The Diary of Rebecca White Cobham
January 6, 1750, in Cabbin Branch
Samuel is gone again. Before he left on another surveying trip, we quarreled. I forgave him a bit and we made up in our bed. I do hope that we have not created another child—for our little William is enough for me at present, precious though he is. Today I spent knitting socks and mittens before the fire. I am getting quite proficient at it, and Mother Cobham has been kind enough to encourage me although my stitches are uneven. My weaving is the equal of any on the plantation. However, I grow tired of sitting at the loom in the chill upper chamber of the main house. I pray for my own home, where I can have heat where I will.
March 1750, in Cabbin Branch
The cold is severe. I am grateful that we moved back into Old William’s house after he passed. I could not have borne another month in the main house with Samuel’s parents and my young brothers-in-law. Emma is with us now, and a great help to me although she feels the cold fearfully in her bones. I must remember to get Mother Cobham’s cordial recipe for the rheum, although Emma’s willow bark tea seems to ease her somewhat.
Brother Thomas thinks that we waste much firewood by keeping to Old William’s house. I remind him that Samuel’s money sent from Philadelphia is a blessing to all of us. Thomas still reminds me of how difficult things were when Sam and I first wed. Peter Dent and my brother, John, were very angry, and many of the folks in the Hundred thought us fools. Perhaps we were. I endured the silences at John’s place and Lord knows what arguments Sam held when he told his family of our plans. Yet Mother and Father Cobham have always treated me kindly and welcomed us into their already crowded home.
The troubles between Samuel and myself began almost immediately. Despite our affection for each other, we have had little time together and almost no privacy these past four years. I had thought that we would go away and make our own lives—but soon the baby came, and then Old William died. Father Cobham has not been well—and Zephaniah is not clever with managing the plantation. Sam took up much of the work, but he hates it heartily. I have helped Mother Cobham with the gardening and washing and cooking. I think that it will snow again tonight. Emma and I must remember to bring in enough wood for more than one day. I must go now and check on Samuel’s horse. It will be a cold walk to the stables, and a cold night in my bed.
April 1750, in Cabbin Branch
The spring is slow to come this year. Emma has been very unwell and unable to do for herself. Her grandson’s wife, Juba, comes over occasionally to help her, but much of the time Mother Cobham and I meet her needs. Juba is practically a child, scrawny and shy. Old William allowed Rafe to marry her just before he died, perhaps taking pity on the poor thing. I hear that she was much abused by one of the drunken Willson brothers before Samuel won her in a bet on a horse race. As yet, she speaks little English.
Samuel writes that he expects to be home in June, and I hope that Emma will not be gone before he arrives. He was always fond of her.
The new babe grows within me. I was not so sick as with William, but still am fearful. Emma will not be of much assistance to me this time. William was slow to come into the world, and I was in travail a very long time. Mother Cobham and Emma saw me through it. Sam was a wreck. Odd how men are always about at the beginning of things, but at endings the women are called.
I sewed shirts today for Sam and his brothers. Much of my spinning and weaving go into these shirts. The men are careless with them and much mending must be done. The ground has warmed up enough for me to set out the turnips, cabbages, and beans in the stable gardens. I think that I shall begin an herb garden from Mother Cobham’s cuttings. Soon the sorrel and watercress will be gathered from the fields. Perhaps I can teach little Juba to help me when I harvest these plants. I always enjoy going into the forest to seek them.
June 1750, in Cabbin Branch
Samuel is due here any day, but I think that he will be too late to bid Emma farewell. She lies abed all the time now, often thinking herself back in some savage land and mumbling in a language that I do not know. Mother Cobham brings her nourishing drinks, but Emma refuses them. She seems to imagine that she’s being forced to eat on some slave ship from long ago. Then she screams and calls for her mother. God only knows what evils she has seen in her time. My babe grows. I think it another boy. I made soup of watercress and chicken broth, which I seem to crave these days. I fed Emma a few spoonfuls, but she would not take more. I begged her to live and deliver my child, but she seems not to hear me. She mumbled something about watching a woman tossing a babe into the ocean—what horror!
