The Diary of Rebecca White Cobham
July 1768, in Crab Apple Orchard
Yesterday was my forty-fifth birthday. Neither I nor anyone in my family remembered. It is so difficult to keep days in order here. Nothing is in order here. Time as we knew it has ended. Sometimes I think that I am living in a bad dream, and will awaken back at Father Cobham’s plantation in Maryland. But there is nothing left of those days except in my dreams. Maybe I shall make a special supper for us on August 23, which was the day of my christening. Oddly enough, I am thinking again of my parents. They were married on February 1, 1723. I was born the following July. Perhaps I was a seven-month baby, or perhaps my parents were once young and ardent. What a thought! I wonder if they struggled as we do to create a world.
When we first arrived at Crab Apple Orchard, I thought the place beautiful. Actually, on some days I still think so. The little valleys are filled with fine clear creeks, thick forests, and abundant game. I would expect that spring might bring a blossoming of dogwoods and other flowers. But it did not take long to realize that we were on the edge of the world, and solely dependent upon our own efforts. Samuel and our boys quickly erected a couple of wooden shelters, absolutely necessary as the summer rains are frequent. We unloaded what was left of our belongings into these terrible hovels and did our best to keep something dry! The girls moaned and complained a great deal, wondering if they would ever have cloth for a whole dress or scented soaps to wash their hair. The boys turned into savages immediately, relishing the prospect of hunting every day and ignoring any semblance of civilized manners.
There are only four families settled here, and I do not know what folk live farther about us. I know that there are many savages in the hills, and that they are accustomed to using this place as a summer hunting ground. I suppose it never occurred to them that somebody else might decide that they want to live here for the entire year and claim such land for their exclusive use. At the moment, they have been curious about us and not too hostile. But Sam and I keep our rifles handy and see to it that the children are always attended.
Tom Witten has recovered from his illness and seems to show a remarkable talent for organizing things. He has already planned for a mill, springhouse, and a sturdy fort where we may take refuge if the Indians become more hostile. He seems to love the idea of settling here. Bess looks happier than I have ever seen her. She does not seem to mind going barefoot, skirts tucked above her ankles, and bodice barely laced over a ragged linen chemise! She lets her children run about half-naked. Although the weather is very warm, I refuse to let everyone strip down to their shifts and loincloths. We will not become savages if I can help it.
Sam, on the other hand, goes off to hunt almost every day. He brings back fresh meat for us, which is essential now that our stores are somewhat depleted. But Sam shows little interest in deciding where to build our house or which lands he will choose to farm. I remind him that in a few months there will be snow on the ground, and that I would not like to be found frozen in my wooden hovel.
Although it is very late for a garden, Bess and I have planted some turnip, radish, squash, and bean seeds in the hope that something will grow before the first frost. I do not know when that is likely, although Old Man Greenup, who has visited this area years ago, tells us that frosts come much earlier here than in Prince George’s County. We can only hope …
The few chickens that survived our trip seem to be flourishing. We built a henhouse yard for them, and I have sent Rafe’s son, Toby, out to sleep near them at night to frighten away predators. Alas, he sleeps so soundly that a fox made off with one of my best-laying hens, and I was much aggravated. If the rooster dies, we shall not be able to increase the flock.
The Wittens’ pigs also seem to love foraging about in the woods around us, and when the frost comes we shall slaughter a few of them. I must speak to Sam about construction of a proper smokehouse.
There is good pasture for our cows and horses, and the boys cut the thick grasses to dry for winter fodder. There are also some crab apple trees that look to yield fruit in a few weeks. I have half a loaf of white sugar to use in making jam for us.
My son, Ben, found a hive of honeybees yesterday. We now have some delightful honey to drip on our cornbread, but I was up with poor Ben all night trying to get the stingers out of his skin and ease my child’s pain. I could not find marigolds for an ointment, alas. Poor Ben seems to be suffering more than any of us, but I have little time to give him. My twins, Eleanor and Malinda, are only six, and have developed a stubborn desire to chase after their brothers. They must be watched constantly. I think that Rafe’s daughter, Lacey, is old enough now to take on such responsibility. Perhaps I shall allow them to follow my boys, James and Zachariah, when they go off to pick berries in the forest.
