second floor with entrances to two of the bedrooms and the combination room. Thirty
feet out back of the dinin’ room, and connected to it by a covered walkway, was the
kitchen.
    About two hundred yards behind the big house and on the other side of a small knoll
were eight large two-room Negro cabins. The four of Jeane’s boys that were still with us
were now grown and had families of their own, so we needed more cabins. 
    There was now a water-powered sawmill downstream on the creek, so we were able to
build with fine straight boards cut out of the heart of some of our huge pines. We hired
Joe from Thomas to oversee the buildin’, knowin’ he took pride in his work. We took as
many Negroes as we could spare from the harvestin’ and put them to work with Joe. After
harvest, there were eight Negroes plus all of their older children workin’ with him. Anne
wanted to be moved in by Christmas, and we made it by five days.
    Mark, Peter, and I were sittin’ on the new balcony late one afternoon. As always, the
subject got around to politics. Peter liked to ride into Louisburg at least once a week to
keep up with the latest shenanigans of the British. We’ve always enjoyed predictin’ what
they would come up with next. We’ve never been overly concerned about any of their
ridiculous regulations, but now relations between the British and the Colonies are
beginnin’ to be strained.
     The seed for a revolt in the colonies existed from the time of the first settlement in the
new world. After all, the colonies are settled primarily by dissenters who came to America
for freedom of speech, actions, and religion. They wanted to lead their own lives without
interference from the government or the church. The British, especially since 1763, seem
to nurture the growth of these seeds by tryin’ to strictly enforce laws, regulations, and
taxes that are virtually overlooked or ignored by the Colonists.
    Most of the settlers of the 1600’s came from England, while most of the settlers of the
1700’s were from Northern Ireland, the Scottish highlands and Germany. These settlers of
the 1700’s have absolutely no allegiance to the British policies or laws. 
 England's “New Colonial Policy”, established in 1763, antagonizes part of the
Colonists, as well as the British. Protest by the Colonists go unnoticed by Parliament, and
new laws and regulations are ignored by the Colonies.
    On March 1, 1765, Parliament passed the “Stamp Act”. This was the first internal or
direct tax imposed on us by the English. This act required that stamped paper or stamps be
used on all varieties of legal documents, includin’ newspapers. The cost of the stamps
varied from ten pounds sterling to as little as a half-penny. This act brought a barrage of
protest from Maine to Georgia, was never adhered to, and was repealed by Parliament last
year.
    In spite of the repeal, the fire of resistance has been kindled. Parliament continues
passin’ laws and regulations. The “Declaratory Regulation” on March 18th of last year,
stated that Parliament, “Had, hath, and of right ought to have, full power and authority to
make laws and statutes of sufficient force and validity to bind the colonies and the people
of America...in all cases whatsoever.” 
    The Townsend Duty or Revenue Act of 1767 placed import duties on wine, tea, paper,
glass, lead, and painters’ colors. The money raised from this act, in part, is to be used to
pay the salaries of the colonial governors and judges. Violators of this law are to be tried
in courts of vice-admiralty, which has no juries.
    These laws, acts, proclamations, declarations, and regulations have done nothin’ more
than promote a closer cooperation and a stronger bind between the Colonies. I feel sure
that if the British continue to try to maintain this type of dominance over strong minded
independent people, it will surely lead to war.
    In March of 1769, George married Rebecca Robinson. Her father owns a large farm
just north of the Virginia-North Carolina line. On February 13, 1770, George and Rebecca
bought three hundred acres of land just south of us on Shocco Creek. Peter, Mark, John,
and I pitched in to help them with the buildin’. By plantin’ time that spring, the buildin’s
were finished, and we gave them Jude, Jeane’s son, to help with the crops.
    Peter had decided to go out on his own in the plantin’ business in 1769. He bought two
hundred acres over on an eastern branch of Sandy Creek. His land was only about four
miles to the west of us, so he was able to use our Negroes and tools to get his crops in.
