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                                 CHAPTER FIVE

                A GREAT LOSS & A NEW BEGINNING             

   My grandfather, Theophilus Goodwin, Sr., died in the spring of 1788 and was buried
next to his first wife, Elizabeth, on the oak-covered knoll overlooking Sandy Creek
Valley.
   Since my father died when I was only four years old, Pappy, as I called him, was the
only father I had ever known. He was always there for me when I was growing up. He
was there when I needed advice; he was there to help me through any problems, no matter
how large are small; he was there when I needed strict discipline, and Lord knows that
was often; he was there when I needed a friend to talk to; in short, he was there.
   Little did I know when he asked me to keep up with the Goodwin family and record it
in writing, that news of his death would be my first entry. Right now, I feel that something
has reached deep inside me and removed a huge and valued part of my life.
   Young, David and Uncle Peter, along with Solomon and all the Negroes are now
responsible for continuing the farm work. Anne, Pappy’s widow, and the two youngest
children, David and Mary Ann are the only ones now living in the main house.
   Becky and I now have five children--in order of birth, William, Julius, Wiley, Harris,
and our first daughter, Charity.  Mama is living with us and is a big help in raising the
children. With five children ranging from ages one through nine, I don't know how we
could manage without her. Of course, Pansy and Coot are a tremendous help.
   Mama, Becky, and I were overnight guests at the wedding of David Goodwin and
Temperance Andrews at Anne's house in November, 1789. Temperance is a younger sister
of Martha, Young’s wife. We were able to see Young and Martha's three children for the
first time. They were William, almost three, Elizabeth, soon to be two, and the newborn,
Mary. I was happy to find out that Young had hired an overseer to help maintain the farm
work and Negroes on both his and his mother’s places. With his bad leg, there are certain
things he can’t do. 
   David and Temperance plan to live with David’s mother, Anne, and his sister, Mary
Ann, at the present.  We thoroughly enjoyed the visit and seeing all the kinfolk, but we all
agreed that the old family closeness was not there. Maybe it was because Pappy was
missing.
   After returning to Wake County from David's wedding, we found a long and
informative letter from Bartlett, Becky's brother. He married Lydia Douglas, daughter of
John Douglas, in 1783. John married Sarah Beckham on September 9, 1788. Bartlett and
Lydia have three daughters, Amy, named for his mother, Mary and Elizabeth. John and
Sarah also have a new baby boy named William, after his grandfather, and an older
daughter named Karren. Berryman’s widow, Amelia (Milly), and their eleven-year old
daughter, Sarah are living on Penn Creek close to Bartlett and Lydia. 
   Bartlett and Lydia have been very fortunate in accumulating several large tracts of land
along the Little Saluda River and along several of it's tributary creeks. Most of their land
came through land grants. After their latest application for nine hundred forty acres along
Penn Creek is finalized, they will have over twenty-four hundred acres. 
   Bartlett's letter was primarily in the form of a plea for help. He and his brother, John,
realize that there is no way that they can manage this much land. Bartlett has three
hundred acres of prime bottom land along Rocky Creek. He and Lydia have agreed to help
build us a house and give us the use of the land forever, if we will agree to move to South
Carolina. John and Bartlett were both very disappointed when we decided not to move
down with them after our wedding and have written at least every two years since,
encouraging us to move.
   After the children were all in bed that night, Mama, Becky, and I were discussing the
letter and the possibilities it opens for us. Becky's father passed away in 1787, and her
mother, Amy, died shortly thereafter, so the most beloved part of our family is now in
South Carolina. Becky's brother, William Jr., still lives close to us, but is on his death bed
and not expected to live for very long. Becky is completely sold on moving, but says she
hates to leave with her brother so sick.