Our slaves have their own shelter, built by Rafe, Toby, and my sons, William and John. In truth, it is better than the place where Samuel and I sleep with our youngest children!
August 1768, in Crab Apple Orchard
This week has brought nothing but thunderstorms, with pounding rain and spatters of hail. I am sitting in my hovel, wrapped in an old quilt, and I do not feel well. The truth has finally become unavoidable—I am with child again, and at my age! I been feeling unwell since we arrived here at Crab Apple, and food has become unsavory. My courses have been irregular since we began this trek from Maryland, but I had merely suspected that I was approaching my change of life. Instead, I am to be a mother once more! How can I possibly bear a child here?
Last night Sam and I settled down to sleep with Ben and the twins. He was weary, and hadn’t even removed his boots when he crawled under the quilts beside me. I was very much out of sorts.
“Sam,” I whispered, “We have to talk about something.”
“Cannot this wait, Rebecca? I am sore tired …,” he mumbled.
“No. It cannot wait. Sam, you and the boys must begin building some kind of proper house immediately,” I insisted.
“Sweetheart, there is plenty of time. Tom and I are still scouting out the best sites for—”
“There is not plenty of time. We’re going to have another child,” I announced, and then began to sob. Sam was quite still for a few moments, and then I felt his arm go about me.
“I never thought—”
“Neither did I, Sam. But such things happen. How shall I care for a babe out here? We can’t even take proper care of our chickens!” The tears were flowing abundantly, and I was ashamed of my weakness. I could hear Ben stirring about, awakened by our voices.
“It will be all right, my love. Tomorrow we shall pick a site for a house, and I’ll get the Greenups and Harmons to help us build it. They’ll trade some carpentry for a few sides of fresh meat. Will and John can get out and hunt.”
Soon Sam rolled over and pretended to be asleep. I know that his mind was as distressed as mine regarding another babe in our family, but I had no words of comfort for him. I sniffed for a long time, and then stared at the stars that peeped through the slats of our lean-to.
November 1768, in Crab Apple Orchard
True to his word, Sam and the other men in our settlement did get a house built for us. It had only two rooms with aloft above, but the walls seemed sturdy and the fireplace was mortared, with real stone from the nearby outcrops. Bess and the other women have been sympathetic to me, and I am most grateful for their help. For the first time in my life, I am really too ill to be of much assistance to anyone.
I have borne nine healthy children, but this latest one, perhaps because of my age, is not growing easily. I have to fight to keep food in my body. Bess found some sort of mint growing on a nearby stream and made me a tonic. We weren’t sure about the safety of the herb and tested the tonic on a pig. The pig seemed to thrive, so I took a bit and was eased. But I have no energy to do anything, and sleep a great deal.
I feel as if I am failing my family as they struggle to make a dwelling for us. I do a bit of mending and cooking, but spend most of the time in this crude bed near the fire. How very much I long for Mother Cobham’s sweet face and Emma’s kind strong hands. I must quit thinking of them, or I will be crying again.
February 1769, in Crab Apple Orchard
My son was born swiftly, probably a month before his time. However, I do not think that the two of us would have lived much longer if he had not decided to enter the world early. I was very fortunate to have the care of Bess Witten and Louisa Bowen. Louisa and her husband, Reece, have settled near to us, and she is a very strong, capable lady and had some skill as a midwife. She is tiny in stature and barely reaches my chin. Her husband, Reece, is a very huge fellow and can lift Louisa in one hand. How we laughed when he did that!
I was feverish and sad after the baby’s birth, but am able to nurse the poor mite with my own breasts. The winter continues to be very cold. The Reeces and their party brought some fresh supplies of corn and molasses for us, along with a barrel of salted pork. Bess assures me that this will see us through spring.
June 1769, in Crab Apple Orchard
The new season here is very beautiful, with blooms in the forests and thick growths of greens for cooking. I have continued to be housebound and unhappy. This is so unlike my usual temper that Sam and the children have been quite worried about me. Finally he suggested that I spend some time teaching the children to read and write whenever we can spare them from their chores. Although we have few supplies for schooling, I have begun to meet with some of the younger children in the mornings and even the older ones at night. This gives me some sense that I am useful.
