Families with Ties to Washington County, Georgia: LIFE OF MARGARET ERVIN EADES AUSTILL

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Submitted by Dan Cook

"...Below is an autobiography written by my great, great aunt by marriage
of leaving Washington County, Ga. in 1811 to settle in Alabama. The family
had originally intended to settle in Louisiana (the Louisiana Purchase had
just been made) and some in their party did move onto Louisiana.

Jeremiah Austill, mentioned in the story, was born about 20 miles north of
Rome, Ga., and was sent, according to his grandson, Mobile, Ala. attorney
Jere Austill, to "civilize" the Cherokees. How he wound up in South
Alabama battling the Creeks, I don't know.

I became especiallly interested in this about two years ago when I received
a clipping from a Mobile (Ala.) Register story about an African-American
man, a Mr. Perrine, who regularly tends the Austill family cemetery, where
Jeremiah and my great, great grandfather are buried side by side. They
were brothers-in-law. I know Mrs. Austill and perhaps my great, great
grandmother are buried there as well.

According to the newspaper story, Mr. Perrine says God tells him to go
clean the cemetery once a month, although he's afraid of ghosts.

I have myself worked for the Chattanooga Times Free Press for the last 36
years and I emailed the Mobile Register about my family connection. The
publisher asked if he could use my email as a letter to the editor. He did
and Jeremiah Austill's grandson called me at home. He then emailed me this story.

According to this autobiography, the family lived on Euchee Creek in
Washington County where they had a grist mill and sawmill. Thought this
might be of interest to you in Washington County. Thanks, Dan Cook"

It is definitely of great interest to researchers of Washington County,
Georgia. Thank YOU, Mr. Cook, for sending it! Sincerely, Stephanie Lincecum

Life of MARGARET ERVIN EADES AUSTILL

My father, John Eades, was a native of Georgia, my mother, Jenny Fee, was born in Ireland in the County Atmah. Father and mother first met in Augusta, Ga., where they married in 1802. They then left Augusta and bought a farm in Washington County on the Uchee Creek where they lived happily and made money rapidly. Father had a sawmill and a cotton gin, about the first one that was put up in the county. I well remember the mode of packing cotton in that early day. A round log was fixed in a round hole in the floor of the gin house, which hung down some 10 feet. A big Negro man jumped with an iron crowbar, two hands throw [log with?] in the cotton and the packer did the work by jamming it hard with an awful grunt every lick. I was dreadfully afraid to go near the big log with the Negro inside shaking it.

Oh, it was a sad day when father determined to move to Louisiana, but so it was, that on a bright morning in the spring of 1811, the wagons were loaded and three families were assembled at my father's house. My uncle Daniel Eades, his wife [Charity Watson] and one daughter [Penelope], Mr. Billy Locklin and wife and about one hundred slaves, men, women and children. With much weeping at parting from dear old friends, the drivers cracked their whips and we rolled, much to my delight.

But my sister, five years older than myself, was weeping bitterly. I was all talk, she said to me "Do hush, you, too, will rue the day." Childlike, I reveled in a bustle and change.

Well, the first night we camped at Sweetwater Iron Works. There father's sister, Mrs. Jenkins, came to bid us goodbye. She spent the night with us in camp, after breakfast next morning she drew out a flash of rye rum from her pocket, saying "John and Daniel, I drink to all, good luck attend you, but the next thing I hear will be that you all have by scalped by the savages, so be on your guard, for war will surely come, and that soon. Farewell, may the Lord guide you through the wilderness."

Our party traveled on through the Cherokee Nation with the least trouble. The Indians were kind and friendly, but as soon as we entered the Creek or Muskogee Nation [Muscogee County is where Columbus, Ga., is located, so am assuming that's where they went through], we could see the terrible hatred to the white. But as we advanced we were joined by many movers, which gave us more security.

At night the wagons were all fixed round the encampment, the women and children and Negroes in the center, the men keeping guard with guns, so we made a formidable appearance of defense. One night, after a fearful day, the Indians had followed us for miles, we camped in an old field. Just as supper was announced, a most terrific earthquake [1811 New Madrid which created West Tennessee's Reelfoot Lake as the Mississippi River reportedly flowed backwards?] took place, the horses all broke loose, the wagon chains jingled and every face was pale with fear and horror. The Indians came in numbers, us looking frightened and grunting out their prayers. The trees lapped together, and oh, the night was spent in terror by all. But next day some of the Indians came to us and said Tecumseh stamped his foot for war.

