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Showing posts with label Great Wagon Road. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Great Wagon Road. Show all posts

Monday, April 20, 2015

Natural Colonial Piedmont Georgia


Recreating the setting of the Colonial Georgia Piedmont (essentially Middle Georgia) during the late 1700s means one must imagine a wilderness little spoiled by settlement. Many pioneers of this region were Scots-Irish generally unwelcome in the staid British communities of New England who had followed the Great Wagon Road south as lands increasingly opened up. Government officials were happy for these tough and fiery immigrants to provide a barrier to the Indian nations. By 1765, the land west of Augusta, Georgia began to look attractive. In 1773, naturalist William Bartram described Augusta as being located on a rich and fertile plain on the Savannah River, with buildings near the banks extending nearly two miles. In this location Georgia Governor Wright and Indian Superintendent John Stuart conducted a treaty with Creek and Cherokee Indians that opened 1.5 million acres east of the Oconee River to British Settlement due to Indian debt to white traders. The Upper Creek Trading Path ran due west of Augusta to Greensboro (est. 1786). From Augusta’s southwest corner, the Lower Creek Path traced the fall line west across the lower Oconee River to a trading post which would later become Milledgeville, then to Macon.

Bartram himself describes taking the old Cherokee Trading Path through forests and cane swamps to the Quaker settlement at Wrightsborough. Here residents raised wheat, barley, flax, oats, corn, indigo, cattle, sheep, apples, pears, peaches, plums, nectarines, cherries and raspberries. Proceeding in the direction of present-day Oglethorpe County outside Athens (where my next series will be set), he noted many flora and fauna off of which Native Americans lived. The leaves of the plantain plant could be boiled and its seed pods eaten like spinach. Some natives called it “white man’s foot” for its profusion. It was also good for bee strings or brown recluse bites, if the patient would both chew its leaves and place them on the sting. Walnut, chestnut and hickory trees were in abundance, often planted in groves surrounding abandoned settlements. Grape and pea vines grew waist high. Creek hunters would carry the ripe yellow fruit of the “Physic-nut” or Indian Olive with them to supposedly lure deer. Bartram also wrote that the Creeks, who called themselves Muscoges, created an infusion of leaves and the tops of the cassine (“the beloved tree”) to make their black drink, a diuretic. They prevented worms by including a lixivium prepared from the ashes of bean stalks and vegetables in all their corn foods. Ginseng and white or “belly ache” root was used for the stomach and intestines by either chewing the root and swallowing the juice or smoking it in tobacco form. Grape roots dug while fresh, chopped and mashed, then drained and the thick part mixed with water, honey and sugar made a fine jelly.

Settlers learned from the Indians and discovered the practical purposes of other native herbs and plants. Cleavers, or “bedstraw,” could be used to stuff mattresses until the hay came in. Made into a tea it was helpful to the kidney, bladder, gout and with water retention problems. Mullein could grow taller than a person and had multiple purposes: the Cherokee used its fluffy leaf for toilet paper, its bottom leaves made good cigars for respiratory problems, and its yellow flowers on top when mixed with olive oil and placed in the ear could cure infection. Kidney stones were often treated by hydrangea root tea or Queen of the Meadow/Joe Pye Weed/”gravel root.” Elderberries, often made into a pleasing jam or jelly, offered protection against viruses, while goldenseal root powdered then boiled with water and cooled could be taken for a couple weeks at a time as an antibiotic.

Another natural phenomenon was the Buffalo Lick located in what it now Southeastern Oglethorpe County, near what would become the antebellum town of Philomath. At the head of White’s Creek was a 1.5-acre section where the earth was white, red, yellow, or “fattish” clay. In the late 1700s, some holes where cattle and previous buffalo had licked up the sodium sulphate were 5-6’ deep. Years later as excavations for railroads occurred in rural Georgia, poor residents were known to stop to eat and take home in sacks chunks of exposed white minerals. The grit particles were said to be the main downside of the almost-pure calcium carbonate.

In 1783, Virginia families settled on the Broad River in current Eastern Oglethorpe County. Ever wonder how they drove their wagons to their new communities without established roads? These settlers described no underbrush beneath the trees! Primeval forests with massive canopies and wagon-wide spacing! They picked land with springs with no overlooking high ground Indians could make use of for attacks and proceeded to establish farms where they grew corn (a portion was always used for distilling), beans, squash, and sweet potatoes. Cattle, hogs and sheep had to be penned nightly against wolves and thieving Indian “pony clubs.” River cane and native bamboo provided year-round cattle forage.