The baby, whom we named Samuel White Cobham, is amiable and causes me little trouble.
Tom and Bess’s daughter, Elizabeth, and her husband, John Greenup, have arrived with another party of settlers. There are also a lot of those Ulster Scots families who come through here seeking their own lands. God forgive me, whenever I hear their voices I think of that horrible night when those Gowan men threatened us, and desire to reach for my rifle.
Sam still seems uncertain about settling here. Last month he went back to Fort Chiswell with Reece Bowen to talk about forming a local militia to protect us from the Indians. Now he tells me that the French and Indians are still causing problems up north, and is concerned that those troubles might reach us here.
My son, William, has announced that he wishes to wed Nancy Witten—as if I didn’t already know that! In any event, we hope to find a preacher of some sort soon to join them, as there are none about. I suspect that the wedding may be rushed if things continue as they are between this young couple, and perhaps we may be forced to accept one of those Presbyterians that follow the Ulster folk about.
Yesterday I felt strong enough to do some cleaning in our house. Juba and daughter Rebecca helped me so we took the bedding out to air, scrubbed the floors, and cut new lengths of linen for shirts and chemises. While I was rummaging about in an old chest seeking more needles, I came across the satin gown that I once wore in Philadelphia. It was still soft and glowing in the dim light of my loft, and I could not resist holding it to my chest and remembering moments when I danced and laughed. I was about to indulge in a fit of tears when I glanced up and saw my son, Ben, standing in the doorway. I was able to tell him that some dust had lodged in my eyes, but I don’t think that he believed me.
Of all my children, poor Ben is the unhappiest here at Crab Orchard. He is not so taken as my other children with running about in the forests, and he seems to lack his brothers’ taste for hunting. He seems to excel at reading and other scholarly activities, and it is a shame that there is no school about where we might send him to learn more.
May 1774, in Crab Apple Orchard
I am much surprised that it has been so long since I have written in this book. However, I did regain my strength after Young Sam’s birth, and within a few months was working in the garden, attending the smoke house and churning butter and cheese. We have a fine springhouse here, cooled by an ever-flowing cold creek, which makes for fine storage of our dairy products. The cattle, hogs, and chickens have done well, and we do not lack for sustenance.
Last week, we celebrated the double weddings of my sons William and John to Nancy and Keziah Witten. Bess and I are both pleased that our children seem so content with each other, as both couples have waited long in order to wed. There are few folks of marriageable age about here. The young couples have built houses of their own on lands near here and seem happy to settle.
Sam is very worried about the Indian situation. We had not had much trouble as yet, mainly because the local Cherokees are indebted to Tom Witten for supplying them with lead shot. I do not think it wise to give Indians this sort of ammunition, but Tom says that they have protected us from the dangerous Shawnee tribes. I do not understand why the Indians cannot accept our settlements and move farther west. Sam says that we really have taken their lands, but that we know how to use them better.
We hear dreadful tales of murders by savages up in the Ohio Valley. Sam and most of the other men here have enlisted in the militia and occasionally have gone to Fort Chiswell to drill. However, Sam says that some of the officers at the fort are very ignorant about our region and do not understand how Indians fight. He feels that Colonel Preston, who commands Fort Chiswell, is demanding more than we can provide in terms of men and supplies for a campaign to the north.
Despite Sam’s concerns for the future peace of this area, he informs me that he has surveyed and patented about a thousand acres of land over in Montgomery County, nearer to Fort Chiswell. He feels that it might be a good idea to have a place farther east in the future, but I have informed him that I am not going to move again unless I have a decent home prepared. I am over the age of fifty years now and will not be able to forge a new world for my family every few years. He laughs and says that if we move, I shall have a proper home nearer to our old world. I do not know if I could cope with true society again! I have not had a new gown in three years and have been forced to wear crude shoes made of deerskin. I shudder at the idea of a looking glass, but I suppose that these are trivial thoughts when one considers the possibility of more wars.
I worry a great deal about these developments. I have always had a sense when storms were brewing, and of late it is overwhelming. I attempt to dampen my fears with the daily labors of our life and the satisfaction of watching my children grow. The vegetables and herbs are thriving in this soil, but require constant weeding. Juba and Lacey have taken on much of this duty, but they have less time to help me with the cooking and washing.