Actually John, George, Peter, and I are so close geographically that we always coordinate
our plantin’ and harvestin’ so that we can share labor, animals, and tools. Peter married a
girl named Elizabeth in 1769. He built their house on our property, and continues to work
the land.
    Anne and I have come to the conclusion that Mark and Peter were perfectly capable of
handlin’ the farm. We have decided to give up the full time responsabilities and enjoy
Young, now four, and our grandchildren. All of our children are now married with the
exception of Mark, Amy and little Young of course. 
 In 1770, we welcomed an addition to the family, Anne gave birth to our second son,
David, in June. Lucy came and stayed with us two weeks to help with the baby and, of
course, twelve-year old Theo H. was with her. 
    In July, Mark moved in with Thomas and Unity and help them with the farm. He
reasoned that Tom’s boy, Matthew, was too young to be of much help with the work, and
we had Peter to oversee the Negroes on our place. I also have an idea that he didn't really
feel that he was a part of this new family of mine. 
    In May, 1772, John; Mark; Theo, Jr.; and George came to tell us of their plans to sell
out and move to newly opened lands in the ninety-six District of South Carolina. They all
did their best to talk me and Anne into sellin’ out and goin’ with them, but soon found out
their efforts were futile. Mark said, “Papa, I’m goin’ with them, I’m thirty-two now, and
it’s high time that I find a life of my own.” You can’t imagine our disappointment. Livin’
as close to them as we do, we have grown accustomed to our grandchildren bein’ around
most of the time, and have become closely attached to them. 
    Mark has been a big part of my life, and it was he who held me and the younger
children together when their mother died. Without Mark takin’ over the farm operation
back then, I don't know where we would have been. Now, they’re all movin’ so far away
that in the bottom of my heart, I feel that I may never see them again. After John’s crops
were in and sold, I bought his place for fifty pounds. We finalized the sale on October 21,
1772.
    At dawn on October 25, 1772, the whole Goodwin clan gathered at John and
Elizabeth’s house to see them off. John and his two Negroes, Sam and Cato, and their
families had loaded only the bare necessities into four open wagons. The wagons were
hitched to four pair of oxen. I had given Mark two oxen and our best wagon, plus two
hundred pounds to help get him started in South Carolina.
    Samson, now sixteen, was feelin’ his importance mounted on a good lookin’ saddle
horse prancin’ out in front of the wagons. Eighteen-year old Anna, with her baby sister,
Delila, in her lap, sat on the seat of the lead wagon with John and her mother.
Fourteen-year old Betsy stood behind her holdin’ on to the wooden seat. Nine year old
Sally and five-year old Polly sat in back of the wagon with their legs danglin’ out.
Theo, Jr., and Temperance, along with their two-year old daughter, Rebecca, and their
three sons, Theo T., Solomon, and Thomas, were in the wagon behind John's family. Sam,
Cato, and Cato's oldest son were drivin’ the next three wagons. Mark was on horseback,
and Pompey was drivin’ his team. We had given Pompey and his family to Mark. Pompey
had worked very closely with Mark in the plantin’ and harvestin’ for the past ten years. He
had asked Jeane, his mother, to see if we would sell them to Mark. George, Rebecca, and
their two-year old son, Robinson, were in the next wagon. George’s Negroes, Jude, Hamp
and Jake along with their families, occupied the last two wagons.
      Jeane was with us that mornin’ and, just like Anne and me, was losin’ a big part of her
family. John and Elizabeth were lookin’ foward to being reunited with Elizabeth's family,
the Ambrose Jacksons. The children would be meetin’ their other grandparents for the first
time. They all promised that they would write us a long letter as soon as they were settled
in South Carolina.
    I, too, at one time years ago, felt the excitement and expectations they were now
feelin’, and I now fully understand the many tears that were shed those thirty-two years
ago in Virginia. 



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