We have hatched twenty-three new chicks this month. I must remember to have the fences checked to make sure that they won’t intrude into the vegetables.
July 1750, in Cabbin Branch
Emma is dead, and much mourned. We gave her a Christian burial in the family plot near Old William. Some say that this is improper because she was a slave, but Father Cobham was firm about placing Emma with the family as she has been with us a very long time. She had a small collection of shells and carved ivory pieces that she seemed to value highly, and I found them wrapped in a small piece of linen under her bed. I placed them in her hand before we buried her and told no one of it because I didn’t want to be thought a pagan fool. Her grandson, Rafe, was not too happy about placing Emma in our family plot. He is a surly man and I think that Father Cobham should sell him elsewhere, but I do recall Emma’s kindness to me when birthing William, so shall not complain of her grandson. Besides, Juba is proving a likely servant, and I do not like to separate paired slaves.
The weather is hot. Sam arrived the day after Emma’s death. I think that it reminded him of Old William’s death last year. We sat together in the twilight on the eve of his return. I have often seen despair in his face. Alas, this is the fate that I feared for us so long ago when we chose to wed. We are together and have our dear little son, but our lives are much the same as always.
Sam was in good health—he loves his travels in the wilderness much more than he loves anything around here. I did not reproach him with this at once, sensing that he was very sad. I asked him about something that Old William had said to me one day before his death. I was sitting with him, knitting some mittens for Mother Cobham, and looked up to see that his eyes were clear and focused on my face. “Have you a need, Grandfather Cobham?” I asked. He shook his head slowly and painfully. “I was just remembering, young Rebecca—I was remembering that the name isn’t Cobham. It’s just a name that Joshua and I agreed to use for our lives in the New World. Our father wasn’t named Cobham.”
Old William was clear in his words. “It was never Cobham—it was Cecil. Our Old Grandsire was an earl, y’know. A great and strange man he was, Earl of Salisbury. Always on the wrong side of the king, alas. We got no land in this new world.”
Sam said that his father once told him that they came from a great line in England, but had no legal claim upon them. He says that it would not do to claim such exalted lineage since we came from bastards. I care not. Few are about us here who would even care about such things.
In truth, we have done little but quarrel again. I am weary of living here and remind him of a promise to show me new worlds. But Sam says that the frontiers up north are turning dangerous because of the French and the Indians. Things are even worse to the south. We cannot risk taking the babe off toward the Ohio. I am sad and tire easily these days.
November 1750, in Cabbin Branch
We are to have a place of our own! What joy! Sam has saved enough to buy some land up near Bennett’s Creek. Sam says that the house and barn are in reasonably good condition, and the land used not at all. When I am more recovered from little John’s birth, we shall go there. Sam seems resigned to living as a planter.
My second son came into the world easily, but I longed for Emma’s strong hands and wise warm words during my time.
Father Cobham has given us Rafe, his wife, Juba, and their young son. I am not too happy about this as I find Rafe surly and slow to do his chores. Juba is very young and shy, and their child barely two. God grant that I can train them into useful servants.
July 1755, at Bennett’s Creek
This pretty book was packed along with some of my sewing materials, and I’ve not written in it for many years. Perhaps that is just as well since the days stretch themselves into sameness. Our plantation has not done well despite much hard work by Sam and the slaves. Tobacco prices have gone down, and the weather has been an enemy for the last two years. When the storms come, it is not rain but hail and wind on our fields. The spring was damp and full of unhealthy fogs. I was very ill when little Susan was born and alas, the poor babe was too weak to stay in this hard world. We named her for Father Cobham’s little sister, who died young also. Such grief.
