Chapter 27

The State of Virginia, 1788

Rafe died not long after Samuel Cobham, and his widow Juba moved from their slave cabin into the larger house with Mistress Rebecca. “I’m grateful that she buried Rafe over near Master Sam,” she told her rebellious son and daughter. “I’m old and she’s old, and I’m gonna look after her whether she likes it or not.” Her children, Toby and Lacey, were still young, and ever since the Revolution, they had new ideas in their heads.

“Mama, we can git outta here now. I doan think that Mistress Rebecca will care very much,” said Lacey. “Since the Ingrams sold my man off to the coast, I got nothin’ to stay here for.”

Juba snorted. “Yeah, child, you want to run off and look for somebody an’ you don’t have an idea where he is. You can’t stay in Virginia anyway. Mistress Rebecca offered to buy your man, remember?”

“Ain’ nothing fair in life,” replied her daughter. “Ain’ no life here for me. Mistress Rebecca wouldn’t pay his price,” she added sourly.

“The Ingrams wanted too much money, baby. Mistress Rebecca got some money, but nothing like they asked for your man,” replied Juba. She was seated in the kitchen house shelling beans. The July afternoon was very hot, but a stiff breeze lowered the humidity and kept the bugs at bay. However, ominous clouds on the horizon suggested foul weather ahead.

Juba liked it here at the Cobham farm. Since the nightmare years of her early slavery, the Cobhams had represented her security. She came to them as a scrawny girl of fourteen, scarred of skin from many beatings, thin and ailing from years of neglect, and a bit slow in the head from both malnutrition and cranial blows. Her master gave her to Samuel Cobham because he owed him money—and because he was through with her scrawny body.

The Cobhams treated her at least as well as their horses, which was a definite step up for Juba. Mistress Rebecca taught her to speak properly and keep house. Master Sam and his sons ignored her unless they wanted a cold drink or somebody to help them in the fields. Their slave, Rafe, was kind to her, and after their first child was born, the Cobhams agreed to let them get married by a real churchman in Maryland. When the children came, nobody talked of selling them. Juba felt safe. Mistress Rebecca often yelled at her and was occasionally short-tempered, but she never beat her.

There was a day, however, when her young Isaac Cobham became too free with Juba’s body, and Rafe pulled him away, shoving the white man’s face in the dust. Mistress Rebecca found out about this and took a switch to her sixteen-year-old son. Some slave owners would have beaten Rafe for his presumption. The Cobhams were as ignorant as most white folks about owning people, but they didn’t hold with abusing good property. He and his family had shared their dangers, and he remembered that one night in the forest when Mistress Rebecca had given him the freedom to choose his family’s fate. They also had allowed Fence to run away to freedom.

Isaac Cobham died at King’s Mountain and was buried out there near Master Sam. He gave his blood so that the colonies might be free. Juba sometimes wondered if her son, Fence, had given his blood somewhere trying to keep the colonies in bondage. Juba had also questioned why the colonies’ freedom hadn’t included all of the slaves also. Rafe was bitter and told her that they were just property in an evil world created for the benefit of white folks. “Well,” thought Juba, “white men at least.” She had seen how Mistress Rebecca and the other white ladies worked themselves silly while the menfolk made all of the decisions.

Juba knew that Master Sam had left his widow with property, money, livestock, and six slaves. These had included herself, Rafe, their children, Toby and Lacey, Toby’s wife Dinah, and their son. Mistress Rebecca had married sons and grandchildren in the neighborhood, and for all of her sixty-five years, she was as healthy as a horse. But for weeks after Master Sam’s death, she ate almost nothing and refused to leave her bedroom. Now, she would go to work in the garden sometimes, and she had spoken sharply to Lacey when she was late milking the cows. Mistress Rebecca still had life in her, even if she didn’t want it.

