The Diary of Rebecca Cobham
The snow is heavy today, and I took the opportunity to go through my old trunk in the attic. I think that Benjamin put it up here after Sam’s death to hide all of the things that might make me more sorrowful. Sam has been gone for six long years, but the sorrow bites so that at times I think myself mad. The new young preacher in Dublin tells me that I am not a good Christian. He says that I should get myself reborn and expect to rejoice in heaven. I can barely hide my disdain of his screaming sermons and the ridiculous behavior of the congregation when he is about. Perhaps, I should go and worship with the German Lutherans down in Carolina—
I opened this little book for the first time in so many years. The flowers are faded from the cover and the paper is yellowed, but I can still read very clearly the tales and thoughts of a young wife, another me. How far away it seems—no, how far away it is. The book was at the bottom of the old trunk. I think that the trunk came across the sea from England with Mary Beall Cobham more than a hundred years ago.
I am glad that this trunk was left here at the farm and not lost in the fire. Although I was getting too weary to continue operating my inn, I might have sold it for a goodly amount. But the fire, started by some careless fool in the kitchens, took it all. Poor Toby died of a heart seizure while trying to fight the blaze, and I have mourned him greatly.
In this trunk are some pewter pieces, old folded children’s clothing, which I must remember to give to Ben and James for their children, and Samuel’s silver shoe buckles. Now, what in the world am I to do with these? I held them in my hands and rocked and wept when I found them. Juba came running up the stairs, thinking that I had had a fit of some sort. She saw me crying over the old trunk and had the good sense to leave me to my memories.
An old piece of lace is folded in a book about fishing. The book itself had a lot of saltwater damage from some voyage, but seems to be called The Compleat Angler. I shall give it to my son, Thomas, who loves to fish. I wonder if an English author would recognize Virginia fish. The lace is still soft and lovely. There is a piece missing—I remember cutting it to make a shield for a baby’s face when we were on our way to Crab Orchard.
The peach satin dress is still here. It is now faded and stained with mud from the day of Sam’s funeral. What a fool I was to wear it. But the dress was so special to me. I never wrote in this journal of the first night that I wore it—
Margaret Beall—ah, I remember this poor lady. She died in childbed a few years after our visit to Philadelphia, and her English husband sold everything and went back to London. Perhaps Samuel should have married her, but then he would not have wed me and how different so many lives might have been. Margaret insisted that Samuel and I accompany her to a Christmas ball in Philadelphia. Samuel was anxious to go because he wanted to meet some of the men who would be there, although he already knew so many Philadelphians in the taverns and coffee houses that were forbidden to a lady.
I was not anxious to go to this ball. I did not know how to dance the newest dances, and my one good gown of green silk was hopelessly simple and out of fashion. Margaret would have given me something of hers, but she was very tiny and I could not begin to wear her gowns. We did not have the money to purchase suitable clothing, and I had resigned myself to dressing as plainly as the Quakers.
A week before the ball, Samuel came home very late one snowy night. He had been at a local tavern and reeked of rum and tobacco smells. I was about ready to throw a chamber pot at his head when he laughed and told me that he had been in a most lucrative game of whist with a very drunken, very wealthy English army officer. Samuel had relieved this man of twenty pounds sterling, more money than I had ever seen in my life. “It is for you, my fair Rebecca. Margaret shall take you to the dressmaker tomorrow, and you shall have the finest gown in Philadelphia.”
I sat up in bed and fumbled with the candles. “You are mad, Samuel.” He spilled the silver coins on the bed. “With this money, we can do so much at home …”
He shook his head. “For one moment, Rebecca, you shall be the fairest of them all. I shall be the proudest man in the city when I stand by your side. We shall have this party to remember for all our lives. I shall buy some silver buckles for my shoes!”
Despite my arguments, Samuel had his way, and Margaret took me to her overburdened sewing woman. The gown that was made for me was beautiful—peach-hued and very full in the skirt. Lace trimmed the sleeves, and the neckline was scandalous. Since I had no jewelry, we tied a velvet ribbon of the same color as my dress about my neck. On the night of the party, Margaret’s maid put all of my heavy hair up in a very fashionable “Hanoverian” style, with curls trailing down my right shoulder. There were velvet ribbons and a few blossoms from Margaret’s hothouse to complete my outfit. I wore rose-scented powder and some tinted lip balm. When I came down the stairs, Sam was waiting for me. The look on his face was worth much more than a thousand pounds …
I was beautiful that night. A woman can tell this by the looks of admiration from men and veiled envy from women. Fortunately, the ballroom was very crowded, and few could tell if one danced well or no. It amuses me now, as an old woman of seventy years, to remember the fair woman of that night.
I danced a quadrille with a man wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He had no hair on top of his head and danced rather poorly. But he was enjoying himself so much that I actually danced with him several times. “Mistress Cobham, you are the most beautiful lady in all of Philadelphia. If this is what our tobacco plantations breed, long may we smoke!”