With miles of wilderness between farms and settlements, frequent attacks by Creek Indians, and smallpox epidemics, one can imagine the high premium placed on doctors. While most were trained in the allopathic school of medicine featuring blood letting and the use of mercury and minerals, wise physicians also became students of Indian cures and herbal remedies. One such gentleman was Lindsey Durham, who moved to the mill community of Scull Shoals in 1817. He had received formal training at the University of Pennsylvania and studied botanicals in Bartram Garden but also gave credence to Indian and African healing methods. In the 1820s, he joined the liberal-minded “American Eclectics” of the new Jefferson Medical College in Philadelphia who believed a remedy could be found in nature for every human ailment. Durham grew thousands of medicinal herbs and plants on his estate, and his sanatorium was visited by people from all over the state of Georgia.

Monday, April 13, 2015

Handling oxen, colonial style

A team of ten pairs of oxen in Australia (Wikipedia)
 When developing the setting and details for The Highwayman, I had to decide whether my hero and his cousin made their trips up and down the Great Wagon Road with horses or oxen. Horses would have been an easy choice, since I practically grew up on horseback ... but silly me, I decided I wanted the challenge of researching oxen.

My standby research source, a Yahoo discussion group for all things 18th century, turned up some unexpected and delightful resources. Who remembers Almanzo, from Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Farmer Boy, training his pair of calves to be good oxen when they grew up? I was surprised to find that my memories of the process, gleaned years ago from that story, were fairly accurate.

What are oxen, you might ask? They are, by mere definition, working bovines. Not even any special breed, and either bulls or cows can be used, although bulls are usually castrated to make them easier to handle. Training begins early, with teams chosen as calves, handled and gentled so they grow into the calm, dependable, but powerful sources of energy.

Karel Dujardin, 1622–1678: A Smith Shoeing an Ox (Wiki)
It’s been fun over the years to meet various people who dedicate themselves to practicing various ancient life-skills, either for living history demonstrations or just for the personal satisfaction of keeping some dying knowledge alive a little longer. I knew many who work with teams of horses and wagons, but didn't realize so many focus on handling yoked oxen.

I'm indebted to several on the 18cLife Yahoo group who took the time to answer questions and point me to various online sources, but especially one gentleman, Bob Sherman of Charleston, SC, a historic interpreter at Middleton Place who works with many aspects of colonial agriculture and technical skills. He shared the following resources online:


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ul2PFDdeJ2k - a video on the basics of training oxen, from Rural Heritage

http://thefarmersmuseum.blogspot.com/2011/03/lippitt-farmstead-in-winter-new.html - scroll down for a photo of oxen in harness and yoke

http://www.history.org/Foundation/journal/Spring08/oxen_slideshow/ - various photos from Colonial Williamsburg

I also found this charming set of videos featuring working oxen in Ross, Nova Scotia: https://www.youtube.com/user/cooper68ns/videos ... scroll wayyy down past the personal farming stuff, which is also interesting. Especially check out "ox on road," featuring several yoked oxen taking a stroll, with their drovers, down a modern highway:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSqQ0XDvwws

Prairie Ox Drovers is another site I happened upon that might provide a good primer on working oxen.

Zebu oxen in Mumbai, India (Wikipedia)
Though treated as a quaint oddity in our country, oxen are still very much in use in many parts of the world. I'm so glad I took the time to research this fascinating method of colonial travel and freight hauling. I'd have missed learning some of the quirks and charms of working cattle--how they are less temperamental than horses, but still very attuned to the emotional state of their handlers. How they are such creatures of habit, some teams have been known to head for the barn a certain time of day with or without their handler, and pairs often insist on sharing a stall or at least being stabled next to each other.

Makes me almost want to go out and find my own pair to train and work!

Monday, March 9, 2015

Navigating the Great Wagon Road: William S. Alexander, Colonial Wagonmaster

The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection
In less than two months, my second novella The Highwayman releases as part of Barbour’s Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection. This story stars Sam Wheeler, a young wagonmaster-turned-vigilante who finds his true courage when the girl he secretly loves is threatened by a local bully.

A good part of my inspiration for this character comes from the diary of real-life colonial wagonmaster William Alexander, who in the early years of the Revolutionary War, drove up and down what is known as the Great Wagon Road. This trail, originally used by native hunting and war parties, stretched southward from Philadelphia, down through Virginia into the Carolinas and, eventually, Georgia.