Juba finished her shelling and looked up at her daughter. Lacey was dark, with her father’s strong features. She had fallen in love with a man over at the Ingram farm, and they had hoped to marry. The Ingrams were in some financial trouble and sold their slave, a valuable carpenter, to the Carter family over on the coast. Since this had happened, Lacey turned bitter, and her attitude was coloring everything she did. Well, if Lacey’s poor performance brought Mistress Rebecca out of lethargy, it’s well enough. Juba loved her daughter dearly, but she also knew that if Mistress Rebecca died, it was most likely that her slaves would be split up among the children. That might mean that they could be sold, and God only knew where that might take them. At least they were together here, and she didn’t think that Mistress Rebecca would split them up. So she would take care of Mistress Rebecca for as long as she could do so.

She thought again of her son, Fence, who had taken off many years ago to join the British during the Revolution. They had promised him so much—but all of these years, Fence had never communicated with his family. She hoped that he had gone to Europe and found some good employment. She rose somewhat stiffly. The years of hard work were taking a toll on her body.

Lacey came into the kitchen shed, carrying a load of firewood. “Folks say that there’s a big storm comin’,” she said, dropping the wood and wiping perspiration from her forehead. “So many folks are travelin’ right now that there ain’t a place to stay in the county.”

“Where did you hear this?” asked Juba, sorting through the wood to find pieces for her baking oven.

“Mr. Ben was here to see his ma. He asked her if some of the travelin’ folks could come and stay here.”

Juba raised her eyebrows. “Nobody stayed here in a long time.”

“There’s some sick young ’uns with one of them German families. Master Ben said that they were took bad and didn’t have much money, and that the little ones were like to die if they didn’t get shelter,” Lacey explained. “Ms. Rebecca was workin’ in the garden and pullin’ turnips. She just sat there in the dirt and put them in her basket.”

“Well, what did she say?” asked Juba.

“She was real quiet for a long time, and so was Mr. Ben. He just stood, holdin’ that big gray horse of his, just the two of them standing in the hot sun.” Lacey shook her head. “Neither one of ’em is right in the head.”

Juba added the shelled beans to the stew bubbling in a black iron pot that hung over the big fireplace. “Mister Ben has not been the same since the war,” she sighed. “But he’s a kind man, and he’s got Mistress Priscilla to take care of him.”

“Well, finally Mistress Rebecca stood up and said that she couldn’t turn no sick children from the house, so they are comin’ to stay for a few days.” Lacey grimaced. “It means more work for us.”

“It’ll be better than sittin’ around at night listening to the critters,” observed Juba. “But you go tell Toby to keep his boy away from the big house. I don’t want him catching something.”

The storm was the worst that anybody in the county could recall. The wind uprooted trees and damaged buildings. The rain poured steadily for hours from thick black clouds. The lightning and thunder made a spectacular display, and many of the children in the Cobham house cried out in fright.

Rebecca put the sick children up on the second floor to be tended by their anxious mothers. Most of the women spoke no English. She had plenty of unused space up there, and fortunately the Germans had brought much of their own bedding. It appeared that the children had the pox, but not the dangerous sort. They broke out in pustules and were feverish, but all were recovering well.

Her boarders were families moving down to the Carolinas after long months of travel from their home in Upper Alsace. They wore dark and sober clothing, and they were tidy people, grateful for the shelter. They followed a strict God, but observed their rituals and prayers separately from her household.

Rebecca refused to take money for their lodgings, but did allow them to work on her farm for several days. The men were diligent and skilled at repairing her fences and whitewashing the house. The women scrubbed her floors and did the laundry and refused to allow Juba and Lacey to do their work. Rebecca had little interaction with most of her guests, but after several days of observing what was happening in her own home, Rebecca had a need to reproach the Germans. She requested a talk with their leader, one Peter Kivett.

“You folks must understand—my servants are slaves. They are like children and I cannot have you filling their heads with rebellious thoughts. They are to do their work, and you must not make them think above themselves,” she admonished old Meister Kivett, who was a plump, ruddy-faced man in his early sixties, often severe in his manner and a dedicated Lutheran.