   As diplomatically as I could, I explained that William would probably die within the
month, so we shouldn't delay our plans on his behalf. It would take longer than that to
organize the trip. Of course, Mama doesn't have any family left in Wake County, so she is
excited about moving to a new home in South Carolina. Since Pappy’s death, there’s no
reason to not take advantage of Bartlett’s offer.                                                                 
   Uncle Peter’s son, Solomon, has been making plans to move to the Laurens District,
South Carolina. Theo, Jr.’s letters describing the excellent hunting and fishing along the
unclaimed lands in the Durbin Creek area has him chomping at the bit to go. Travel in
these new sparsely settled lands can be dangerous, especially when traveling in small
groups, so I assured Mama and Becky that I wouldn’t have any problem getting a few
other families together to accompany us. 
   The area around Louisburg has become very populated and with children growing up,
getting married, and trying to find suitable new land for farming, people are making plans
to move on to the newly opened lands in South Carolina and Georgia.
   The next day, I saddled my horse, Sugarfoot, and rode to Uncle Peter’s to talk to
Solomon. When I got there, he and Solomon were out in the back yard skinning a big
buck that Solomon shot that morning down by Little Shocco Creek. I pitched in to help
them finish dressing the deer. We then went inside, where Aunt Elizabeth insisted that I
stay for dinner.  
   After dinner while Uncle Peter, Solomon, and I were sitting out on the porch chewing
and smoking, I blurted out, “Let’s move to South Ca’lina, Solomon.” Solomon's mouth
dropped open in surprise, Uncle Peter took a long drag on his pipe and looked out over
his glasses at us, and I just sat there. It was obvious that Solomon had never mentioned a
word to Uncle Peter about his desires to move to South Carolina. After what seemed like
five minutes of silence, Uncle Peter said, “With all y’all got ‘round here, why’n hell would
you want to move out in that wilderness?”  I was sure that Solomon would go with us, but
when I left, he was still trying to answer the question. Uncle Peter made no bones about
his unhappiness at our decision to move, but said he understood.
   When I got back home that afternoon, Mama met me at the front porch and said,
“Becky’s over at William’s place. He died this mornin’ right after you left. You better get
on over there, she needs you.” William Bledsoe was buried the next day in the plot by his
mother and father.
   The first group to pull into the yard on the morning of March 2nd was the family of
Lodowick Hill, son of Thomas Hill, one of Pappy’s oldest friends. He had three wagons.
He was driving the lead wagon with his wife, Nancy, sitting beside him. Their five
children, Polly, Jessie, Sarah, Theophilus, and Henry were walking on each side of the
wagon. His second and third wagons were driven by his Negroes, Mango and Sam. Lodie,
as we called him, had purchased land on Penn Creek, a tributary of the Little Saluda River
months ago and was waiting for spring and people to travel with before moving.
   He brought his two Negro families, those of Mango and Sam. In all, Lodie’s party
included twelve Negroes, and his own family of seven. As they turned into the road
leading up to the house, they looked like a small army. I only hope they packed enough
flour and meal to feed all these folks. 
   Henry C. and Nancy Jane Turner, their children and their two families of three Negroes
each, were the next to come in. It was almost dark, and we were beginning to be
concerned about Solomon. Maybe Uncle Peter and Aunt Elizabeth had talked him out of
going. You can imagine our sense of relief and feeling of jubilation when Solomon rode up
on his big bay horse with two wagons not far behind him. We all wondered who could be
in the wagons; after all, everyone who planned to make the trip was present and accounted
for. 
   As the wagons got closer I recognized Uncle Peter and Aunt Elizabeth. You can
imagine my surprise! I suppose they came down to see us off, but why did they come in an
ox-driven wagon instead of their buggy, and who was in the second wagon?  As unhappy
as Uncle Peter was about Solomon leaving, he finally told him, “By God, if you’re a’goin’,
we’re a’goin’, too. I got a powerful hankering to see all a’ my brothers anyhow. I'll buy us
a plot a’ dirt when we get there.” Needless to say, I’ve never seen a wider grin on
Solomon’s face.
