CHAPTER 30—Blessings

8 FEBRUARY 1860

As I sit here in the quiet of our bedroom, packing the last of our belongings, I am struck by how, a week ago, the idea of leaving our home was unthinkable. But we realize it is a necessary step in a journey we never expected to take. John and I fervently pray over the swift changes taking place, seeking divine guidance in every step.

A message given clearly is that we do not need to go to Europe. We are more at ease in the simple life we have built for ourselves. John will visit his suppliers, but these will be shorter trips that allow him to return quickly.

We have been singing hymns—those old, comforting melodies that speak of faith and perseverance. We sing when we rise in the morning, when we retire at night. One of our favorites, “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” has taken on new meaning as we reflect on the constancy of God’s provision through the years.

Rufus and I count our blessings with a renewed sense of gratitude. We are alive in our sixties when many of our dear friends are with Jesus. We have food and clothing. And we know that even if the roof over our head might not be owned by us, we have family and friends who will make sure we will never hear “there is no room at the inn.”

Last night, our prayers were answered. The District Superintendent visited to remind my husband that he remains a missionary to the slaves, though he has not done anything in this regard for years. I assume Mr. Weldon spoke to the gentleman sometime in the last week, hoping to soften the blow and encourage him to take up active mission work again. This appointment is a great honor and a responsibility, and now that he will have more time, he is taking seriously. Chief among the projects that he will undertake is the building of chapels on outlying plantations.

In further answer to our prayers, Mr. Weldon came to speak to us last night. “Realizing you may have mixed feelings about traveling abroad, I wish to give you an alternative you might prefer.” He said nothing about having spoken to the District Superintendent, and we did not inquire.

“I understand,” he added, “that you will visit places to see where you can build chapels for the slaves.” John and I exchanged glances. “One of my plantations is the first place I recommend as a start. No one now lives in the modest plantation house, as the prior owner returned to North Carolina. I had my overseer for that property make sure that it will be ready by tomorrow for esteemed guests.”

I grinned in excitement, then put on a neutral façade. John whispered, “The Lord always provides.”

“Well, then, I guess that settles it,” Weldon replied before taking his leave.

Rufus and Mattie have offered to store some of our most cherished possessions at their home, ensuring they’ll be safe and well-cared for in our absence. They and Joe will also look after the slaves. However, we will travel with Sally and her four little boys, while Dick will stay behind and will move to the quarters next to the factory where the rest of the slaves live. 

Joe has been working to ensure a smooth transition of the business operations, which now will include Mr. Weldon, though he will rarely be present. I did not realize just how many plantations he now runs and though he has several overseers, he prefers to keep abreast of the goings-on. He also travels back to North Carolina to see to the properties there which his family owns.

As I folded the rest of our clothes into the trunk, my fingers brushed against the blue velvet coat John brought me from Mobile. I hesitated for a moment before packing it away. It is far too fine for the journey we are embarking on, but I cannot bring myself to do nothing. Perhaps Miss Mattie can alter it. Though she dresses more simply since her marriage, she might miss some trimmings from a more opulent life.

I wonder, where will we be in the years to come? Part of the answer might lie in what will happen to our town, our state in the next few years. Are we headed for war, as some believe? And will we remain in the South? This gets me to thinking about Rufus and his ties to Greensboro. And to us.

Besides his occupation and church membership, Rufus has been a member of the local militia for many years. This is a group who enjoys parading around town in finery, comparing their horses and riding boots, and taking part in local affairs.

I see a difference in my son, however. The youthful sparkle in his eye has dimmed, replaced by a more somber, reflective gaze. The uniform that once transformed him into a dashing figure now sits on him like a weight, the brass buttons and epaulettes more burdensome than grand.

Last year, Rufus rode with the militia to Southern University where they laid a cornerstone, the bands played, the girls from the Greensboro Academy recited poetry, and important men—mostly Methodist as it is a Methodist institution—gave speeches

There was a shooting competition involving rifles and various types of targets. The person taking first prize was Rufus! John tells me he has always been a crack rifleman. My son is an officer, an elected position for which all the men vote. I still think of him as my sweet tenor whose flute would accompany me on Beethoven and Mozart pieces, and I hope he will never need to use a gun except for hunting.

The political climate grows ever more volatile, and talk of secession is no longer mere bluster. The men in the militia speak with increasing fervor about the coming conflict, their once-innocent posturing taking on a more sinister edge. They are preparing for war, and I cannot help but imagine Rufus marching off with them, his rifle at the ready, his face set in that dispassionate mask he wears so well. But he reassures me he is not likely to join an army, preferring instead to remain in the Greensboro Guard.

He told me, “I have reached the age, Mother, where I have no naïveté as to the nature of war. The only reason I would engage in battle is if our family’s lives are at stake. I will not fight for cotton, nor the right to have slaves, nor even the ‘honor of the South.’ But if a battle threatens our home and family, I will indeed be the best sharpshooter this state has seen.”

“Rufus,” I said, choosing my words with care, “you understand that we are in a very precarious position. The business, the family, everything we hold dear, intertwines with the way people are here in Greensboro. Your father believes that reason and compromise will prevail, that the states will remain united, and that gradual change is possible with no bloodshed.”

My husband has business interests and connections in the North and he does not believe he differs much from a counterpart from, say, Connecticut. He believes slavery is ending as an institution and assumes he must protect our enslaved people and give them as good of a life as we can, and when they abolish slavery, he hopes they will wish to still work at the factory. Sometimes he does not see things that happen around him, almost to the point of being foolhardy. But that is the mark of an unapologetic optimist who finds good in everyone, yet misses a subtext.

I cannot ignore the signs. The increasing fervor with which people speak of secession, the rising animosity towards those who have different views—these are not the hallmarks of a society on the brink of reconciliation. I fear we are closer to a breaking point than John realizes, and that his dreams of a peaceful resolution may be just that—dreams.

As I finished packing, a wave of melancholy washed over me. This house has been our sanctuary for so long, filled with memories of children’s laughter, family gatherings, and quiet moments. Now, we were leaving it in the hands of strangers.

I heard John’s footsteps in the hallway and turned to see him standing in the doorway.

“Are you ready, Louisa?” he asked, his voice gentle yet laden with the gravity of our situation.

I nodded, closing the trunk with a finality that made my heart ache. “Yes, I suppose I am,” I said, though a part of me wished to savor the familiar surroundings one last time.

John crossed the room and took my hands in his, the warmth of his touch a slight comfort in a sea of uncertainty. “I know this will not be easy,” he said, with emotion. “But perhaps this journey will bring us closer to God’s purpose in these twilight years.”