“Nah, mistress, we do not hold with black people doing our work. We do not believe that one man should hold another in bondage,” he explained one evening when they sat together on the front veranda. Both he and Rebecca puffed slowly on their clay pipes of tobacco.

“How can we call ourselves godly if we treat humans as livestock?” explained Mister Kivett. “Nah, I do not mean insult, Mistress Cobham. You are a fine lady, and we are grateful for your kindness to us.”

“No insult taken, Mr. Kivett, but I do not think it showing true gratitude that you have sewn discord in my house,” said Rebecca thoughtfully. “I have never lived in a world in which the black-skinned folks were not thought of as property. They work for us, and we care for them. What else would they do?”

Kivett shrugged. “They would do what all do—find land, work hard, and worship God. Nah, we came to America because our rulers wanted us to become Catholic. We are not able to do that. We are simple people, but we have our faith. I am sorry that our faith is not yours. We mean no disrespect, but we think that God means for us to be free.”

Rebecca said nothing for a long time. Her eyes turned toward the distant tree where Sam was buried. “I will confess that I have had little to do with God these last years. Perhaps losing Sam …,” she paused. “I feel as if I know nothing about God, and he has not seen fit to enlighten me,” she added with a hint of her old spirit. “I am an old woman, and my children are grown. My work is almost done. I sit here day after day and watch the forest and clouds.”

“You have this fine farm and your people to tend,” said Kivett after a long silence. “You are a good woman, I think. God will not forget you.” He wondered if he should try to explain his own faith to this lady who had given them shelter. She was old and thin, but still stood tall and seemed strong. Her face was lined, but must once have been very fair. Her blacks looked clean and well-fed, and her farm properly tended. He wanted to convince her that holding people in bondage was evil, but decided that it would not be wise at this moment.

“You have seen many other worlds, Mister Kivett. You have crossed the sea,” she said at last. “Not all people believe the same things. The Bible speaks of holding people in bondage. However, God did not seem to mind this as long as those people weren’t his chosen.” She frowned. “I am not of a mind to talk about this. There are so many beliefs—” She shrugged, emptied the tobacco ashes from her pipe, pulled a fan from her pocket, and began to wave it back and forth.

“It is a big world, Mistress Cobham,” said Peter Kivett after a long and somewhat uncomfortable silence.

“I cannot even imagine what you have seen, sir—a continent teeming with people and a big salt ocean? Sam’s grandfather, William, was very old when he died. He told me of castles and great village fairs, and ladies who wore satin with face paint every day. He said that there were lords and ladies who covered themselves with sparkling jewels to attend great feasts.” She stopped, considering her own life. “I have never seen these things. I sailed once on Chesapeake Bay. I did not like it and I was very ill. Sam laughed at me. I went to Philadelphia and wore a satin gown, and thought myself very elegant.” She spoke slowly, visualizing these things in her mind. “But I shall go no farther than here.”

“Your people were English?” asked Kivett, trying to take her mind from her dead husband.

“Our families were English, although Sam had a French grandfather and my grandfather was Welsh. The Welsh do not really think of themselves as English,” she added with a small smile. “But now we are Americans. Sam and my boys fought for that. One of my boys died so that the colonies would be free.” Her eyes were suspiciously bright, and Kivett feared that she would begin weep.

“But one kitchen and one garden look very much the same whether we lived in Maryland or Virginia. They look the same whether or not we are colonies or a new nation,” she added wearily. “My children are beginning to speak with the same horrible language of those Ulster Irish. Juba speaks our English language better than my daughter-in-law, Priscilla. I cannot think what will become of my grandchildren. They live more like savages at times and have lost their manners. We are now Americans, I suppose, whatever that might mean. For me, freedom has changed nothing of these things.”

Kivett shook his head. “I must think that if you asked your black slave, she would say that freedom would make a great difference. No matter, Mistress Cobham. It is a large world, but we have seen something of it, and I will tell you that this is the best place—this is beautiful land with good soil and forests as God made them. No one will tell us how to worship.”