I was first introduced to young Master Alexander when researching for Defending Truth. The simple Word document containing the text from his diary, dated 1776-78, was at first glance some mighty dry, dull reading, lacking proper punctuation and full of spelling errors (as we know modern spelling):

First page of Alexander's diary, UNC Archives
Memorandom
Be it remember’ed; to call at fredrick town Docter Thompsons- at york town Dutch Doctors 100 yd. North west the court house – at Lancaster Docter Adams left hand side the street west from the court house)  Henry Sluber Apothecary North the court house

Memorandom of things to fetch for the family –
  • Blue Sagathy for one Suit of clothes
  • 1-piece-of-4 Lb.-Linnen
      3 pair of Silver Buckles
  • 1 raim good writeing paper
  • 1 doz. Linen handkerchiefs
  • White persian red lining      )
                                                        )      Bonnets
  • Black tafoty with trimmings)

  • 1 yd. Cambrick-
  • ½ yd. Lawn.
      2 Calf Skins
  • 1 check Silk hank [torn]

Map of the Great Road as drawn by Joshua Fry and Peter Jefferson
The more I read, however, the easier it was to see past the spelling and punctuation issues, and the more I realized I could glean about colonial living and culture on several levels:  what people bought, what they imported and exported up and down the colonies, what monetary payments they used, how long travel took by wagon, what sort of things might delay travel, how long they might stay in a given place, and why. What a young man in his twenties thought of life, the universe, and everything, and how he liked to spend his spare time. I found it especially amusing to note William Alexander's reference, in the middle of an otherwise spare account of one journey north, to a "pretty young Virginia woman" who ran the ferry on the Yadkin River.

Curiosity about the wider history of the man himself led me via online search to scanned pages of the original Alexander diary, and this bit:
One volume, a diary of about 130 small pages, kept by William Sample Alexander (d. 1826), of Mecklenburg Co., N. C., 1770-1778. [Other accounts say the diary only covers 1776-78.] Alexander was the son of Hezekiah Alexander (1728-1801), a prominent settler of Mecklenburg County. William Sample Alexander operated a wagon train between Mecklenburg County and Chester Co., Pennsylvania. The diary provides a partial description of his wagon train journeys and includes a record of accounts which he maintained with friends and family members, as well as descriptions of a few “home remedies.”

The first substantive entries in William Sample Alexander’s diary are from 1774, when he left Mecklenburg County on a trip northward.Philadelphia and Charleston served as Mecklenburg County’s main trading centers, and traders such as William Sample Alexander traveled to these centers quite frequently by wagon train. Alexander operated a wagon train to the Philadelphia area, and one author reports that he “would haul the pelts and produce of the farms and forests to Philadelphia and would bring back all sorts of goods ordered by the ladies and men of the community.” [Victor C. King, Comp. and Ed., Lives and Times of the 27 Signers of the Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence of May 20, 1775: Pioneers Extraordinary (Charlotte: Anderson Press, 1956).]
I was able to find out exactly how old William was during the time he kept the diary, make a decent guess as to whether or not he was married yet (one source says no, but then another source says he and his first wife married in 1770), what rank he held in the local militia (and which one he served in), even a nickname and a fair guess as to his activities during the latter part of the Revolution. It was also fun to find connections to Augusta County, Virginia, where much of The Highwayman is set, and a transcript of his will.

I'm indebted to his diary to help me figure out not only the route my character Sam Wheeler and his cousin Jed might take, but what distance they might cover on a good day and what sorts of issues they might run into. Tracing the actual journey from Charlotte, North Carolina, up to Philadelphia proved fascinating as well, and the discovery that Thomas Jefferson's father Peter helped draft the earlier map of Virginia, above.




Monday, November 12, 2012

Part 2 of A Forted Frontier Holiday: A Colonial America Fiction Anthology - A Providential Proposal By Susan Craft



A Forted Frontier Holiday:
A Colonial American Fiction Anthology
While harvesting, the German settlement near New Market, Virginia, receives warning of an impending attack by French and Indian war parties. They flee to a quickly cobbled refuge, Fort Providence—for they will surely need to rely on God’s Provision. The forted colonials long to celebrate the holidays and await the arrival of visitors. 
Each CQ contributor to this serial will bring their characters into the fort from throughout colonial America. Join us for A Forted Frontier Holiday each Monday on CQ for the next two months!
ENJOY!!! This is our Christmas gift to our faithful followers on Colonial Quills. Many blessings to all of you during this season. And may God bring provision to our northern neighbors hit so hard by the storm.