I am remembering the days when Sam and I first wed. We were so happy and sure that life would hold many fine surprises. Sam came in from the fields today, very weary and angry. The plants are not doing well, and the fruit shrivels in the orchards. He speaks of leaving the plantation and seeking work with the Beall Company up in Philadelphia. We had bitter words about it, as I do not want to be left here with Rafe, Juba, the two bondsmen, and the children.
October 1755, in Cabbin Branch
I am much excited tonight! After long argument and much thought, Samuel and I are going to Philadelphia. Sam’s brother, Sabrett, will look to our plantation, although little may come of it. The slaves and bondsmen will remain on our land, except for Juba who will go down to Cabbin Branch and remain with our children and Mother Cobham.
October 1755, aboard the ship Martha Constant
I am not meant for the sea, although Samuel reminds me that sailing on the bay up to head of the Elk River is not actually at sea. The wind howls and everything pitches and moans. I do not like it.
The journey downriver to St. Mary’s was a great pleasure, and the weather was fine. We saw many new faces, and I have never been so far from home before. Sam held my hand as we stood at the ship’s railing, and we both felt young again. We passed many docks and glimpsed houses and barns in the fields beyond. This is an important time to harvest and dry the tobacco crop, and most of the landings are filled with hogsheads of tobacco waiting for transport downriver.
When we reach the Elk River, we shall travel by horseback to the coast, and then take ship again up the Delaware River for Philadelphia. We shall stay with Sam’s cousin, Margaret, and her husband. I hope to find them cordial.
1755 in Philadelphia!
How can I possibly describe the sights and encounters of the last few weeks?
It was cold and icy when we arrived in Philadelphia at the Old Penn’s Landing. Margaret’s servants met us in a covered carriage, which was a blessing. Her house had three levels to it, and was very fine indeed. It has shiny wooden floors, and the walls are plastered and covered with embroidered hangings and portraits. Tapestry curtains cover the windows, and many chairs and settees with colorful fabrics are arranged near the fireplaces in each room. I was, for once, lost for words and felt like a country bumpkin. I feared to sit on her chairs. My best silk dress, packed away in the trunk, was a rag unfit to wear in this surrounding. My travel clothes, the woolen dress and cloak of bright blue, which had seemed so fine in Maryland, were soiled and looked barely worthy of a field worker here. I became much aware that my hair was disordered and my cap had wilted into a gray mess on my head. Even my hands were too rough to touch Margaret’s fine cups when she offered us tea. She uses a china porcelain tea service, the like of which I have never seen and was near afraid to touch.
All I could do was keep silent as much as society allowed, and try to keep my tears hidden. When her servant, dressed himself more finely than most men I have ever seen, showed us to our room, I was distraught. I was furious that Sam, who had seen such fine dwellings on his previous trips, had not better advised me about what to expect on this visit. We should never have come, I told him tearfully. I am poor and poorly dressed and shall be miserable here. He smiled and seemed surprised. “You are still so fair, Rebecca, that I had thought it would be Margaret who would be envious of you.”
I do not know how Sam could think his cousin Margaret envious of me. She is fair and has neither freckles nor calluses on her hands. She wears a silk gown with a brocade bodice and lace so fine that I am afraid to touch it with my coarse hands. She works not at all—only gives orders to her many servants, and occupies herself with fine embroidery and the society of other ladies.
We dined that night with Margaret, her husband, and two other gentlemen from England. They were land brokers who sought to sell lands from the large grants to settlers. Samuel and I wore our best clothes, but still looked like provincial peasants. My forest green silk seemed drab and unbecoming, and Samuel’s clean jacket and breeches of dark brown faded into the candlelight. He looked as handsome as ever with his tanned face and bright quick eyes. Master Fairfax and the other gentlemen were wearing satin, gleaming in the candlelight, and elaborate lace at the neck and wrists. Margaret was in yellow silk and wore shining green stones about her neck. I wore a fichu of lace—a piece given to me by Father Cobham when I married Samuel. He said that it had belonged to his mother—and indeed it was as fine as any I have ever seen. I had never worn it before this evening, but it was small comfort to me. I have never seen such food as was placed before us—nor was I accustomed to eating with the new forks and spoons from England. In truth, I scarcely ate at all. The wine was dark and sour, but gave me some ease.
