Raised Country Style from South Carolina to Mississippi: Civil War Transforms America

By Bettye B. Burkhalter

The saga continues with Dr. Burels children moving west. His son James ledthe Mississippi-bound wagonsfrom South Carolina into another untamed frontier. Their first Christmas in Attalaville, Mississippi, was a grand celebration of their newfound life, only to have the New Year bring tragedy.

Mississippis Golden Years brought prosperity to the pioneers as landowners and independent farmers. Too soonthe Civil War swept across their land leaving King Cotton reeling and survivors coping with shattered lives. Sympathetic eyes of the world watched as they searched for ways to survive the aftermath of total war. Lisbeth Burel struggled with the heartbreak of losing the war, her husband James, and her youngest son. Bracing to survive post-war defeat and economic ruination, Lisbeth and her oldest son learned to cope with the nagging pain and hatred of a useless war. With the burden of the world on William Rileys back, he turned to God and self-reliance to get them through the bleak future. Recovery was slow, and families joined hands to plant new fields of cotton, corn, and sorghum cane.

Thirty years of worry and hard work turned William into an old, sick man long before his time. On a cold October morning, the stooped and frail man shuffled toward the sugarcane mill and furnace. Assuring the old family recipe and tradition continued, he taught his grandson how to cook molasses to be as smooth as silk. A couple months later Williams family celebrated the biggest Christmas since the war. Sadly, two days later the celebration was marred as his thirteen proud children mourned the loss of their Pa. After the war, William Riley took great pain to instill the belief that they, and their kind, were the moral fiber offering the best hope for rebuilding the New South. And they were.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9781477287231

Bettye B. Burkhalter

Bettye Burrell Burkhalter is a Vice President, Associate Provost, and Professor Emerita at Auburn University. Academic research and fellowships with Auburn University, the International Academy of Astronautics, and the British Interplanetary Society sent her around the world. Upon retirement she teamed with her eighty-nine-year-old father, Cecil A. Burrell, to capture a way of life they both loved and valued quickly fading into the pages of time: country style living. Spanning four centuries, the saga is a testament to the author’s uncompromising vision to recapture the life and times of one man and his family in search of the American Dream. Bringing to life the colorful characters who blazed trails into the raw frontier, some critics compared her meticulously researched writing and techniques of creative nonfiction to the writings of Kenneth Roberts and Bernard DeVoto. Although Dr. Burkhalter worked and visited in over a dozen countries, she prefers the quiet countryside at her rustic log home retreat. There in the peace and quiet of nature she does most of her writing. “There is no substitute for awakening to a sunrise with singing birds, hearing a whippoorwill’s lonesome call to his mate at dusk, or watching lightning bugs flash by on a warm summer night,” she explains. Bettye and her husband, Boyd, also live in Auburn, Alabama.

Book preview

RAISED COUNTRY STYLE

FROM SOUTH CAROLINA TO MISSISSIPPI

Civil War Transforms America

Sequel to Daring Pioneers Tame the Frontier

Bettye B. Burkhalter

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2010 Bettye B. Burkhalter. All rights reserved.

www.auburnauthor.com

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 6/29/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4490-1454-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8723-1 (ebook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009907980

US%26UK%20Logo%20Color_new.ai

Contents

Acknowledgments

The Characters

Chapter One: Mississippi Here We Come!

Chapter Two: First Mississippi Homestead

Chapter Three: King Cotton Rules

Chapter Four: Heralds of a Divided Nation

Chapter Five: Taste and Smell of Raw War

Chapter Six: Sherman’s Inferno Roars Through the Heart of Dixie

Chapter Seven: Soft as Rose Petals and as Hard as Steel

Chapter Eight: Enduring Pain and Misery

Chapter Nine: Resurgence of the New South

Treasured Documents

James P. Burell’s 1831 Land Deed, Abbeville, SC

Bluff Springs Profile, Attalaville, MS

Attala County & Madison County Map and Legend

Clark Brothers Profile, Attalaville, MS

Seneasha Mission and United Methodist Church Profile

Orange Hall Store and Tavern Day Book

Artesian Springs Hotel and Resort Sketch, 1851

James P. and Lisbeth Burell’s Land Deed, Attalaville, MS

Civil War Mississippi Fortieth Military Record, Pvt. James Burell

Mississippi Fortieth Infantry Monument, Vicksburg, MS

Pvt. James Burell Burial Record

Pvt. James Burell’s C.S.A. Headstone

Official Parole Form, Surrender of Vicksburg

Civil War Letter, 1864, George Franklin Allen

Siege of Vicksburg Final Report, Brigadier General John C. Moore

John Harrison Burell’s Dining Table and China Cabinet

Shrock Country Store Legend

Estate Inventory and Appraisement, William Riley Burell, 1895

Endnotes and References

Novel One Preview: Daring Pioneers Tame the Frontier

Novel Three Preview: The Generation that Saved America

Companion Cookbook Preview: Raised on Old-Time Country Cooking

To my father, Cecil Allen Burrell

Acknowledgments

Over the long course of writing the creative nonfiction novels and a companion cookbook, colleagues from universities and colleges went far beyond the call of duty, and information and data provided by archivists, genealogists, historians, and librarians with government offices, historical societies, and museums brought the settings and characters to life. Work performed by artists, graphic designers, and photographers was also priceless, for most would agree a picture is worth a thousand words. To these colleagues and friends I owe you a tremendous debt.