October 1774, Crab Apple Orchard
We who remain are gathered in the stockade house that Tom Witten built two years ago. There are only the women, younger children, and our slaves now. All of the able men have gone north to fight with our governor, Lord Dunmore, even my Sam (at his age!), my son, Ben, who is not yet thirteen, and our slaves, Toby and Fence. They were somewhat reluctant to leave, but in the end the call of Mars was too strong for them. They marched off to Fort Union to rendezvous with other troops, and we have heard nothing more. What I feel about this may well be imagined. Many uniformed regular troops have also passed this way but do not seem inclined to remain and assist us. These British regulars treat us as if we are some unimportant peasants!
The Shawnee killed all who dwelled at John King’s farm, and most horribly. They burned all of his buildings and crops. One of the younger Greenup boys bravely rode an old mare about to warn us, and we were able to grab food, water, and some of our belongings before seeking the safety of this building.
My daughters, Rebecca and Malinda, have small guns, and both Old Rafe and I are armed with Sam’s long rifles. Bess and her children are similarly equipped. We dressed Juba and Lacey in some old men’s clothing so that the Indians might be fooled into thinking that we were better defended than we are. This is an idea that I got from Louisa Bowen at the time of the wedding celebration two years ago. She always said that she would dress her women and slaves as men so as to fool the Indians.
It is odd to think that one of the things that I grabbed as we frantically collected necessities was this old book. It was sitting next to a bundle of gunpowder on a high shelf, and I simply could not leave this part of me to be burned along with our farm. God forbid that all our labors should be for nothing …
There are some thirty-odd people in the fort tonight, and although I have directed a privy to be dug, the smells will soon be overwhelming. We are very fortunate this night, as it is raining heavily and the Indians cannot burn us out!
Old Man Greenup is about to lead prayers, and I do not think that it would hurt for even one so sinful as I am to attend them.
November 1774, at Crab Apple Orchard
The foggy and wet weather continues, but we have taken heart and moved back into our homes. The savages appear to have gone elsewhere for now, and we lost but a few cows and chickens. Except for the King family, most of the local settlements are well and safe for the moment.
Bess and I delivered our first grandchild—a son! Daughter Keziah had an easy time of it, and we opened our last bottle of rum to celebrate the new life. Now if only we had news of our men.
December 1774, at Crab Apple Orchard
Sam and the men are home, all safe and filled with tales of their great adventure. There was a battle at a place called Point Pleasant, up near the Ohio and Kanawha Rivers. Pleasant—what a name for a place to have a bloody conflict! In any event, Sam says that the Shawnee attacked them first, but were outnumbered and slaughtered. Their chief, named Cornstalk, was forced to sign a treaty of some sort. I often wonder why men sign these treaties, because no one seems to uphold them!
The dreadful news is that our slave, Fence, has run away. Sam thinks that an Englishman persuaded Fence to join the British Army in some capacity. Although Sam might have demanded that a search be made and Fence returned to us, he was reminded of the brave actions of Rafe during our trip here many years ago, and decided that Fence should be free to do as he wishes. I cannot believe that Fence will be better off with strangers as we have always cared for him. His mother and sister are some grieved, but seem oddly unworried
“My boy is free now,” Juba said, with tears in her eyes.
“But you may never see him again!” I protested.
“Ms. Rebecca, you don’t understand …,” she began.
I was angry and had no use for such conversation. Oddly enough, I seem to miss Fence very much. When he was a babe, I nursed him through many a bout of colic …
Sam says that great trouble is coming. Already the northern colonies are protesting British laws and Virginia seems likely to join them. I remember how Sam and some of the other men hated the British soldiers in Philadelphia. Sam says that they sneer at us “colonials,” even though we are as English as they. I told him how we were treated when the British troops tromped through here on their way to Point Pleasant.
We have almost no government and very little society here in western Virginia. Perhaps they have too much of both over on the coast!