Samuel had business with the English gentlemen and went to the offices of the Beall Company to work with them on maps and land documents. Margaret was kind and asked me to accompany her on a daily round of visits and shopping. I declined, claiming that I was unwell, but I think that she understood my problem.
November 1755, in Philadelphia
I cannot begin to write of all the wonders that I am seeing in this city. At first I was much afraid to leave the house by myself as the streets are filled with many strange people. Margaret sent one of her slaves with me whenever I left the house—a talkative young wench of about fourteen years, born in the city and knowledgeable of the streets. Soon I found that the city was well planned and lanes from the river are numbered so that one cannot become too lost. But Margaret advised me that a lady never goes out without company in this city, so I take one of her servants with me. I suspect that they look down on me as an impoverished relative, but they say nothing.
There are German folk in abundance here—stout and red faced and very loud of speech. They are said to be reliable and honest, however. The same is not told of the Ulster Irish folk, however. These people are very comely, tall and fair and proud. Their women have loose ways on the streets, speaking to all as if they were equal to any and showing their ankles with no shame. However, given the condition of the streets, I often wonder if their shorter skirts might be very practical, and may shorten my own when we return home. How scandalized Reverend Atkins will be!
The Quakers who founded the city are still about, easily recognized in their sober clothing and usually frowning. Because of my plain dress, many take me for one of them.
There are many churches here—it is surprising to me that God has shown himself in so many ways to these folks. At least six or seven very large edifices have been built for worship, and each group of believers feels that it alone contains truth. The Lutheran church has a massive pipe organ, the sound of which gives one great delight and shivers in the skin. I often beg Samuel to attend services at the church so that we might hear the music.
On occasion, Samuel and I have attended the Presbyterian Church that Margaret’s family always favored. We have always followed the Church of England, as did our parents before us. Fortunately, Christ Church in this city is one of the most impressive buildings ever built! The spire reaches very proudly toward the heavens, and even I am inspired by the excellent services there. Now I see that there are many folk who wish to worship in different ways. I do not presume to judge who might be correct in this, but it is strange to think that one might attend a different church each day of the week and be led to believe different things!
We hear talk of a dreadful war in the west between the British and French armies and their Indian allies. I cannot imagine what fearful lives the folk of the west must lead—the savages kill women and small children most horribly. Soldiers in red coats are everywhere. I see Samuel looking somewhat wistfully at the marching men. I think that he longs to be off again, but of late both Indians and new settlers have not welcomed surveyors. They see them as prophets of new boundaries and changes, perhaps rightfully so. Samuel says that it is sinful how folk who settled and braved much to have new lands are tossed into poverty when some wealthy person who has never seen such properties has the paper title to it.
War and more war and greed—why are men so stupid?
Late November 1755, in Philadelphia
I have said very little of my cousin, Margaret Beall Fairfax. She has been most kind to me, but it has taken some weeks to feel that she is comfortable confiding in me. In truth, our lives have been very different. Margaret is the grandchild of old Matthew Beall, sister of Sam’s grandmother, Mary Beall. Old Master Beall had good connections with merchants in England and Scotland, and served to broker both land and goods with them. His firm made a great deal of money, and he had hoped to pass it on to his children. It was, Margaret said, the greatest grief of his life that his wife and son were lost in a shipwreck while going to England. I do not like being on the waters, and if I had been born in England, as was my grandfather, I should no doubt have remained there.
Margaret was the only survivor of the family, and she finally admitted to me that her grandfather had hoped that Samuel would wed her and take over the firm. It was with both pity and satisfaction that I realized that Sam’s attachment to me was no light one, even before he declared himself.