Since the saga was about their kinfolk, Burel (Burell, Burrell) descendants from France, Nova Scotia, and America anxiously helped develop the wide range of stories by sharing family Bibles, letters, diaries, journals, photographs, heirlooms, family genealogy, and family legends. Another faithful group eager to help was local historians, and they never failed to amaze me. Whether a legal family document, local history bit, or tall tale entrenched in their memory as the gospel truth, the voice of everyday folk along the way made the seven-year journey a worthwhile endeavor and personal triumph. They, and the others mentioned earlier, arranged special tours and interviews where old homesteads, mansions, hamlets, trading posts, country stores, gristmills, sawmills, distilleries, schools, churches, cemeteries, and deportation harbors once thrived. Onsite interviews not only clarified and corrected records, but oftentimes enriched and validated history, family legends, and in a few cases, longstanding folklore. I was inspired by perfect strangers who generously gave hours, and sometimes days, in search of one more piece of the lost puzzle to enrich a colorful character or complete a storyline.

Weaving and re-weaving each story into a relatively tight fabric could not have been accomplished without the unyielding patience and guidance of all these individuals and other nameless staffs behind the scene. Their years of experience and knowledge helped me gauge how far to go with family legends and folklore, yet stay within the bounds of historical facts to capture the period of history portrayed in the story. Never losing sight of the characters’ deep abiding love for God, family, and country, and their old-fashioned devotion toward each other, a gentle touch of romance from family legends was added to special moments cautiously invaded.

At the risk of unintentionally omitting someone, I sincerely acknowledge the following individuals. To each of you I will forever be grateful.

University and College Colleagues: Dr. Wayne Alderman, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Brian D. Anderson, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Dr. Paula R. Backscheider, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Beth Bilderback, University of South Carolina, Columbia, SC; Dr. Allan D. Charles, University of South Carolina, Union, SC; Dannis Christian, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Debra A. Dowdell, Auburn University, AL; Wayne Flynt, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Gary S. Hawkins, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Patricia A. Harris, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Joyce Hicks, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Susan Hinds, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Dr. Fred Kam, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Dr. Donald L. Large, Jr., Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Christopher H. Mixon, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Daniel J. J. Ross, The University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa, AL; Barbara C. Smith, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Dr. Allen Stokes, University of South Carolina, Columbia, SC; and Marliese S. Thomas, Auburn University, Auburn, AL.

Archivists, Genealogists, and Historians: Alex A. Alston, Jr., Jackson, MS; George Bolm, Vicksburg, MS; James Harris Branch, Birmingham, AL; Ann Breedlove, Kosciusko, MS; Robert Howell Cauthen, Madison, MS; Dr. Alton Cobb, Jackson, MS; Jeffery Coleman, Vicksburg, MS; Gordon Cotton, Vicksburg, MS; Duncan C. Covington, College Station, TX; Jerome (Jerry) Enzler, Dubuque, IA; Wylodean Burrell Edwards, Kosciusko, MS; Blanche Shrock Fields, Birmingham, AL; Betty Fuller, Auburn, AL; Victor Harbor, Birmingham, AL; H. Grady, Howell, Jr., Madison, MS; Thomas W. Jones, Memphis, TN; James H. Lacey, Jr., Canton, MS; Clydelle Mauldin, Goodman, MS; J. Henry McCabe, III, Greenwood, MS; Dallas A. McCrory, Madison, MS; Melvin (Buddy) Meek, Columbia, MS; Paula Miller, Kosciusko, MS; Anne-Marie Hughes Porter, Kosciusko, MS; Allen and Belinda Roark, Canton, MS; Joyce W. Sanders, Kosciusko, MS; T. K. Saul, Clinton, MS; Edward D. Sloan, Jr., Greenville, SC; H. S. (Pat) Smithson, Goodman, MS; Larry Warren, Eclectic, AL; Marcia Meek Wasson, Kosciusko, MS; Jeanne M. Wier, Goodman, MS; Terrence J. Winschel, Vicksburg, MS; and Former Governor William F. Winter, Jackson, MS.

Artists, Photographers, and Graphic Designers: April Lynne Burkhalter, Charlotte, NC; Charles E. Cresap, III, Vicksburg, MS; Marcy Cutrer, Auburn, AL; Miles Davis, Atlanta, GA; Wylodean Burrell Edwards, Kosciusko, MS; Blanche Shrock Fields, Birmingham, AL; Ron E. Fly, Gatlinburg, TN; Gary S. Hawkins, Auburn University, Auburn, AL; Jerry McWilliams, Terry, MS; Mitch Milner, Tallassee, AL; and Belinda Roark, Canton, MS.

Engineering Consultants: Boyd C. Burkhalter, Auburn, AL; Cecil Allen Burrell, Auburn, AL; Mitch Milner, Tallassee, AL; William David Proctor, Kosciusko, MS; and Edward D. Sloan, Jr., Greenville, SC.

Burel (Burrell) Descendants: Jessie Burrell Arnold Family Collection, Goodman, MS; April Lynne Burkhalter, Charlotte, NC; Elizabeth ‘Beth’ Burel Buchanan, Bethlehem, GA; Frank ‘Jack’ Burel, Ellijay, GA; Blanche Ables Burrell, Goodman, MS; Cecil A. and Margie Burrell, Auburn, AL; Wylodean Burrell Edwards, Kosciusko, MS; Olean Burrell Green, Pachuta, MS; Angela Anne Henderson, Auburn, AL; Lady Arnold Pate, Goodman, MS; and Edward D. Sloan, Jr., Greenville, SC.

There are five exceptional people who warrant further recognition. First, I will forever be grateful to Cecil Allen Burrell, my father, who was an inspiration and the reason I decided to write the three novels and accompanying cookbook. He was always willing to listen to draft stories and offer suggestions, and test one more old-time recipe. Pulling from family legends handed down for generations, he was an asset to the stories as we trekked down the old trails and roads our ancestors once traveled from South Carolina to Mississippi.