Part Two

A Providential Proposal

Shenandoah Valley, November 1753

Climbing out of the back of the covered wagon that had been her family’s home for a month, Allison Cameron gripped the wagon bed and searched with the toe of her boot for the step-down slat. Entangled in her skirts, she careened backward, stifling a yelp when a pair of hands clasped her waist, lifted her like a feather, and settled her to the ground.
            She whirled around to find her nose planted against the buckskin-covered chest of the wagon master. Rabbit fur tickled her nostrils as she breathed in the pleasant aroma of pinewood campfires and tobacco. Her eyes traveled upward, past the collar of his linsey-woolsey shirt, to the blue flannel scarf bunched around his neck. A strand of his shoulder-length hair, the color of cattails in the fall, clung to his bottom lip, a bit fuller than the upper one. She gazed into familiar eyes, blue like the flowers that top flax stalks in June. A closely planted field of those flowers so resembled water that flying ducks would try to land on them. As flummoxed as those birds, she swallowed the words of chastisement she’d been prepared to wield against the liberty taken upon her person.
            Douglas McCallum grinned and ran his finger along the brim of her ruffled cap tucked underneath the hood of her cloak. “You must take better care, Miss Allison.” A mist punctuated each word as his warm breath mingled with the freezing air.
            Weeks ago, after she had repaired a tear in his jaw ripped by an angry bear, they’d given each other permission to use their given names. But he insisted on adding the Miss; his way of teasing her. She studied the scar. It would soon fade, for she had used the tiniest of stitches fashioned with a silky thread of her finest hetcheled flax. Though her fingers ached to caress his face, their relationship had only begun to blossom, and she felt too shy. Instead, she clasped the bear claw hung around her neck with a length of rawhide
his thank you gift.
            Allison frowned. “Delayed again. Will we ever reach South Carolina?”
            “Aye, lass. ‘Twill take time. For now, we must wait out the weather.”
            Allison caught his furtive glance toward the fort’s gates. “It isn’t simply the weather, Douglas. I’ve heard about the threats of attack."
            “Allison?” her sister, Katherine, called from the wagon. “Are you ready for Drew?”
            Allison turned around. “Yes, dear.”
            “Allow me,” said Douglas.
            Allison hovered, unsure if she could trust arms powerful enough to lift a log that had crashed down in front of their wagon to handle her one-year-old nephew. When he cuddled the blanket-wrapped bundle against his chest before depositing the sleeping babe into her arms, her worries vanished.
            “Now, you, Mrs. Hutchinson.” He swept her from the wagon and cradled her as tenderly as he had her child.
            If anyone else but her sister had clasped his neck, Allison would have bristled with jealousy, but she glimpsed the dark circles under Katherine’s eyes and the newly etched wrinkles in her forehead. Her sister had endured the unthinkable. Her young husband had succumbed to a fever on the first leg of their journey. For two long days and nights, Allison had nursed her sister back from the brink of death, but the loss of her adored husband had almost broken Katherine’s spirit. She looked so forlorn dropping her head against Douglas’ shoulder.
            What a dependable, rock of a man. Someone easy to cling to.
            She had witnessed his broad shoulders taking on much responsibility during their journey from Philadelphia. Midway through Virginia, steady rains had turned the Great Wagon Road into a river of mud. Sparing the horses, travelers unloaded their cargo and toted it up the hills. Douglas, knowing how much she treasured her spinning wheel, disassembled and tucked into straw-lined crates in her parents’ wagon, had moved the boxes personally. He had also carried the kegs of flax seeds which had survived her family’s voyage from Ireland and meant more to them than gold.
            Each evening around the campfire, Allison’s dah shared his dreams of harvesting those seeds along the Catawba River. Allison would spin it. Her mah would weave it into linsey-woolsey or crisp white linen for cravats. Katherine would tat the silkiest yarn into lace. The men would fashion the fibers into sails and ropes for ships and church bell towers.
            Allison couldn’t believe how quickly she had come to respect
and yes, lovethe kind, steadfast wagon master. For his part, he had taken every opportunity to position himself by her side, engaging her in conversation or simply passing time with her in comfortable silence.
            Do his feelings match mine?
            Drew wriggled in his sleep, wrenching Allison from her woolgathering. She tightened her grip on him and noticed her parents a few paces ahead. They hastened toward a sturdy looking building amid a spattering of lean-tos and military tents that made up the hastily erected Fort Providence. Members of their small group joined them after circling their wagons around the fort’s perimeter. Her dah waited for her, while her mother walked alongside Douglas and fussed over her daughter.
            Mr. Cameron, a tall, wiry man with warm, moss green eyes, held open his arms. “Give him to me.”
            He hiked his grandson up onto his shoulder, but before continuing on, he gazed at Allison with one of his auburn eyebrows raised.
            Strange, he looks at me as if he knows something I don’t, she thought with a shrug.
            Relieved of her burden, she offered assistance to a woman who labored under the weight of a sack draped across her chest while she hung on to her twin boys. Allison slipped the sack onto her own shoulder and grabbed the elbow of the nearest boy, who scuffled until she dug her fingers into his skin and glared at him.
            Douglas chose that moment to come through the doorway in time to see the scowl on her face. “Let me.” He took the bag from her and bent down to whisper, “I can’t abide unruly children either.”
            She chuckled, released the boy, and stepped inside where the aromas of roasted sweet potatoes, cinnamon, rabbit stew, and rhubarb pie wafted around her.
            She sighed. “Heavenly.”
            Douglas stood beside her, and they watched refugees from the impending danger plop down on the floor, happy to be inside, even happier to be alive. A man even larger and taller than Douglas stood and, in a heavy German accent, introduced himself and his wife, a diminutive woman far along in her pregnancy. Following his lead, the head of each family made their acquaintances. Allison curtsied when her father called her name. Douglas acknowledged his introduction with a nod.
            They’d been standing a while when Allison realized that Douglas stared at her intently as if studying her. A sudden warmth pulsed through her veins and her cheeks flushed so hot she pressed her cool hands against them. Searching the room for an escape, she spotted her mah waving. She approached her family as they made themselves comfortable near the fireplace where a woman bent down to stir the bubbling contents of a pot hanging from a hook and swung it back over the flames.
            Claire Cameron, a petite woman, barely reached her daughter’s shoulder, but her body was the only thing wee about her. Her love of God could fill the universe. Her voice boomed with laughter, and back home in Ireland when she chastened her daughters, children two doors down in the borough cringed. Mr. Cameron often spoke of drowning in his bride’s big, dark eyes. Allison prayed that one day she would be blessed by a love like theirs.
            Claire cupped Allison’s cheek. “A stór, you will go to our wagon and return with bear meat and the makings for dumplings? We must offer our fair share.”
            Allison found her mah’s lilt pleasing as well as the way she formed her requests into questions, as if one had the choice to obey.
            “I’ll accompany her,” said Douglas, startling Allison who hadn’t realized he was so near.
            Outside, they stopped next to her parents’ wagon and leaned against the wheel.
            Douglas removed her mitten and circled her palm with his thumb. “Your mother called you something. A stór?”
            “Yes. It means my treasure.”
            “Ah.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I desire so much to call you my treasure.”
            Allison’s heart fluttered like the pedals of her spinning wheel. “I