She smiled. “I remember when we traveled down here from Maryland. We sought inns and ordinaries—and often I preferred to sleep on the ground because they were so dirty and rowdy.”

He nodded. “That is why we are so grateful, mistress. You have given us good shelter, and we will keep you in our prayers. Many of the Ulster Irish about here are not so kind to us Germans.”

“You are no longer Germans, Mister Kivett. You are Americans now,” said Rebecca, rising from her chair. “There is much blood in our soil to prove this.”

The German families stayed at the Cobham farm for two weeks and left with healthy children. In return, they offered Rebecca their work, their prayers, and some excellent recipes for curing cheese and making sausages. They offered her black slaves some new ideas about white folks, and Juba could see that Toby and Lacey were both taken with the thought that someday they might be free.

Rebecca seemed somewhat recovered from her grief after the Germans left. One Sunday in August, she loaded her slaves into a wagon and insisted that they accompany her into Dublin for church services. The black folk stood in the back of the church, feeling conspicuous and uncomfortable. After the services, she sat with her sons and their families in the shade and shared supper. There, she made an announcement that astonished them all.

“I’m going to get a license and open an inn,” she said. “I shall take only families and women, and will not suffer any but well-behaved people. I cannot go out and see the world, so I shall have to force the world to come to me.”

The “Hen and Chicks” Tavern, Virginia, 1789

Rebecca Cobham sat in her quarters above the kitchen in her inn, the “Hen and Chicks.” She was going over the new rates that the county had published for charges at their licensed ordinaries:

Fodder, per bundle	10 pennies
Whiskey, a half pint	8 pennies
Brandy, per ditto	12 pennies
Lodging, per night	6 pennies
Diet, per day	16 pennies
Pasturage, per day	8 pennies

 

She would paint these charges on a wooden plank and see that they were placed in a prominent spot in her dining room. None would have cause to fault her billing, and it was Rebecca’s most stringent rule that order was to be kept in her inn at all times.

It had not taken very long to locate a suitable site near the Wagon Road on the old Boydston property, and turn the house into her inn. She took Juba, Lacey, and their son, Toby, to assist her, and Ben’s wife, Priscilla, came to work during the busy times. Her son, Thomas, and his wife, Nancy Grayson, moved to her farm and were managing it with the assistance of his unmarried brother, Zachariah.

Rebecca remembered the terrible inns and taverns that she had seen on her journey down to Virginia so many years ago and was determined to have something better for her boarders. Her rooms were simple and offered water jugs and basins, coatracks, and ample bedding. The bed linen was coarse but always clean, and she spread sprigs of thyme in the bedding to deter insects. No more than two adults were allowed to share a bed, although as many children as wished could be included with their parents. Families might share a room, and single ladies were given accommodations in a dormitory with four large beds. Servants and slaves slept in a nearby shed, and there was a barn for stabling pack animals.

The main room of the inn served for dining, drinking, social, and business purposes. The wood tables had benches, and a few chairs were clustered around the fireplace at the end of the room. Some chairs were placed beneath the windows so that guests might have sufficient light for reading. Rebecca tried to obtain copies of the Gazettes from Philadelphia, Maryland, and Virginia so that they might keep up on the news, and a few precious books sat on a shelf high out of the reach of little fingers.

She served breakfast and supper only, and tried to make the meals simple but wholesome. Corn porridge, smoked bacon and pork, cooked greens in season, German sausages from the Kivett family recipes, breads, and cobblers made from berries or dried fruit were her staples. Eggs, rice, cheese, turkeys, and wild game were often on her table when she judged the quantity sufficient. Her own cattle, goats, and chicken provided much of her larder.

It was a great deal of work for her and for her slaves, but she found it all worthwhile. There was considerable free time for her to sit with her travelers—hearing the latest news from other states, catching up on gossip about famous folk, sharing recipes and remedies with other ladies, and listening to their stories of journeys by land and sea.