Second, I sincerely thank my youngest daughter and dear friend, April Lynne Burkhalter, who takes great pride in the legacy built and left by her ancestors. Lovingly, but with tough critique, she listened to the many stories and incidents about these tough and determined people and offered sound advice. She was an endless resource and sounding board for assessing raw emotions of the creative dimensions of the stories. Her creative talents in photography, graphic design, and marketing never let me down. April was always there for me, and for that I will always be grateful.

Third, there are no words to express my gratitude to Sherrie Murphy Stanyard. With thirty-two years of experience in the publishing business and a keen interest in historical novels, her probing questions, editing suggestions, and discerning eye were immeasurable. Sherrie was always a phone call away, and her advice and contributions improved the overall quality of the book. Her sharp pen was always welcomed.

Fourth, I will always be grateful to my dear friend Norma Gene Smith from Seven Springs Plantation near Union, SC. With thirty-three years of graphic design, editing, and proofing experience, she graciously volunteered to proof and edit the final galley before going to press. Her fresh eyes and suggestions were a great asset, and I will always be grateful to Gene for her enormous contribution.

And last, I am deeply grateful to my patient and understanding husband, Boyd C. Burkhalter, who sustained me and was at my side from the first word written to the last. I could not have completed this seven-year project without him. He played a key role in documenting historical sites through architectural re-engineering, and his illustrations visually enriched the narrative. When each book took control of my life, and at times our home, he gently, and sometimes not so gently, kept me grounded to the realities of the project. Only a loving husband and problem-solving engineer could do that and get away with it! Conversely, he made endless suggestions to improve stories and willingly escorted me on trip after trip to collect data, study story settings, old building structures, and conduct interviews. But most of all, he patiently listened to the never-ending ideas and stories throughout the three novels, and graciously sampled kitchen tested recipes selected for the companion cookbook. And when physical and emotional fatigue led to writer-tears, he was always there and gently wiped them away. For that Boyd, I thank you, and I love you.

Bettye Burrell Burkhalter

2010

The Characters

The main characters journeying from South Carolina to Mississippi were Dr. John Burel’s son, James P. Burell, and his wife, Nancy Elizabeth (Lisbeth) Darby. James’ oldest son, William (Billy) Riley, and William’s third son, John Harrison, emerged as central characters during Mississippi’s golden years, the War Between the States, and decades of hardship that followed. Moving west with James and his family were his best friend Samuel Jenkins and his children. As in Goshen Hill, South Carolina, when the westbound wagon train reached Attalaville, Mississippi, many of the Burel and Jenkins families purchased tracts of adjoining land and continued the long tradition of family ties through friendship and marriage.

3.jpg

Courtesy Culver Pictures, Inc.,

New York, NY

One

Mississippi Here We Come!

Introduction

The Burel journey through history was a long and arduous one. For over two centuries the daring adventurers searched over the next horizon for the promise of prosperity and a better life. It became a family tradition. Of the first eight generations between 1544 and 1776, the most audacious character was Dr. Jean-Baptiste (John) Elzéar Burel from Ollioules, France. As a fresh licensed doctor and surgeon, he crossed the turbulent Atlantic Ocean to join General Washington and Major General Lafayette in the Revolutionary War. He served as Lafayette’s personal physician during the war and witnessed the surrender of the British at Yorktown. Not returning to France after the war, he and his young l’ Acadie French bride loaded their few belongings in their covered wagon and rolled down the Great Philadelphia Wagon Road into the raw frontier. Another adventure. Another life. Arriving in the backcountry of South Carolina in the fall of 1786, they lived and died by the commands of the land and times. Around 1845 the Burel historic pendulum swung again. The next generation of trail blazers loaded their wagons and rolled farther west into Hog Mountain, Georgia, and finally into the heart of the Mississippi wilderness. Leaving their widowed mother behind with their wealthy sister and her family, one by one the children of Dr. John Burel left Goshen Hill, South Carolina, for greener pastures. Between 1836 and 1848, it was a common occurrence. Post Revolutionary War colonists and European immigrants climbed aboard their wagons or pack mules to blaze trails farther southwest in search of affordable and new fertile land. It was always about land! America was founded by these high-spirited explorers willing to venture into the unknown and face unexpected dangers around the next bend or atop the next bluff.

Many of the first settlers in Mississippi were returning soldiers who served under General Andrew Jackson. While in Mississippi they liked the land and the friendly Choctaw Indians. Following their discharge under Old Hickory they returned to Mississippi with a land grant in their pocket as an appreciation for military service to their country. Individual ingenuity and rugged individualism carried these pioneering men and women through expected and unexpected hardships falling into their paths. The bottom line requirements were plain and simple: two hardworking hands, courage, entrepreneurial talents, and determination. The combination of these personal traits carved out a hard but rewarding life for these families, their communities, and ultimately their country. Rural America was founded on their high-spirited courage, collective responsibility, and a deep and abiding love of the land — an undying love only free men and women understood. Their staunch beliefs blazed trails from New York to California, from Philadelphia to South Carolina, and from South Carolina to the Mississippi River. No doubt these early pioneers opened the way for the building of a new America.

On December 17, 1831, James and Lisbeth Burell bought one hundred acres of land from her mother in Abbeville, South Carolina. Mary Darby sold James the tract of land on the Tyger River for less than two dollars an acre.¹ James and Lisbeth’s last child, James Henry, often referred to as James, Jr., was born a year later in 1832. When the land was worn out, James and Lisbeth and their six children left Abbeville and moved west in search of richer land. He and all his brothers clearly understood fertile land translated into high yield crops and profits. Land was important, and he and Lisbeth were born and bound to southern soil. They lived by it, labored fruits from it, and loved it. It was part of who they were. They also knew they would die for their land as many of their ancestors had done. As God fearing people they both understood and accepted the cycle of life as taught in the Holy Bible. Raised in a Catholic home, James never questioned God’s plan of life. In calm and private moments, he was always astonished at the cycle of the earth’s riches and beauty. His Pa taught him in the scheme of time every man’s time on earth was as short as a candle flickering on a windy night. The doctor also taught his son that all earth’s riches were only loaned to him for that short flash of time. Subsequently, all worldly possessions were passed to the next generation. Yes, James uttered to himself, Life’s good. Real good! And it’s at its very best when I’m holding a fist full of moist rich dirt that belongs to me and mine.