I laughed. He insisted on getting some cocktail punch for me and said many humorous things. Samuel, returning to my side after a lengthy conversation with some compatriots in another room, was delighted to see me speaking to this fellow. His name was Benjamin Franklin, and he pronounced himself to be a retired printer.
Franklin, of course, has become a famous name in this country. I have read his almanacs. He was also minded to be a bit free with his expressions of admiration, and had he been younger, I would probably have slapped him. But Mr. Franklin had a twinkle in his eye and a ready wit.
“England has been sending us her convicts and shameless women,” he told me. “I suggest that we gather our rattlesnakes and send them back in return!”
Samuel thought it amusing. Samuel was never jealous of me. Oh, my Sam …
Oh, dear Lord, how glad I am that we had that one special night.
It is time for this satin dress to be cut into pieces and used for quilts. Perhaps, I shall bore my children once more with the story of the young Samuel and fair Rebecca in Philadelphia. They cannot even imagine that such a night, such a party, such a dress ever existed. My daughters and granddaughters will never wear satin gowns—they dress in woolen homespun or linen and have neither jewelry nor laces to adorn them. Their hands are rough with work and their skins quickly become dry and wrinkled from the sun. Yet they are good honest women and they live amid much peril. I have taken to praying for them—although I am not certain that I am doing it in the correct way. I suspect that God does not much care either.
Santa Barbara, 1999
Oh my God, thought Kate, I think that I am going to cry. Now, how can I weep over a woman who died almost two hundred years ago! I wish that I had known her …
She was comfortably settled on the leather couch in her living room sipping hot tea and trying to ignore the stack of legal briefs piled on the floor nearby. Maddie’s last diary segment had arrived this afternoon, and Kate had welcomed any excuse to escape from nitpicking such issues as “view corridors” and “affordable housing” so endlessly discussed in her current court case.
She slid off of the couch and padded into the kitchen to make another cup of tea. “Do you want some tea?” she called in the direction of her guest bedroom.
“No, Mom. For the tenth time, I’m feeling better!” Her son, Christopher, miserable with a flu virus, had landed on her doorstep two days before. Kate actually appreciated that Chris would forsake his dorm room and come to stay with her while he was ill. It saved her many anxious hours and a lot of travel time.
How did Rebecca stand it, she wondered. She had ten children, and so many of them went so far away. She was a much tougher woman than I could ever be!
Christopher came into the kitchen, a fledgling beard on his pale face. Kate felt his forehead and patted his cheek. “Good, you seem much cooler, but I want to take your temperature. Any more fever and you’re off to the doctor. I’m going to make you some echinacea tea.”
He rummaged through the refrigerator and pulled out a container of Gatorade. “Next time I’m sick, I’m gonna stay with Dad,” he muttered.
Virginia, 1799
Rebecca sat on the front porch of her home, rocking back and forth. On the steps below sat her daughter-in-law, Priscilla, still as plain as ever, dressed in sturdy russet wool and a cap of faded white linen. Beside Priscilla was her young son, Joseph, and she cradled little Benjamin in her arms after suckling him. Both little Benjamin and Joseph were sleepy, wiping their eyes and yawning. But they were very quiet and occasionally glanced up at their father, who stood so solemnly by his mother’s rocking chair.
“We hate to leave you, Ma. But this land in Kentucky is much better than my stretch here. Pris and I just can’t make it here in Montgomery County—and her brother says that we’ll do much better over the mountain.” Benjamin was in his midthirties now, still tall and lean, and seeming weary beyond his years.
They had come to visit Rebecca on this warm October day to bid her farewell. They were going with another group of families into the Kentucky Territory, a place still wild and challenging, but full of promise for marginal farmers here in Virginia. Benjamin had never been much of a farmer, nor was he a businessman. He was buttressed by his very strong wife, but even she could not make the land produce all that they needed.
“Maybe we can come back for a visit when we established,” he said somewhat lamely.
Rebecca took her tobacco pipe out of a pocket in her black homespun skirt. She looked up at her son with eyes still bright and perceptive, and stopped rocking.
“No, you won’t,” she said calmly. “I’m an old woman, Ben. Sam has been waiting me for too many years down there. But you won’t come back.” She glanced down toward the tree, where a carved stone and white picket fence now delineated the family burial grounds. So many were there now—Ben’s little daughter and one of James’s sons … both dead of the cholera. Zachariah’s first wife was there now, a pretty girl who had a bad fall when she was five months gone with child. Both mother and child died despite every effort that their family could make. “I’ve buried too many. At least you and your family will go off, and I won’t have to bury you.” Rebecca’s eyes became suspiciously bright, and she began rocking again.
“You’ve got a lot of years, Ma. Juba says that you’re as healthy as a horse.”
“Some compliment, that,” responded his mother, puffing on her pipe.
“Ma … the country is expanding. Things are gonna be better over in Kentucky. You could come with us. You’ve always liked new things.”