Margaret is small, with light curly brown hair and soft blue eyes. Samuel says that she is supposed to resemble his own grandmother, Mary Beall Cobham, who died many years ago. Her skin is pale, but she flushes easily with every conflict or embarrassment. She is quiet and admits that her life in this city suits her well. She has servants and slaves in abundance, but seems a bit frightened of them sometimes. She insists that they eat the foods she allots them—mostly corn and rye mixes with some pork and greens. She also gives them many servings of sea stuff because these things are rarely served at her table. Master Fairfax prefers joints of beef and mutton in the English style, although he seems inordinately fond of oysters.
I have always fed my households, as does Mother Cobham, the same foods that are on my family’s table. I have not thought much about this—but perhaps have just never desired to prepare different foods for each group. Philadelphia provides many foods that I had not eaten before, and many I do not like. The folk from the northern colonies seem to boil everything together until all flavor is lost. Their baking is very good, however. Many of the Quaker folk here think that good food is not agreeable with godly living. Their kitchens are clean, but the food is very plain. They also do not like to eat a great deal at table, and perhaps their bodily hungers encourage their greed for worldly goods. I am being uncharitable here, but Master Fairfax says that the Quakers are very ruthless in business, although oddly kind to the Indians of this province.
Margaret and Master Fairfax always serve a good amount of sweet foods. I do adore the comfits and preserves, which are spread on rich cakes. There are syllabubs and sugared custards. Margaret is also fond of them and complains that she is growing plump. However, her teeth worry her constantly and often cause great pain. She is very frightened of having her teeth drawn.
“You are so strong, Rebecca,” she told me. “I cannot imagine you being afraid of anything.”
“I?” I laughed. “You did not see me on the voyage here. I am terrified of the waters. I cannot swim.”
We were seated in the late, cold afternoon over cups of tea. I have acquired a taste for this beverage, which is not so plentiful in Maryland as our coffee. However, I can never hope to have such precious tea services as Margaret uses. She has cups and plates, many fine delft teapots, and special containers for sugar and cream. Her husband has many relatives in England who send him fine teas for their use, and the serving of this beverage is something of an art here in Philadelphia.
The day was foggy and chill, the sort of cold that creeps into every part of the house and body. The men folk had taken themselves off to a local tavern to spend the evening, and I was somewhat angry with Samuel because he had done this many evenings of late.
“You live out on a plantation away from the comforts of the world,” said Margaret. “How do you manage it?”
“We are not so without comforts as you imagine,” I replied slowly. “We have neighbors and stores and our church. True, we are not surrounded by so many people as you—but there are so many strange folks in this city that it is confusing. There are almost too many choices—and too many ways to worship God!”
Margaret frowned. “Sometimes I think that also,” she whispered. “I am much afraid of worshipping the wrong way.”
I thought on this for a moment and took another of her fine little rum cakes. “Perhaps God is not so fussy as people,” I said after a while.
She looked somewhat shocked. “Rebecca—it is not for women to decide, but I do wonder sometimes how God can let things go as they do. The savages have done terrible things to our honest settlers of late. They scalp helpless babes. They have taken men and … and … tear out their insides before they burn them. They do not want to learn our ways or be saved into our Christian life.”
“I do not know Indians,” I replied. “We have very few about us now. I think that they were not ready to accept our ways—or our diseases. Old William told me that he knew many savages when he first came to Maryland, but most are gone now. Our ailments killed so many of them.”
“I am glad that I live in a city,” admitted Margaret. “I would be terrified to travel in the interior and risk wild beasts and Indians. I should die of fright if I saw a painted face.”
I thought on this a moment. “I do not know how I should act. I did once encounter a great cat while picking berries with my oldest son. Young Will did not seem afraid of it, and we yelled and it ran away. Sam says that these cats can kill us, but then so can horses and wagons and guns and knives. I do not know, Margaret, how I should feel facing real danger. I am often afraid for my children—but much of that is because of disease. I have been to many funerals of innocent babes taken by fevers and other mishaps.”
“James says that we will go back to England one day. I think that I should like it very much. I would not be afraid.”