Neck Creek, State of Virginia, 1779
I suppose that we are at war. All of the men gather about McCorkle’s Store over in Dublin Town to read the latest pamphlets and discuss distant battles as they smoke their pipes and drink too much whiskey. Sam, of course, is right in the middle of them. He was sworn into Captain Cloyd’s Company but has yet to be called to battle. Instead, he involves himself in escorting the wagons that carry supplies from these hills to the American armies up north. He says that the stores of lead and saltpeter are vital to the defense of our country. But what is our country? They say it is now called these “United States of America.” I suppose that when men get together to fight a war, they are always more or less united!
We left Crab Apple Orchard three years ago and have settled on our property here at Neck Creek. Although I no longer live close to those who are so dear to my heart, the trails and roads are much improved during the last ten years. Thus we are able to visit with our Witten kin, especially young James Witten, who comes to court my daughter, Rebecca. James, his brothers, and my sons are very much involved with the local militias and vanish into their service on a regular basis. They say that they are useful as scouts and spies since they know this country well and are accustomed to the ways of the Indians.
Those of us who remain at home can only pray, worry, and continue with our daily chores. My daughter, Eleanor Witten, writes that her husband, Tom, has joined the regular army and has been gone for months. She has taken up with the Methodists and encourages me to repent of my sins and be reborn. I write her that God has always shown me what I must do, and when he advises me to take up with a particular religion, I shall do so. I remember the days in Philadelphia, when Sam and I went to many different churches, all certain that they held the one true path to redemption. I think of this much when I try to pray of an evening—I ask God to preserve those I love from harm, but am never certain of exactly how such prayers are to be phrased. I hope that God in his wisdom appreciates my attempts at sincerity, sinner though I undoubtedly am.
I have, at last, a proper house on our lands. Samuel contracted a group of German men to construct it for us, as he believes that their work is superior and they do not attempt to cheat, as do those Ulster Scots. I believe, however, that he continues to have some dealings with the Scotsmen—and suspect that whiskey is involved. Sam laughs when I ask him about it, and tells me that this is men’s business, not meant for my fair ears.
But I do have my home. It is somewhat larger than we need at present, especially when I remember how crowded we were in our small log home in Crab Apple Orchard. We have two stories plus an attic, four rooms downstairs, and five small chambers upstairs. It is well framed, snugly finished with a shingled roof, plastered within and whitewashed without. The stone fireplace has ample room for cooking, and Sam actually bought one of Mr. Franklin’s iron stoves to heat the place! It is a novelty in this area, and many folk come to see it and rejoice at the warmth provided. Our porch overlooks the hills about us, and nearby springs are both convenient and reliable.
Rafe and Juba have a cabin nearby, where they dwell with Toby and Lacey. Toby has an eye to wed one of the Ingrams’ wenches, and I suppose that Sam will be forced to purchase her if we want Toby to be happy. Rafe is getting old, and Toby has been of great value in farming this property. Juba, Lacey, and I, as always, attend to the gardens. I think sometimes of Fence, and wonder where he is this day.
Sam has just come in with a load of wood for the stove. He tells me that the American armies are taking a beating up north, and the British may be attacking the coastal cities down in the Carolinas. Charleston may fall to the enemy. We have a letter from our son, Tom, and I must hasten to read it.
Neck Creek, State of Virginia, August, 1780
They say that the British General Cornwallis is moving with his armies toward the Great Wagon Road that runs but a mile or two from our lands. They say that one of his officers, a “Bloody Ban” Tarleton, leads the cavalry in sweeps through the local farms, robbing them of their goods and burning homes. Many civilians have been killed and many more dispossessed. They say—I am so sick of the “they say” stories!
I only know that all I hold dear is in mortal danger. My children might be killed, my home burned, my animals taken to feed the British. I told Sam that I would stand by my chicken coop with rifle in hand if the British came. He laughed and kissed my nose. I pushed him away, being in a very bad temper. Sam had just explained that he was going south to join William Campbell’s unit and face the British down in North Carolina. Several of our sons and some of the Witten men will be with him. We shall once more be undefended here, and Sam is almost sixty years of age, the fool!
I will return to my spinning wheel near the stove and begin working on that new pile of flax. No, not yet—there is much to be done to pack food, powder, and shot, and clean linen for the men. There will be plenty of time for spinning and knitting and weaving when they are gone.