She was a free woman now before the law, a femme sole, and could manage her own affairs. After many years of raising her family, she was well able to cook for dozens of people and supervise the running of the inn. The business side was more difficult—she had regulations to observe and had to exercise great care that there was no impropriety in her establishment. Some inns and taverns were noted for their bawdy nature, but they were run by males capable of handling such troubles. She did not want the local magistrates to think her unable to conduct her affairs and tried to observe their regulations whenever possible.

Rebecca finished painting on the wooden sign, wondering if she could add some charges for extras such as delivering babies, tending the sick, and allowing traveling ministers to preach on Sundays in her dining area. After more thought, she decided against listing such charges but did add a cautionary note that disruptive patrons would be turned out if they did not keep the peace.

She had not had the inn open for very long when a young man came seeking overnight lodging on a very cold afternoon. Although she had made it clear to everyone on the Great Wagon Road that she would accept only families, women, and elderly men, she was persuaded by this man’s charm and the misery of the weather to allow him shelter for one night. It had been a mistake.

She had been washing the supper dishes with Juba when cries from above stairs alerted her to trouble. Toby, who was bringing in a load of firewood, dumped his burden by the hearth and met her eyes anxiously. She nodded quickly toward the big rifle concealed behind the fireplace, and he grabbed it before they hurried up the stairs.

The noise was coming from a small room where she often placed ailing children and their mothers. Toby pushed open the door, and Rebecca caught her breath when she saw the young man, breeches about his knees, attempting to rape Toby’s sister, Lacey. “Stop at once, sir,” said Toby, raising the rifle.

The young man was very tall with an unruly sheaf of reddish hair and an angry expression. Reluctantly, he released the sobbing Lacey. “No nigger is going to shoot me,” he barked.

Rebecca gave Toby her candle and took the rifle in one swift move. “No, sir, but I surely will shoot you if you do not gather your things immediately and depart.”

“Now, Mistress Granny, you surely won’t kill me over a colored wench,” he said with a smile, pulling up his breeches and running his hands swiftly over his hair. “I’ll just be to bed and depart in the morning.”

“You’ll be buried right out near the chicken coop in the morning if you do not depart now, sir,” said Rebecca. “I assure you that I have both the talent and the will to kill you.”

For a moment, he stared at the old woman in her simple dark blue woolen gown and white mobcap. Toby put his arm about his sister, whose sobs subsided as she watched the scene with wide, frightened eyes. There was something about these people that told the man that they were not bluffing him, and he had an instinct for survival. The old woman, who had seemed gentle and indecisive when he first persuaded her to extend hospitality, suddenly seemed possessed of a power and lethal grace that he had not thought possible. “Very well, Mistress Cobham. I shall depart momentarily.”

“I will wait down below to wish you farewell,” she said quietly. “Toby, take your sister and go back to the kitchen.”

The gentleman gathered his belongings, bundled up in his cloak and hat, and was downstairs in a few minutes. The old woman sat in a rocking chair near the door, with the rifle across her lap. “Your horse has had a full measure of oats, sir. You may find shelter down at the ‘Crown Beyond’ before you freeze to death if you follow the south road.”

“Thank you, mistress.” He actually smiled at her, showing a grudging appreciation of her courage and determination. “You are such stuff as I may admire, mistress. I would not like to be your enemy.”

Her faded blue eyes regarded him with a mixture of annoyance and exhaustion. “My slaves are mine to defend, sir. Neither you nor any other will abuse them,” she said, rising and opening the door to the cold, still night. “I bid you a safe journey, and do not come back here, sir.”

“I wish that we had met when you were young, mistress. You must have been a beauty in your day.” The man rode away into the night, and Rebecca checked her register once more for the man’s name. “Well, Mr. Andrew Jackson, if you come to these parts again, I’ll not be so forgiving!”

Rebecca smiled at these memories and finished painting her sign with a flourish.