            “I love you and have, I think, since the moment we met. Your serenity. Your lovely expressive eyes. Your generosity.” He raced on. “I even like it when you’re cantankerous. Which you can be. You know?”
            She laughed.
            “What’s even more splendid. I like you.” He kissed her palm. “Will you be my wife …my treasure?”
            Joy spun its way through her like gossamer threads weaving a tapestry of images so delightful she buried her face into his neck. “Yes. Oh, yes, my love.”
            He scooped her up, and they laughed with such abandon the people across the compound laughed with them. He captured her lips in a kiss that warmed her to her toes.
            “Day after tomorrow we celebrate Thanksgiving.” He paused. “I hear a parson is coming to bless the meal.”
            She trembled from his meaning. “’Twould make a glorious wedding day.”
            He put her down and tucked her into the crook of his arm. “I plan to thank God in a mighty way. Today, tomorrow, and each day for the rest of our lives.”

The End, Part 2
Look for Part 3 of A Forted Frontier Holiday on Nov. 19th.

Giveaway:  A copy of Susan F. Craft's award winning book "The Chamomile" will be given away to one commenter.  Drawing will be done November 23 and announced that day at our Tea Party.  Skip Black Friday shopping, put your feet up, and enjoy tea and colonial treats with us instead!  

QUESTION: Do you think that a wedding really will occur inside Fort Providence or not?  Why or why not?
______________________________________________________________
A history lover, Susan F. Craft researches for her novels with the same excitement as Alan Quartermain hunting for King Solomon’s Mines and with the persistence of Lewis and Clark. She enjoys the chase when a clue leads her from one “treasure” to the next, to the next .... Her novel, The Chamomile, a Revolutionary War romantic suspense, takes place in Charleston, SC. Susan, who lives in Columbia, SC, has a degree in Broadcast Journalism. Her 40-year career includes working for SC Educational Television, the SC Department of Mental Health, the SC College of Pharmacy, and currently for the SC Senate. This is the fourth book she has authored. The first two were S.C. State Library award-winning professional works in the field of mental health, and the third, published in 2006, was A Perfect Tempest, a historical fiction set in Columbia during the Civil War. Susan is represented by Linda Glaz of Hartline Literary Agency.