Their first stop was about one hundred miles at the crossroads of Hog Mountain, Georgia. Several members of the Jenkins family and James’ oldest brother Louis settled there earlier. Already pillars in the Hog Mountain community, Louis and his wife Sarah Margaret Jenkins owned and operated the Trading Post and were prosperous farmers. James and Lisbeth had discussed the good business decision his brother made when he bought the Hog Mountain Hotel and Trading Post, and the many acres of rich farmland he owned. In addition to the Trading Post, his farm was very prosperous, and it would generate wealth for generations to come. James hoped the same prosperity awaited them in Mississippi. Soon after James and his family entered Gwinnett County, Georgia, their wagons rolled into the crossroads of the Hog Mountain. When Sarah Margaret heard the wagons, she rushed to meet them in front of the Trading Post. It was truly a Burel-Jenkins family reunion because Louis and Sarah Margaret were Dr. Burel’s and Randolph Jenkins’ oldest children. James and the other families were welcomed, and they all looked forward to the time they would have together in Georgia before they moved west to Mississippi. James knew it would be the last time he would live near his older brother, so both relished the few seasons they planned to share together.

The years moved by swiftly and in the spring of 1848, James and Lisbeth and their children decided they had accumulated enough wealth to leave Hog Mountain for Mississippi. They all knew the trip across Georgia, Alabama, and half of Mississippi would be long and hard. They also understood they must allow ample time to build their first cabin and barn before ole man winter cast blizzard temperatures and snowstorms laced with freezing ice. James reminded Lisbeth of Ole Trapper Joe’s last visit to Goshen Hill and the news he shared about Attala County. Affectionately mimicking his old friend who taught him everything he knew about trapping and hunting, James recalled the conversation.

James my boy, it gits so bloody cold down thar on ole Big Black dat I can hardly set my traps. It ain’t no git’en ‘round it, fer my traps froze hard as ah rock right thar in th’ water. When it gits ‘at cold, th’ ice storms starts ah break’n ‘n poppin’ th’ pine trees, an’ you can hear ’em fur miles around. You’d swear it wuz ah war ah goin’ on. I’m ah tellin’ you th’ gospel truth. Y’all best git thar long ‘foe winter sets in. Now mind you, th’ canebrakes ‘ill hep you take care uf yo livestock if you ain’t got no barn. But I’m ah hare to tell you dat y’all best have yo house finished with a big fireplace and plenty hardwood cut to guard off th’ north winds. My boy, it gits mighty, mighty cold!

James and Lisbeth were surprised to learn of such tree-breaking ice storms that far south, but they knew Ole Trapper Joe never gave them bad information or advice. Thus, they made their plans accordingly.

May 1, 1848, was a Monday morning. As the sap rose and Mother Nature’s colorful and fragrant spring burst into life, James and Lisbeth were in the midst of finalizing plans to move on. Although the Burel (Burell) and Jenkins clans were excited, a reserved exuberance overshadowed every wagon. They all shared concerns about poor road conditions and unforeseen dangers that lay ahead. Surprise hazards and dangers were a reality, but James also knew thousands of families traveled these roads every year moving west.² Though some pioneers met violent deaths with tomahawks in newly acquired territory, James and Lisbeth had confidence their wagon train would be one of the fortunate ones to make it through the frontier roads and paths to Attala County. The large numbers of wagons in their train and skilled Burel and Jenkins hunters gave the wagoners confidence. While living in Georgia, James held a high regard for Fort Daniel and the Georgia militia. He prayed the same kind of protection was available along the main wagon roads through Alabama and Mississippi.

They all understood that the Treaty of Fort Jackson, bearing Old Hickory’s name, promised to end the Indian wars and fighting, but in many places it had not: especially with the Creeks through Alabama. The Burel and Jenkins men and their women were expert sharp shooters, and they could hold their own with the best. James and his son William Riley were known to be expert fighters with their prized Jim Bowie knives, and they wore them as faithfully as they did their boots. The legendary Bowie knife had a blade ten and a half inches long and two inches wide, and the attacker was at a notable disadvantage. The knives to James and his son were their last gift from Ole Trapper Joe when he made his last visit to Goshen Hill to pay his respects to Dr. Burel. Every man carried some kind of knife, and most often they never missed their target. It was a way of life called survival, and every woman and child understood the risks. They knew Indian renegades were filled with bitterness and revenge after losing their native land to the white man — and they were all white. Should an ambush or attack occur, every person in the wagon train knew exactly what to do, for they had practiced the steps many times.³ Hopefully, such Indian attacks were few since the British and Spanish allies of the hostile Creeks and Seminoles left American shores.

About seven years before Dr. Burel died, James recalled the news reaching Goshen Hill via John Calhoun’s messenger declaring the Spaniards had ceded Florida to the United States in 1821.⁴ James could hear his father’s heavy French accent as clear as yesterday as he shared his restless and navigating spirit. My son, I so hope to live to see the fine day the troublesome British and Spaniards are ousted and on their way. Thenceforth, a fortified treaty with the Creeks will prevail. James my son, the discontent Creeks can go and join their Seminole kind in Flà-ree-da. For us, there must be thousands of tracts of fertile land east and west of the Mississippi River for farming cotton and corn. With the British and French banished, the Indian Wars of 1812 aside, and Flà-ree-da in our possession, the roads clear to the Mississippi River will open expeditiously for those game enough to go there and claim the new frontier. James — how I do wish I was a few years younger. The yearn to move on burns deep in my soul!