   Uncle Peter has not been happy with his situation since Pappy died. He had always
thought a part of his father's plantation and a few of the Negroes would become his, when
his father passed away. That's why he stayed and worked so hard all those years
preceeding Pappy’s death. Gabriel Long and Uncle John Myrick were the the executors of
Pappy’s estate. Their job was very easy, since everything was left to his second wife,
Anne. She let the whole family know immediately that the plantation would be maintained
by Young and David, and at her death it would go lock, stock, and barrel to Young,
David, and Mary Ann . Of course, all of the children of Pappy’s first marriage that were
still living in the area were not very happy, but there was nothing they could do. All Uncle
Peter would say was, “What goes ‘round, comes ‘round.” 
   The only children by Pappy's first wife, Elizabeth, still in the area were Aunt Amy
Myrick and Uncle Peter.  Uncle Thomas was killed in 1778, and my father, Henry, died in
1765. With all that had taken place over the last three years, Uncle Peter finally realized it
was time for him to move on. 
   I personally hate to see these ill and, heretofore, unspoken feelings among the family,
especially since Young and I are such good friends. We grew up together, and just last
year before David’s wedding he told me how unhappy he was with his mother's mistakes
and assured me he would rectify them when he ever got the chance. He informed me that
his mother’s wrath began to surface when Pappy, with his dying breath, told her to bury
him next to Elizabeth, his first wife.
   When Uncle Peter rode up to Anne’s to inform them of his decision to move, her first
words were, “What do you plan to do about Fed and his family?” Fed was a Negro who
had been living on Peter’s land and working with him since 1770. After Pappy’s death in
1788, Anne had given Fed and his family to Young. Of course, Young didn’t need or want
to take him from Uncle Peter. 
   Young, knowing that Anne was expecting him to be paid for the Negroes, immediately
said, “Mama, you know they are going with Uncle Peter, and I’m gonna throw in a nice
pair of oxen and a wagon for them.” Anne was livid and asked, “How much is Peter going
to pay you for all that?” Young, now becoming furious with his mother, replied, “Oh, I
don’t know; how does a penny sound, Uncle Peter?” Uncle Peter quickly answered,
“You’ve got a sale.” 
   Young and Uncle Peter laughed all the way out to the barn to hitch up the oxen. As
Uncle Peter, with his horse hitched to the back of the wagon, started to leave, Young
apologized to him for his mother’s behavior and told him how sorry he was to see them
go.
   Young and Martha Goodwin, David and Temperance Goodwin, with their seven month
old David Jr., and Uncle John and Aunt Amy Myrick also rode in late that afternoon in
order to see us off the next morning. All of them confided that they, too, were
contemplating a move to either Georgia or South Carolina in the not-too-distant future.
Young agreed to sell Uncle Peter’s land and either send or bring the money to him,
depending on the outcome of their anticipated move.
   We planned to leave the next day at first light. There were a lot of excited people
camping on our property that night. There were five families of Negroes, including Pansy
and Coot, twenty-five in all. There were the Hills, seven of them; Solomon, Uncle Peter
and Aunt Elizabeth Goodwin; Henry C. and Nancy Jane Turner with their children, Nancy,
and Henry, Jr.; and of course there was Mama, Becky, myself, and our five children,
William, Julius, Harris, Wiley, and Charity. 
   Forty-seven people, including the Negroes, will make the trip.  Ten wagons were
already checked for trip-worthiness and ready to go, and each will be pulled by a pair of
oxen. Six milk cows will be hitched to the back of the wagons. Four spare oxen will be
herded by two of the Negro children. There are two wagons caged in with long wooden
slats and loaded with three dozen chickens each; twelve saddle horses to be ridden by
different people at different times; twenty-two anxious adults and twenty-five screaming
and yelling children. This is the make-up of the wagon train that hit the trail for South
Carolina at daybreak on March 3, 1791.
   I am the only person in the group that has even set foot in South Carolina, so Solomon
and I agreed to lead the procession on horseback. Uncle John, Uncle Mark and Bartlett
had sent explicit maps that would lead us directly to their houses. My primary job is to
keep us on the right trail. Solomon agreed to keep us all supplied with fresh meat
throughout the journey. We’ll travel from daybreak until late afternoon, or about eight
hours each day. We always want to make camp with plenty of daylight left to cook, milk
cows, and feed and water the animals. I always travel out front and am responsible for
finding suitable campsites.