Neck Creek, State of Virginia, December, 1780
Sam brought Ben home from the battle at King’s Mountain. Ben had been shot in the leg, lost much blood, and afflicted with high fevers. The long trip by wagon had been difficult for them both, but haste was necessary as the British are pursuing the American armies under General Greene as they moved north for the winter.
We nursed Ben day and night. I have had some experience with gunshot wounds, but the putrid matter in his leg infected his entire body, and for weeks he was unable to recognize anything about him. By some miracle, he is recovering from the fevers, but he seems dazed and uncertain, and unlike the son I know so well.
Sam’s rheumatism is worse, and he also brought the terrible news that Bess Witten’s son was killed at King’s Mountain. How I grieve and wish that I could be near to console her. Reece Bowen also died. So many good people will die before this is over.
Sam’s old friend, Dan Morgan, commanded a group of Americans at a battle at some Cow Pen, and the British suffered a great defeat. Why don’t they just go back to England and leave us in peace? I hear that our frontier militiamen are some of the finest fighters against the British.
“We do things that they don’t expect,” said Sam. “Why, at the battle of King’s Mountain, we hid behind trees, screamed like Shawnees, and terrified them. Hell, we refused to march out like cannon fodder, and they didn’t know what to make of it!” His eyes sparkled and he seems to enjoy re-living the battle as his stories become more exaggerated at every telling. He wants to go east in the spring and join the regular army. I told him that I would just shoot him myself and save him the trouble of travel.
Ben is now able to get up a bit. We saved his leg, but he will probably have a limp for the rest of his days. Sam says that it will be a mark of honor. I want to scream at the idiocy of it all, but think that I will just go and select a chicken from the flock to kill for supper tomorrow.
Neck Creek, State of Virginia, 1780
We received word last week that our son, Isaac, is dead of wounds suffered at King’s Mountain. Samuel had not even known that he was wounded there. I only wish that—no, nothing more to write now.
Neck Creek, State of Virginia, October 1782
I am again reminded of an old song:
Summer to winter fadeth,
Gloomy night, happy light shadeth
Time hath a while which none can stay
So come away, while I thus sing,
Come away, come away, my darling!
The war is over, and we all seek peace and the “happy light.” My daughter, Rebecca, married James Witten last year, and we had a lovely long visit with the folks at Crab Apple Orchard. My sons, William and James, have become men of consequence there. Tom, John, and Zachariah seek to farm their bounty lands. My daughters are all wed, and only Ben and Young Sam remain at home.
Ben is most unhappy, but then he has never been content for all of the years that we have lived in Virginia. His leg has healed well, although he walks with a slight limp. It is his whole being that still suffers. He sits on the porch, smoking his pipe and saying very little. At times, he takes the dogs and goes hunting, but rarely brings back any game. Alas, he also takes too much whiskey and I am afraid for him.
Our neighbor, James Boydston, paid a call on us last night. We had some acquaintance with the Boydstons in Maryland, and for many years they owned property near ours here in Montgomery County. Now they have sold their lands and are moving down to the Carolinas.
“These lands are getting a bit crowded for us, and we always suspect that there’s a better place just over the hills,” laughed Mr. Boydston. He is a big, ruddy man, much given to drink and boasting. Folks say that he has a kind heart, however, and makes a loyal friend. “But I have come about my daughter, Priscilla. She’s a plain child; quiet—but a good girl. She don’t do too well with her stepmother, Tabitha, and I’d like to see her settled here.”
Samuel nodded, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe, and I kept my head bent over some mending.
“See here, Cobham—I think that your son, Ben, might be a likely husband for my Pris. True, he’s been a little slow since the war, but he’s a good man from what I hear. If he takes my Priscilla, he can have that acreage of mine over by the north branch of the creek.”
“An interesting idea,” said Sam thoughtfully. “Ben seems a bit lost since the war. Perhaps a wife is what he needs.”
“Pris is a good girl, and I’d not want to force them …,” began Boydston.
“Ben and Priscilla have met on several occasions,” said Sam. “I’ll talk to him about it. It doesn’t take long to know when you have the right person …”
I looked up from my mending and at smiled at him. We had loved each other that first day—oh, that first bright day at the lovely church! The very thought of those days brings tears to my eyes. How little we suspected what the future held for us. Could we even have imagined?