James listened to his inner voice as it spoke to his Pa. Well Pa, that’s exactly what Lisbeth and I are planning to do. When these passing memories of his Pa appeared, often they overshadowed the moment and saddened James. He missed his Pa terribly and wished for a few words with him. From under his wide brim hat James glanced upward into the scattered white clouds gently floating overhead. For a split second he felt the warm presence of his Pa nearby. He always welcomed the comforting feeling.

April showers worked miracles on all the spring gardens and fields. When the month of May rolled in the Burel-Jenkins wagons were repaired, loaded, and ready to roll out of Hog Mountain. Lisbeth mentioned to James her concern about their daughter, Anne Elizabeth. James had also noticed and responded in agreement. Yea, she does look a bit peaked and puny, but she’ll ‘snap-out-of-it’ as soon as summer gits here. She probably just got a bad case of th’ spring fever.

With the help and excitement from their six children and all their grandchildren, James and Lisbeth loaded the last two barrels of fresh ground meal and flour. Slabs of cured bacon and smoked hams were safely packed away for the days and evenings the men did not have time to kill wild game for supper and for the dreaded cold winter ahead. Since bread was a major part of their diet, Lisbeth and her daughters baked and wrapped enough loaves to fill a whole barrel. Louis and Sarah Margaret made sure they all had several big chunks of homemade cheese and plenty dried peas and beans. Safely buried in the meal barrel were jars of cucumber pickles and wild grape jelly for special occasions. A supply of good whiskey also was packed safely out of sight in the same barrel. A few smaller bottles were wrapped and rolled in quilts for medicinal purposes, or in the event they needed whiskey to bribe an Indian party along the way. Their farming seasons with Louis in Hog Mountain paid off, and Lisbeth made sure all their money and personal treasures were safely tucked away with the family Bible in the secret compartment of the big oak trunk with metal straps. James made it himself, and only the two of them knew how to open the secret compartment from the bottom side. Everything appeared to be in order, and they were ready to roll. Dawn was breaking with streaks of sun rays peeping through the trees. James was wound as tight as a top, and he was anxious to go. Before the families climbed aboard their wagons, sad good-byes and promises to send word and keep in touch were made. Within moments tears flowed freely and unashamedly. With emotions running high James recalled the day he left his Ma in Goshen Hill, and he knew leaving his older brother would pull the same heartstrings. Eventually, his male ego took control and he abruptly announced, OK, OK! Enough’s enough folks! If we don’t move on down th’ road we’ll all be standing ‘round here squalling when night comes.

James watched his son William Riley, his lifetime friend Samuel Jenkins, and his son-in-law Samuel Joseph Jenkins pick up the smaller children and swing them up and over into the backs of the wagons. As the children giggled with excitement, firm orders were given. "Listen up! Don’t y’all be standing up, and don’t y’all dare lean over th’ tailgate. Not under no conditions! Y’all all got it? If y’all fall out you’ll surely git run over. With a chorus of yes-sur and yes Pa, Sarah Margaret and Lisbeth reached for each other for their last farewell. As Lisbeth turned with blurred vision toward the wagon, her son William Riley helped her get positioned on the wagon seat. Quietly they waited for James and Louis to finish their final departing. Lisbeth’s heart ached for James as she watched him give Louis a quick bear hug followed by a long handshake that seemed endless. While shaking hands, simultaneously Louis repeatedly slapped James firmly and affectionately on his shoulder while their eyes locked silently for a few more seconds. The low mumbled last words between the two brothers did not escape their private space. Lisbeth’s heart continued to ache, for she knew Louis was anxiously giving James his last big brother advice. The brothers knew they would never see each other again — not in this life anyway. Suddenly, James jerked his wadded handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his eyes and blew his nose loudly. Lisbeth could feel his heavy heart when suddenly and as quick as lightning he broke from Louis and headed toward the wagon. Putting one foot onto the horizontal spoke, James hopped onto the wagon seat beside his wife as though he were a twenty rather than a fifty-four-year-old man. She could feel his adrenaline rush as he grabbed the reins from her and popped the horses fiercely and shouted, Gitty-up! Gitty-up!"

Mississippi Here We Come!

Within minutes the covered wagons formed a line and rolled out of Hog Mountain. With his Pa’s Vogler Rifle made by the Moravians in Salem and his Bowie knife at his side, James led the train westward through Georgia toward Mississippi. Positioning his hat to hide his eyes, he said nothing. Burel family ties were hard to break. A few hours or so down the road, James forced aside the heartfelt tugs of his brother and thoughts of his mother back in Goshen Hill. He reminded himself that his first responsibility was to Lisbeth and all their children and grandchildren. His inner voice spoke firmly this time. Listen up James! It has to be this way ’cause that’s th’ way you wuz raised. That’s th’ way it’s suppose to be. Wife and family first!

Thoughts continued to race through James’ mind as he reflected over his productive years. He knew the remaining ones were slipping away fast. Strangely, the few years in Hog Mountain with Louis seemed like a few weeks. But, without a doubt, he thought to himself, I’ve got enough good working years left in me to get settled and build a nest egg one more time. If nothin’ else, Lisbeth and I can help th’ boys get settled on their own land and set up for the future. James continued to look straight ahead without speaking to his wife as they rolled along the old wagon road packed hard by farm wagons and other pioneers passing through. He noticed the early morning dew sparkling on tall grass blades and blooming petals as thirsty insects and small birds enjoyed their first drink of the day. After a long while James glanced at Lisbeth sitting silently by his side giving him his space and quiet time. She was always sensitive to his moods, and she understood how close he was to Louis — especially while growing up at Goshen Hill. Slowly he turned his head and looked at Lisbeth, and she silently gave him her ‘I understand’ smile and reached over and patted his forearm followed by affectionate rubbing strokes. He returned her affection with the familiar Burel wink and lop-sided grin as he continued his private thoughts. After thirty-three years of bein’ married to the likes of me, an’ six children later, she’s still th’ most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Lord, I do love that woman so, and we have made a mighty fine team. Life will be good in Mississippi — good for all of us.