   Our son, William, was in charge of feeding and watering the chickens and trying to
keep them calm. We were concerned that they might stampede and trample each other to
death in their close quarters. It turned out to be quite a job for a nine-year old, but William
took a lot of pride in his responsibilities and got plenty of help from Henry Turner's
daughter, Nancy. Fortunately, the excitement of the trip didn't keep the hens from laying,
and one of the hardest jobs for William and Nancy was to gather the eggs from the straw
covered floor of the wagons and prevent the hens from escaping. We had purposely
brought only one rooster for each wagon. We wanted to avoid any territorial fights. The
roosters seemed to be working overtime to supply us with plenty of fertile eggs when we
arrived at our new homes. I hope they survive the trip, but if they don’t, I’m sure they’ll
die happy.
   Game was plentiful and Solomon always had plenty of fresh meat all dressed and ready
for cooking when we made camp every afternoon. We ate well with plenty of turkey, deer
and wild pigs available. We ate the choice cuts and left the rest for the scavengers of the
forest. Solomon made sure to clean and dress the animals at least a couple of miles from
our campsites. We didn't want to share our campsite with a pack of hungry wolves, bears,
or panthers that were abundant in the area.
   The fourth day out on our journey Solomon made the mistake of leaving the remains of
a deer and two pigs just across a small creek from our camp. We were awakened in the
middle of the night by the most spine-tingling cat fight any of us would ever experience.
The fierce screeching and growling from across that creek even had our bravest hunting
dogs looking for cover underneath the wagons. Still, one of Henry Turner’s best dogs,
Pepper, charged across the creek and into the middle of the fight. 
   We immediately built up a huge fire in the middle of the camp, and I was afraid the
children would burn themselves trying to get closer to the fire. The fights continued on
and off for what seemed like two hours. At daybreak we went across to see if we could
figure out what happened and only found what was left of Pepper. For the next two days,
we ate dried beans and salt pork for supper, and, needless to say, we continued the
practice of building a huge fire in the middle of camp every night.
   By the tenth day out, we were in the up-country of South Carolina near the Broad
River. We arrived at the river very late that afternoon and set up camp. Fortunately, we
had beat the spring rains, and the river was fordable at our campsite. All the women and
children were just about worn out at that point and insisted that we camp there for two
nights. Even though we were only one day’s journey from John’s place on Buffalo Creek,
the menfolk agreed. This would allow us to rest the animals, wash clothes, bathe the
children and ourselves and enjoy a much needed rest. 
   Before supper we found a deep hole where the water was rushing between two big
boulders in the river and placed a weighted fish basket on the bottom. The next morning it
took three of us to get the basket out of the river. It was loaded with trout and red bellies
of all sizes. All the men pitched in and we had the fish cleaned by sunup.
   We cut hickory poles for tripods and hung three washpots over hot fires. Hog lard was
placed in each pot, and when it began to boil the mealed fish were dumped in. The fish
cooked to a golden brown in a few minutes and floated to the top. When the lard cooled,
balls of cornmeal mixed with water and onions were cooked the same way. After eating
cold cornbread and leftover cold meat for the last ten mornings, everyone considered this
a feast. I don't ever recall enjoying fish as much as I did that morning on the banks of the
Broad River. 
   After the lard was strained through cloth back into the cans, and the washpots were
cleaned using sand and water from the river, the women began boiling clothes. The
children carried water from the river, and the men strung rope wherever possible for
drying. Everyone, both black and white, pitched in, and all the clothes were drying in the
sun and wind by mid-day. 
   I found a couple of eddy, shallow spots between the rocks in the river, one upstream
and one downstream from the camp. The women bathed upstream and the men
downstream. After everyone thoroughly scrubbed with lye soap that afternoon, things
smelled a lot better around the campfire that night. Everyone was in good sprits, rested,
and eager for an early start the next morning.
   Solomon located a shallow, fairly level spot a couple of miles downstream for crossing
the river. By sunrise, we were across the river and on the road to Unionsville. From the
maps John had drawn for us, we figured we were only about fifteen miles from his place.