I shrugged. “You are braver than I, Margaret. I would be terrified of the voyage.”
“Life is a voyage, Rebecca,” she replied, oddly serious. “If God blesses us with a child, as I pray he will, perhaps I shall understand why the trip is so difficult.”
“You’re a preacher, Margaret!” I laughed. “I agree with you—all journeys have their hazards, but many have rewards. I should never have seen this great city and met you if Sam had not agreed to bring me with him.” I took her hand and squeezed it. “You are a good woman, and never doubt it.”
She smiled. “Your hands are soft now, Rebecca. Will you have blisters again when you return home?”
“I shall.” The thought of home was both warming and depressing. I should have my children about me, but it meant return to endless chores and worries.
“You are strong and beautiful. How I envy you all of that golden hair and fair features. Samuel loves you very much.”
I laughed at that. In all our years together, Sam and I rarely spoke of love. We had known only that we were meant for each other, and pleased each other well.
“Do not laugh at me. Samuel could have wed me and been a rich man. But he chose you. Now that I know you, I do not question why that should be so.” She paused and poured herself more tea from a silver carafe. “I have beautiful things,” she commented, regarding her elegant china cup. “I had property and a business—and for these things James Fairfax wed me. He is kind enough, but thinks of me as a child. Most of the time I do not mind this—but sometimes …” She shuddered and then turned bright red. “I know that God ordained marriage for honest needs …,” she began. “But it is so—difficult.”
I hesitated a moment, wondering how best to comment. “A marriage bed may mend or tear …,” I quoted one of my mother’s favorite sayings. “James seems a considerate man. It will get better in time, Margaret, and perhaps you shall have a child after all.”
We were silent for a long while, and I glanced out the windows to note that it had begun to snow. “Perhaps we who live closer to the land feel more comfortable with life, Margaret. All seems normal to us. I have known no man but Sam, and to us joining our bodies is as natural as breathing. Perhaps we are very blessed.”
Margaret stood and smoothed the folds of her pink kersey gown, embarrassed by the turn of the conversation. She clutched her flowered shawl closer and stared into the fire. “Be grateful for your blessings, Rebecca. Perhaps they are more abundant than you know. Come, let us get the cards and I shall give you another lesson in whist.”
December 1755, in Philadelphia
We keep the Yuletide holidays here. The weather has been very bad, and Sam says that we will wait a few more weeks before starting our voyage home. I miss my children and much fear that I am with child again. It would be well to be home. This city is crowded and dirty.
The Christmas days are spent with parties and gifts of goods, the like of which I have never seen. I bought a new gown of peach-colored satin, and Margaret’s maid fashioned my hair into some elaborate shape for an assembly ball. Samuel said that I was the loveliest woman in the colonies—for which compliment I forgave him much. I looked long into Margaret’s mirror. Indeed, I am still fair despite the years and the children. Yet my skin is not so white as it should be, and there are crinkles about my eyes. Margaret gave me some cream for a present. I do not know if it will make me look young again, but it smells of sweet herbs and feels very nice on my cheeks.
The choice of foods here is amazing. If I do not stop eating so much and doing so little, I shall not be able to wear any of my clothes. My hands are growing soft.
Samuel spends much time in the taverns and coffeehouses of Philadelphia. He says that the conversation is very diverting there, but I think that he grows restless with living in this great house and working for the Fairfax/Beall Company. We must go home soon.
Today Margaret has gone to have tea and play at cards with friends. These ladies love to divert themselves in this fashion, but they often wager money during their games, and I have none. I use this time to sew and enjoy reading the books in Master Fairfax’s library. I have never seen so many volumes, and although my reading is slow, I have learned much.
March 1756, in Philadelphia
We are leaving for Maryland tomorrow. Philadelphia is filled with soldiers to fight against the French, and with them has come the cholera. The city is not a wholesome place and now seems filthier than ever with the melting snows and fogs. Samuel says that he will do no more work surveying. He has changed in many ways during this visit. He talks with men in the taverns of how the English want to take our food and lumber, and give us little in return. In truth, the England-born that I have met here do seem to regard themselves as superior to “Colonials,” as they call us. This I do not understand as we always have been English and still think ourselves so.