The wagon train had around 450 miles ahead of them, and James knew the journey would take at least two months, maybe more. Eight to ten weeks on the trail would be hard on the smaller children and women. It was always hardest on the women. Although Lisbeth was strong-hearted and strong-willed, James could not help but be concerned about her and his daughter in the wagon behind. For some unknown reason, Anne Elizabeth appeared to be puny lately. She just ain’t strong like my Lisbeth, he thought to himself. Deep down in his soul, James prayed for all their safety from Hog Mountain to Attalaville, Mississippi. Lost in his own thoughts the only sounds were the creaking wagons rolling and sporadic snorts from the horses. Mile by mile Hog Mountain slowly faded into the silhouette of the hills behind them. It was during this time of melancholy their oldest son William Billy Riley shocked everyone when he broke the silence with a loud and boisterous shout, Look out Mississippi, here we come!⁵ Samuel Joseph and Anne Elizabeth chimed in with all the others as they exchanged humorous hoots back and forth mixed with chatter and squeals from the excited children. It was a big time in their lives, and it was a family affair. The first page to a new chapter of life for the Burel family was underway, and William Riley had just written the opening sentence. Mississippi, here we come!

Thinking aloud James commented to his wife, Lisbeth, I was just thinking. It’s nearly 450 miles to Attalaville, and we gotta cross river after river, and th’ Lord only knows how many creeks and swamps in between. I’ve got high hopes we can make ‘round twelve miles a day. If we can we’ll get there in plenty of time to build our cabin and maybe our barn and crib too. If th’ Lord’s willing, we’ll git a late summer garden in the ground, and early July will give us time to plant corn, cushaws, and pumpkins for th’ winter. That oughta give us enough time to get half-way fixed before winter sets in. Don’t you think? Nodding in agreement, Lisbeth answered, Probably so. But layovers at rivers and rain-swelled creeks could delay us for weeks. And don’t forgit th’ Creek Indians in Alabama. Only th’ Lord knows what they’ll be up to.

Yea — I guess so, James mumbled, and he continued to count and recount on his fingers using his thumb as the base counting finger. What are you counting now? Lisbeth asked. James responded with another question, Lisbeth, you got any idea how many rivers we gotta cross ‘fore we make it to Attalaville? As Lisbeth slightly shook her head from side to side, James continued. Before we git out of Georgia, we gotta cross th’ Broad, Oconee, Yellow, Chattahoochee, and Tallapoosa Rivers. When we hit Alabama, we’ve got to git across th’ Coosa, Black Warrior, and Sipsey Rivers. Ole Trapper Joe told me th’ Black Warrior River bridge between Tuscaloosa and North Port was built around 1834 and a bad tornado tore it up pretty bad in 1842. I was worried ‘bout the Warrior ‘cause it’s a lot like our Broad River. Broad! He also warned me ‘bout Sipsey Swamp just outside Tuscaloosa on th’ road to Possum Town (Columbus). It’s a bad one — over a mile wide with hidden pockets of quicksand that will suck a man completely out of sight in no time ah tall. He told me a lot of men huntin’ and fishin’ on Sipsey River were never seen or heard from to this day. I dread that one, but Samuel will figure it out and git us across. When we finally make it to Mississippi, th’ Tombigbee will be waiting on us in Possum Town. I’m in hopes we can get across without being gouged too much at th’ ferry crossing. By th’ way, that’s where th’ Land Office is located, and William Riley, Samuel, and I plan to look into how to apply for our land patent in Attala County. About halfway between Possum Town and Kosciusko we’ll reach the Yockanookany River. Hopefully there’ll be a ferry running, a bridge, or a ford we can cross. If my map’s right we won’t have to cross Big Black at Durant because we don’t go over that far. We’ll look up Ole Trapper Joe as soon as we arrive. He told me a Mr. Magnus Teague built a fine ferry at Durant, and that he’s a big man in those parts: a real pioneer aristocrat. The tale goes that Mr. Teague ran off with Jefferson Davis’ sister or cousin when she was barely sixteen, and her father got so bloody mad he disowned her and wouldn’t give her a dowry. Well, Mr. Teague showed ‘em all. He built some kinda mansion for his new bride. They call it Bluff Springs.⁶ Joe told me the house is shaped like th’ crescent of a new moon with big circular stairs going up to the second floor over looking a courtyard below. He also built a gristmill, distillery, sawmill, blacksmith shop, and general store. From hear tell, he built a post office, school house, church, and he even gave th’ land for a graveyard. Now get this, Lisbeth. Right after th’ church was built, they wuz having a meeting and a collection wuz being taken to buy new benches for th’ church. Mr. Teague announced to th’ crowd, Here is fifty dollars that I won in a poker game last night off of old Whit Guyton. You may have it to use if you want it. And, they took it.⁷ It sounds like Mr. Teague might not be a big religious man, but anybody can see all the good he does. Yea, Mr. Teague’s one of ‘em down there like our James Hunter back home in Goshen Hill. Seems like everything those men do turns into money or more land. Speaking of James, I often wonder how my sister Margaret is doing back home. He has sure been good to her — and to Mama too. I think about them a lot.