Solomon, Uncle Peter, and I mounted our horses and decided to go on ahead of the
wagons to see Uncle John and let him know that we would like to camp at his place for a
couple of days. After about two hours at a slow trot, we reached a small village. There
were a few dwelling houses, two churches, a general merchandise store and a tavern. This
had to be Unionsville. 
   We stopped at the store, tied our horses and went in. The storekeeper, a dumpy little
gray-haired man, peered out at us over his small wire-rimmed reading glasses and
informed us, as if we didn't know, “You folks is strangers to these parts. Y’all planning to
settle hereabouts, or is y’all jus’ passing through?” “Jus’ passing”, replied Uncle Peter.
“Where y’all from?”, he asked. “No’th Ca’lina”, we answered. He asked, “Where y’all
going?” “South Ca’lina”, I said. “Well, y’all done here,” he replied.
   He continued without a pause, “Where ‘bouts in South Ca’lina y’all headed?” “Don't
rightly know for sure, yet”, answered Uncle Peter. “Got any kinfolk in these parts?”
“Yeah, got four brothers down here som’mers.” “Well, gimme their names, I know just
about eva’body in the up-country.” “John, Theo, George and Mark Goodwin, you know
‘em?” “Well, sho’ I do, me and John been friends fa’ nigh on twenty years.” “Don’t know
Mark, George, and Theo that well, but they do come ova’ now and again. I’ll show y’all
exactly how to get to John’s place; he's only about eight miles southeast a’ here. Y’all
traveling by y’alls selves?” When Uncle Peter informed him that there was a wagon train
with about forty-four more people a few hours behind us and that they would be stopping
for supplies, I swear I could see dollar marks coming from the gleam in his eyes. 
   We followed the storekeeper's directions and approached the bridge over Fairforest
Creek. Just before the bridge, we turned right and headed up the creek toward what
would be Buffalo Creek. John’s house was just across the creek and up on a hill
overlooking the junction of Fairforest and Buffalo creeks. We were a little surprised to see
several people on the porch and some in the yard. As we rode into the yard everyone
turned, staring and trying to figure out who we were. 
   Finally, one of the men came off the porch and started running in our direction. It was
Uncle Mark, and right behind him was Uncle Theo. They finally recognized Uncle Peter.
It's been almost twenty years since they’ve seen any of us. After all the hugging, they
informed us Uncle John’s wife, Aunt Elizabeth, was deathly ill. 
   Uncle Theo, Uncle Mark, and Uncle George were there as well as all of John and
Elizabeth's children and their families. Elizabeth’s parents were also there. We went inside
and talked to Uncle John for awhile, and he thought it would be all right for us to go in
and speak to Elizabeth. He thought that it might perk her up a little bit. She was very pale,
and John propped her up on some on the pillows, so she could see and talk to us. She
immediately recognized Uncle Peter, but I had to tell her who I was. We began to realize
how sick she really was when she began asking me how my father, Henry, was getting
along.
   I said, “Uncle John, I’m gonna ride back and meet the wagons and have ‘em set up
camp back on the Laurensville Road instead of coming on up here to yo’ place.” He
wouldn’t hear of it. He said, “Theo, if I ever needed plenty of family and friends around,
it’s right now.” He pointed out a huge meadow just down the hill and said, “There’s
plenty of firewood as well as fresh water from a spring down there, it’ll make a good place
for y’all to camp and visit for a few days.”
   As we were talking, the dinner bell clanged on the back porch. We went to the
backyard, and to my surprise, about a forty foot table made of planks across saw horses
was covered with about every kind of food imaginable. It was brought in by all the
Woodson, Hays, Roundtree, Plummer, Little, and Jackson families; all neighbors and
friends of John and Elizabeth. 
   We set up camp down in the meadow by Buffalo Creek when the wagons got in late
that afternoon, and Peter’s wife, Elizabeth and Mama went up to visit and sit up with Aunt
Elizabeth. I warned Mama that she might ask her about Henry, so she wouldn’t be
shocked. Even though we were all sad about Aunt Elizabeth’s illness, we thoroughly
enjoyed renewing aquaintances with our older cousins and meeting the younger ones for
the first time. 