Rebecca gave a snort and stopped rocking. “Ben, I never much liked to travel, believe it or not. Sometimes, I think of Maryland—we were civilized there. We had a fine church and some contacts with the rest of the world. Out here, we’ve become savages,” she sighed. “But we are strong savages, and we know how to handle this land.” She glanced around at the farmland about her home, now planted to a variety of crops and mostly laying harvested and broken in the bright October sun. The trees beyond the cultivated fields were just beginning to turn orange and red.
“It was on a day like this when I saw Samuel at the church. It all began there.” She sighed heavily and stood up.
“Ma, you’re too gloomy,” said Priscilla, rising slowly. Rebecca held out her arms for the baby and cuddled him close to her breast. “I’m not gloomy, Priscilla. I have seen lots of life and I see how things go.” Joseph came to lean against his grandmother’s black skirts. She put her hand on his head, as if in benediction. “These boys will see much more than we can ever imagine. But they won’t move east again—they’ll go west.”
Ben nodded, gazing with pride at his sons. “They will. We’ll try to give them a proper life and some education so they won’t be as ignorant as Pris and me.”
“Ah Ben, you were the smartest of my sons. If we had stayed where you could have had some better schooling, who knows—” Rebecca kissed the baby in her arms and handed him back to his mother. She bent and kissed little Joseph on the forehead. “Sweet boys. Behave for your parents, y’hear?”
Three-year-old Joseph nodded solemnly. His grandmother was an old lady with lots of thick silver hair and a wrinkled face, but she had always been firm and wise with him, and he felt comfortable in her reassuring presence. He could not realize that he would never see her again.
Ben and Priscilla understood this quite well; however, Ben’s eyes filled with tears when he embraced his mother. “Ma, I love you.”
Rebecca stiffened her shoulders. She was thin but had avoided the stooped appearance that so many old grannies her age presented. “I love you too. Take that love with you, children. Now, go—but remember me.”
They had become people of few words. The elegant conversations, complex social interaction, and intricate associations of the life imported from Europe to Maryland had disappeared. Instead, this new breed of American was based on families splitting apart and moving on. It was based on longing for the half-remembered and idealized security of a home with loving, wise parents and sturdy values. It would be the basis of many a song and novel in the future, and a wish for a past that never actually was.
Rebecca White Cobham watched as Benjamin helped his wife and children into their wagon. They drove down the rutted road slowly, and none looked back. Rebecca herself turned away, biting on her lip and feeling the tears well in her eyes. It was bad luck to watch people drive away—or so some of her new Scotch-Irish neighbors told her. They were the most superstitious folk that she had ever met, and she still held an English disdain for them. But her children and grandchildren lived with them, and picked up their ways quickly. The settled ways of Maryland, the elegance of Philadelphia—all seemed like a dream to her.
“Ms. Rebecca, did Mr. Ben and his family leave?” Juba emerged from the house carrying Rebecca’s shawl.
“Yes. They’re off beyond the mountain. Sam would be envious, I think,” said Rebecca quietly, accepting the shawl. She and Juba were two old widows who had lived together comfortably for the last few years. They were never quite friends, for Rebecca could never shake her feeling that the black folk were too different for that.
Juba held fast to her own commitment to keep Mistress Rebecca alive and her family together—although her grandchildren worked for Mr. Thomas just as much as Mistress Rebecca and nobody thought much about who owned whom. Lacey was still alone and bitter, but she lived with her nieces and nephews, and took in some sewing for other folks in the area. She made a pretty piece of money from some of them and was saving it for something …
Juba never forgot that she and her family were property. Managing Mistress Rebecca kept that property together, until a better life came along. She might not live to see it, but her grandchildren could. She had once asked Rebecca if she thought of freeing her black folk. Mistress Rebecca seemed surprised.
“Whatever would you do? Don’t we take care of you?” she asked, scowling as she so often did these days.
“We’re folk, same as you. We got souls and feelings.”
“Of course, you do. But you’ve also got bodies that need to be fed and clothed, and that has been my job for many years, Juba. What is freedom anyway?”
“Freedom is what you gave my man Rafe all those years ago, Mistress Rebecca. You let him decide what to do with his family. You remembered that night that we are all equal afore God,” explained Juba.
Rebecca sighed, “Tell that to the men around here, Juba. You couldn’t live here in Virginia as free folk anyway. You’d have to go north.”
“Well … maybe we’d like it up there.”
“Like Fence?” asked Rebecca somewhat cruelly.
Juba pursed her lips and lowered her head. Fence had finally sent them one letter from a place up in Canada—he had fought with the British and been granted a bit of land in the loyalist territories to the north. But he had not been happy there—he found that some of the northern folks weren’t big on accepting him as an equal and made life difficult. “Fence is strong—he’ll do okay when he gets the feel of the place,” Juba said.
“We let Fence go. If I told Lacey tomorrow that she was free, where would she go and who would care for her?” asked Rebecca wearily. “It doesn’t matter much to me anymore.”
“Mistress Rebecca, you just don’t understand.”
“I know, Juba. The one thing I’ve learned in all of my years is that I don’t understand.”