Tallapoosa River Campsite

It was Sunday, May 14, 1848. The middle of May brought the wagon train into Alabama, and thankfully the Tallapoosa River was less than one day ahead. Since they left Hog Mountain they had covered well over 120 miles. They were ready for a break. The Tallapoosa River was an ideal place to stop for a few days and enjoy a mess of fresh fish while the animals grazed in the shade and rested. They all huddled around the campfire that evening as dusk turned to darkness bringing a chill off the river. The birds bagged by William Riley and every smidgen of fried fish with cornmeal hush puppies were eaten. Every plate around the campfire was sopped until cleaned. The bright stars resembled sparkling diamonds scattered upon black velvet, and the moon was comforting with its faraway glow. After laying his Pa’s Vogler rifle close by his side and automatically checking for his Bowie knife on the other, James stretched out on his back on a quilt near the now smoldering campfire. Relaxing he studied the different stars shining across the heavens. They looked so close he felt as if he could reach out and touch them. The evening brought warm memories of home when he and his brothers were required to study all the constellations and recite their specific names given by poets, farmers, and astronomers some six thousand years ago. As James stared into the heavens, he could hear his Pa’s lectures as if they were last night.

"My sons, the real purpose of constellations is to help you identify stars to aid you in knowing when to plant and harvest your crops. And never forget the North Star never moves. It will always be your guide. We have studied how constellations divide the sky into manageable sections to help you recognize the different stars — over a thousand of them. Tonight I want James to find the great hunter Orion holding a lion’s head as he stalked Taurus the Bull with his faithful dog Canis Major behind him chasing Lepus the Hare. Thomas, you are to find the Big Dipper, Little Dipper, and North Star and tell me why we anxiously search for signs of green popping through as early as January, and why the dippers are asterisms rather than constellations? Now for you Louis. You must identify the Milky Way, Butterfly Cluster, Crab Nebula, and Wild Duck Cluster. And John, we all know ‘dog days’ are upon us. You find Sirius, the brightest star of all, and explain why the third day of July to the eleventh day in August are considered hot and sultry dog days."

Now that James was a grown man, he was thankful his Pa made them sit all those hours at night and study. And he would always treasure the sporadic times during the day when he taught them the basics they must know in order to survive. What he did not teach them Trapper Joe did. James was also thankful his Pa was an idealist: a French doctor who gave him the special gift to see America through his eyes and dream beyond the boundaries. He grinned to himself as he remembered how he and his brothers secretly complained when their Pa commanded their attention during this time they called night-school. Pretending to show interest, they all secretly wished they were hunting with Ole Trapper Joe down on the Enoree or Tyger River.

After the campsite chores were finished and all were down for the night, Lisbeth walked over and sat down beside James on the quilt. Look Lisbeth, the Big and Little Dippers are shining tonight. Scooting over close and leaning comfortably against his side, they both reflected over the past few days. Within minutes they were making more plans for their new homestead in Mississippi. You know Lisbeth, I wuz laying here thinking about Pa and Mama and how they did the same thing we’re doing some sixty-odd years ago when they left Philadelphia after the war. Ever since we left Louis in Hog Mountain, I keep having thoughts of Mama. I hope she’s alright. I know Margaret and James are taking good care of her, but I can’t git her off my mind. All her younguns are so scattered now — sorta like th’ stars. As I lay here studying th’ stars, I can’t help but wonder if Pa and Randolph are somewhere up there amongst em’ watching over us as we move on west.⁸

When James was in one of his rare sentimental moods, Lisbeth was always quiet and listened attentively. She nodded now and then in silent agreement. She knew one of the strong traits of Burell men was keeping private feelings to themselves; therefore, at times like tonight she allowed him to talk uninterrupted. When James finished talking, Lisbeth began chatting about their first homestead and all the things she planned for the cabin and their late summer garden. She felt like Attala County was now in reach and she was excited. She knew the next six months would be hard and busy ones as houses and barns were built and winter firewood cut and stacked. After a few minutes Lisbeth asked James a question. When he didn’t answer she realized he had not said a word for sometime. Looking down she saw he was breathing deep and sound asleep. He looked so much like his handsome Pa, and for the next half hour she laid her arm across his stomach and sat quietly enjoying the peaceful night. She could feel his Bowie pressing against the outside of her thigh, and knowing it was within his quick reach made her feel safe. As she looked up into the night sky she reflected over the short session James shared with her about the different stars. He was right. They were beautiful sending bright messages from light years away. It was special times like tonight that she treasured the most. Looking down again at James she admired her man as he lay in a deep sleep. She knew he was tired. Finally, Lisbeth stretched out and nuzzled as close to her husband as possible. The summer evening had turned cool. Pulling another quilt over them she felt safe and secure as the twinkling stars above bid them both goodnight.

Black Warrior River on the Horizon

May 18, 1848

Daybreak brought the wagon train rolling across Alabama toward the old Indian Choctaw Village of Chief Tuskaloosa and the Black Warrior River named in his honor [tushka meaning warrior and lusa meaning black]. James had shared his dread and concern with Lisbeth of at least a dozen creeks they must cross before they reached the Black Warrior now near on the horizon. They should be there in a week unless unexpected problems appeared. Often days of labor awaited at problem creeks and swamps, and there was always another unforeseen barrier. Lisbeth showed her fatigue as she moved closer to James on the wagon seat. Locking her arm through his she rested her head on his shoulder. James, how much longer ‘fore we stop fer th’ night? Compassionately, her tired husband explained. Lisbeth, we need to get a couple more hours in today while it’s light. Honey, I know you’re dead tired. We all are. With her head bobbing on his jolting shoulder, she offered a semblance of an apology for complaining. I know. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s like we’ve always said. As long as we’re all together, that’s where home is. And right now it’s in this wagon with you. But I can’t help thinking ‘bout all our folks we left behind at Goshen Hill, Abbeville, and Hog Mountain. Don’t pay me no mind. I’m just tired and will be so glad when th’ day comes that we roll into Possum Town. At least then we will all know we’re in Mississippi. James, I dream of sleeping in a fresh featherbed and cookin’ on a real stove again. But, I’m so glad we’re gonna stop awhile and stay a few days on the Black Warrior. I need a few odds and ends in the supply line, and maybe th’ water and some good fishing will lift our spirits. With the calming Burel smile, James reached over and gently squeezed Lisbeth’s hand as he popped the reins on the back of the horses. He was racing against the fast dropping sun slipping behind the trees.