Samuel spoke briefly of going to England one day, but I think that he has no real desire to do so. We think of England as a distant place, a larger version of Philadelphia. But in truth, many folk say that it is not so. People from all countries and beliefs seem to mingle here and are not ashamed of their labors as would gentle folk be in England. Sometimes it is most confusing, but it seems that most people I have met here are very much the same in their fears and desires. Master Fairfax feels that we carry this commonality much too far and have lost all sense of what is proper in life.
I remember Old William speaking of English farms and forests and vast plains where the shadows of clouds would run before the wind, covered with sheep and walls made of rock. He spoke of country fairs and great nobles with huge houses and crowded cities where one could see the sky only rarely because of the smoke from a thousand hearths. There are great ladies who wear gowns of fabulous fabrics, ride in coaches, and paint their faces. But I cannot see it in my mind.
I remind myself that Sam had a French grandfather. My mother’s parents were Welsh, a people who do not consider themselves English. How strange to think that we have no real country. Samuel says that I am silly, and that Maryland is our country. Then again, we have neither king nor queen in Maryland—so how can that be? Alas, it makes my head ache.
June 1757, in Cabbin Branch
Once again I have neglected to write in my book, which has been packed away in my traveling chest for more than a year. I read sometimes of the days in Philadelphia and remember them well. It seems such a dream now. The days here are much alike as we are still living at Father Cobham’s. Sam made sufficient money working in Philadelphia to purchase more lands adjacent to our holdings at Bennett’s Creek. With this land, we can perhaps see our way to a profit in years to come. I do know that we must build a new house if we are to live on our lands. The old one burned down in December, killing one of our slaves. He was a good old man and we were sorry at his loss. Rafe and Juba are living in a small barn with their two sons.
Bess and Tom Witten hold the plantation at Wildcat Springs but barely. It is much work for small profit, but I am happy to have Bess near again. Tom and Samuel often talk of going north to join the militia and fight against the French. Bess and I do not like such talk.
Cabbin Branch, June 1757
Father Cobham is very ill. He was working with some of the men in building new fences, and suddenly clutched at his head and fell over. He cannot move his right arm nor speak clearly now. Samuel and I came from Bennett’s Creek at Mother Cobham’s urgent summons. Father Cobham dictated a will to Samuel and signed it with an X. I think that we shall leave Bennett’s Creek after the harvest and winter here. I am with child once more, and secretly hope for a little girl.
Cabbin Branch, November 1759
There has been no time to write for all of these months. Father Cobham is dead, and although all mourn his passing, we cannot but be relieved at the ending of his suffering. Since his fit more than two years past, he had been unable to walk well and was in much pain. Mother Cobham and I cared for him, and Zephaniah and Samuel ran the plantation.
Sam’s brothers and the Wittens came for the funeral. There was much work preparing food and drink for so many, and the weather was not good so beds must be found. It rained on the night that we buried Father Cobham near to Old William, my Susan, the little Cobham babies, and Emma. Mother Cobham cried at the thought of her husband’s grave being out in the rain. I left the family downstairs in the great room as they drank their rum and cider, and told stories in increasingly loud voices. I sat with Elizabeth Cobham and gave her hot tea with drops of valerian when she crawled into bed.
Samuel and I now have five children—three boys and two girls. They occupy most of my time, and what leisure I have is taken with helping Mother Cobham. She is distraught with her husband’s death, and it is all I can do to get her to take a cup of tea and some bread. In the meantime, someone must see to the cooking and washing and housework. It seems that I am always weary. Sam and I rarely even talk anymore. Sam has gone up to Bennett’s Creek to see to our lands, but they are not so productive as they might be, and we will have to sell some of our timber to pay the government levies this year.