   They all seemed pleased to be able to welcome Solomon into the family. He seemed to
feel at ease with everyone and especially with Sally, Uncle John's single, twenty-six-year
old daughter. I don't know why Sally never married, she was the best looking of all Uncle
John’s and Aunt Elizabeth’s girls. Maybe she wanted to stay home and take care of her
parents, or maybe there weren’t enough Woodson boys to go around.
   Aunt Elizabeth died late that night and was buried the next afternoon in the cemetery
by the Baptist Church. That was on Sunday. We postponed our leaving by one day and
made plans to leave on Tuesday at daybreak. Uncle Peter, Aunt Elizabeth, and Solomon
made plans to stay a little longer and be of any help they could to Uncle John. Mark
offered to sell them three hundred acres of farm land on Little River in Laurens County at
a good price. They accepted the offer and told Mark they would be there in about a week. 
   I'm not so sure it wasn’t Solomon’s idea to spend the extra week with Uncle John and
Sally. Solomon confidentially asked me the day before we left, “Theo, how long should I
wait ‘fore asking Sally to marry me?” I said, “At least a week, ‘cause if you don’t, I’m
sure some of these Hays or Woodson boys are bound to ask her soon.” I must have
convinced him, because that very night, in spite of the poor timing due to her mother’s
death, he proposed to Sally, and she accepted. 
   As we pulled out the next morning, Uncle Mark and Uncle Theo led the way. We
followed them down the Laurensville road across Fairforest Creek, past Hays’ store, and
across the Tyger River. At Duncan Creek, Uncle Theo said his goodbyes and galloped off
to the right toward Durbin Creek. We crossed Duncan Creek and proceeded to
Laurensville. When we reached Little River, Uncle Mark turned right, toward his place.
After we said our goodbyes, the rest of us crossed the river and turned southeast toward
the Saluda River and Edgefield District.
   Without Uncle Peter, Aunt Elizabeth, and Solomon, along with their Negro, Fed, and
his family of four, our wagon train was much smaller. It now only consisted of Mama,
Becky, me, our five children with Pansy and Coot; Lodie and Nancy Hill, their five
children and twelve Negroes; Henry C. and Nancy Jane Turner, their two children and
their six Negroes. In all, there were thirty-nine people, eight wagons, eighteen oxen, five
milk cows and forty-eight chickens.                   
   We set up camp that night at Chapel’s Ferry on the Saluda River. Chapel said, “It’ll
take at least ten crossings to get all a’ y’alls stuff to tha’ Edgefield County side of the
river. With loading and unloading, I figure it’ll take at least four hours.” I thought his
prices were too high at fifty cents per trip, but we didn’t want to risk losing anything
trying to ford the river, so we paid him the five dollars. Chapel said, “If y’all get started
loading at first light tomorrow, I’ll have you ‘cross the river lock, stock, and barrel by
mid-morning. Then, if y’all make good time, y’all should be in the Penn Creek area by
sundown.”
   We were up and stirring when the first rooster crowed. We were ready to get started,
and the only thing slowing us down was Chapel himself. I had to pound on his front porch
for what seemed fifteen minutes to even get him up. He had sat by the campfire with us
last night, chewing, spitting, drinking corn likker, and telling war stories. He must’ve
chewed a whole plug of store-bought tobacco and downed at least a half gallon a’ corn
whiskey. As red eyed and grouchy as he was, he still had us across the river before the sun
was even over the treetops.  
   The road from Chapel’s Ferry to the village of Edgefield ran along a ridge of hardwood
trees and was in much better shape than the other roads we had traveled, so we were able
to make much better time. In his letter, Bartlett told me when we crossed Red Bank Creek
to start looking for a church and a cemetery on the left of the main road. He said right past
the church to take the road that branched off to the left, and it would lead us to his place
on Little Penn Creek. His would be the first house we would see. We pulled into his yard
in mid-afternoon on Wednesday, March 20, 1791. Our trip was over.

CHAPTER SIX                                                                                                                    BACK