On the first day of June the wagon train finally rolled into the old Indian town. They found an ideal spot and struck camp on the Tuskaloosa [Tuscaloosa] side of the Black Warrior. James and William Riley had to find a blacksmith shop for repairs were needed, and everyone was running low on flour and bacon. All the livestock and animals were losing weight and in dire need for a week or so of uninterrupted grazing and rest. It had taken them nearly two weeks to go the last forty miles, and the wagoners were exhausted. Everyone was anxious to wash off layers of dust in the river and uninterrupted time to cook, wash clothes, and rest.

The days by the Black Warrior passed too quickly. In the early morning on the fifth day of June, women on the train rushed about loading the last few Dutch ovens and securing tailgates. A headcount was tallied of all the children, livestock, poultry, and hunting dogs. The rejuvenated wagoners ferried the river and rolled out of Tuscaloosa toward the low-lying swamp. As they pulled each hill and rolled freely down the other side, thoughts of Georgia and South Carolina were fast becoming a part of their past. By mid-morning they were back into the old groove of their harsh way of life. James hoped Ole Trapper Joe was right about the other roads through Alabama and Mississippi. He heard from circuit riders that the Secretary of War as far back as John Calhoun had struggled against Indian Wars and the lack of local labor to build bridges across extensive swamps and rivers. James could vouch for that fact, and he was concerned how many more corduroys or racoon bridges they would have to build to cross the next creek or swamp? Back in Goshen Hill Trapper Joe specifically mentioned Sipsey River and Sipsey Swamp that was a couple days travel from Tuscaloosa. It was going to be a long and tough one.

Old U.S. Post trails and paths oftentimes were not wide enough to accommodate the wagons. Local land owners were busy clearing their own land for farms and plantations, and oftentimes they did not keep the roads repaired as mandated by their county governments. They were required to use their own tools without reasonable compensation for road work, so the farmers always had other priorities. The last time Ole Trapper Joe passed through Hog Mountain for a visit, he reassured Louis the roads were passable by wagon. Boys, I hear Mississip’s gotta law that puts th’ burden uf keepin’ them bridges, ferries, and roads fixed up on th’ settlers. Any man between sixteen and fifty has to work six days a year usin’ thar own tools. If they don’t, they’ll be fined ah dollar ah day — and that law included their slaves if’en they had any.

James recognized Trapper Joe’s rugged lifestyle and exaggerations, but he was usually accurate about life-threatening issues. Regardless, for a wagon train with women, children, livestock, dogs, geese, and chickens, much of the territory was rough and dangerous. Although roads and paths were passable for the U.S. Post, there were stretches of rambling sandy ridges with sand beds that stalled loaded farm wagons to a grinding halt. At these times heavy items on the wagons were unloaded while the strength of horses pulling and men pushing got the wagons through. Some of the older road beds were beaten down below the natural ground levels to the point the banks were high above their heads. When entering these low passages the wagon scouts on duty kept a close watch overhead as well as scanning the landscape as far as they could see. Oftentimes hostile intruders or bandits lurked around the next curve or cliff, and James and his men were always prepared. The lead scouts rode ahead watching for robbers, washed away gullies, and rotten planks across creeks and rivers.⁹

On many occasions toll prices per head, person and livestock, at bridges and ferries were unreasonable. This meant hours or days repairing and rigging makeshift bridges to reach the other side of a river or a swampy marsh. If possible the train detoured miles to a shallow place which allowed fording the creek or river to save their money. As Randolph Jenkins had done so many years ago as wagon master from Philadelphia to Goshen Hill, James Burel (Burell) was repeating history with his family and Randolph’s kin bound for Mississippi. Whether constantly watching for Indian renegades and road bandits, or keeping an eye on his family, or planning how to get across the next river or creek, the constant tightness in his chest never left. As each mile rolled under his wagon, he often thought of Randolph with a new level of respect, and he yearned for the opportunity to talk to Randolph and his Pa. With danger lurking around every bend, James was always a little uneasy when his wagon scouts were out scouting their path, but once he recognized the hoofs of their returning horses, he exhaled a sigh of relief.

At times the trip seemed unbearable. Repairing rotten bridges and re-rigging left behind corduroys were endless chores. If they had to cut saplings and build coon bridges, James struck camp. This meant they would be delayed days or possibly weeks. How many more creeks and swamps would they have to ford, and how many more times would they have to dig their wagons out of camouflaged mud marshes or sand beds? Never losing faith, the good days always came and carried them over relatively new roads constructed by the military on higher and drier grounds. As they stopped and talked with stagecoach drivers along the way, they knew they would never make twelve miles a day. Whether sober or drunk, stagecoach drivers bellowed their trials and tribulations of their rough and dangerous job. Frustrated and bewildered passengers aboard the coaches cautioned all who would listen. "Don’t y’all ever believe a word of those stagecoach advertisements posted around towns or in newspapers. They’re a pack of flat-out lies. Why, I’ll have you know our stagecoach has turned over three times already and nearly killed us all, and we’ve got yet another fifty miles to go. We