Then the rain set in, not a day without rain until we crossed the Alabama. There were no roads and [but] mud and water, large creeks to cross with slender bridges made by the Indians which they demanded toll as a high price for every soul that crossed a bridge. And often rather than pay, the men would have their Negroes cut trees and make a bridge, which gave the Indians great anger, and they would threaten us with death. No doubt we would have been killed had it not been for uncle Daniel Eades, who had been stolen from the fort in Georgia by the very people that threatened us. He was a little boy, only a year old when the Indians took him from the nurses and carried him to the Nation and gave him as a present to their medicine man, who raised him and taught him his craft in roots and herbs. He would talk to them and defy them, he would go to his wagon and draw out grandfather's long sword that he wore in the Revolution, brandish the sword and speak to them in their own language, telling them they were fools, that they were nothing, and could never whip the whites, but that their nation would be destroyed. They would listen to him and raised their blankets around their shoulders and moved off, doggedly shaking their heads.

Well, finally we crossed the Alabama River at Dale's Ferry; we were then in Clarke County, bound for Louisiana, expecting to cross the Tombigbee next day at Carney's Ferry. That night we camped at this place. Some of the neighbors came to see us. Mr. Joel Carney, Mr. Henry B. Slade, Mr. George S. Gullet[t], and every one begged father and all the travelers to stop here until they could recruit their teams that were completely broken down. They said said we would never get through the swamp on the other side of Bigbee, and after a consultation, all consented to remain until they could make corn to fatten their teams. Father bought this place, which was only a claim with a small log cabin on it. Daniel Eades rented the Sun Flower Bend, Billy Locklin built a cabin on Sale Creek and put up a saw and gristmill on the creek in a very short time, the first sawmill that was built in Clarke County.

So father put some hands to cutting cane and planted corn. He had brought a whip saw with him, he put up large logs of pine on a scaffold and with two Negroes, one on on top and one at the bottom. They sawed planks for flooring, for every family then lived in cabins on ground floors.

Father kept on building and making us comfortable, but when the corn was gathered, Uncle Daniel Eades said, "Well, John, it is time to be off, let us hurry and be gone, the water is low, the roads good, the teams fat, and all's well. This is no country for us, let us travel."

Father said, "Daniel, I am getting fixed up here, the water is better...I hate to leave you, but here I will stay. But father wouldn't leave, so Uncle Daniel left, and we only had one year of peace, for the Indians came down upon us with a vengeance. Uncle Daniel came back for us, said everything he could to get father to go with him, but all in vain. So he left us to battle through the fearful war.

One morning, mother, sister and myself were at home alone except for the servants. Father had gone to the plantation when a man rode up to the gate and called to mother to fly, for the Creek Indians had crossed the Alabama, and were killing the people. Mother said "Where shall I fly, in God's name?" He said, "There are a number of people coming across the Bigbee to get into the Choctaw Nation, they will be along in a few minutes, but where is Captain Eades?"

"Down at the river," said mother. "Well," he said, "Run down there and go over the river." So we took our bonnets, mother took her silver and we left the house in a run.

Our cook, a tall, black, handsome woman, said "Missus, I will stay at home and take care of things and take you something to eat if I can find you; the devils are afraid of me, you know."

Mother said, "Hannah, you will be murdered." Hannah was a natural curiosity, she was black, or rather blue-black, with clear blue eyes, which gave her a peculiar appearance. As we traveled through the nation, the Indians often came to the camp and demanded bread. They would say "bread, gimme some, gimme all." Mother would say to Hannah to give them bread. She would say "I had rather give them shot and powder," then she would stretch her blue eyes and throw chunks of fire at them and make them scamper off, saying "Ooh, ooh," their grunt when frightened. Well, we ran as fast as we could and met father about a mile from home with horses. He had heard the news, too. Mother sent the horses on to help a family by the name of Carter get to the river. They had a large family of small children.

Father told us that people were gathering at Carney's Bluff and were at work there building a fort. All hands, Negroes and whites. When we arrived at the river, it was a busy scene, men hard at work chopping and clearing a place for a fort, women and children crying, no place to sit down, nothing to eat, all confusion and dismay, expecting every moment to be scalped and tomahawked. We all sat round until night, people coming in continually, for this part of Clarke was thickly settled. I went to mother and told her I was tired and sleepy. She untied her apron and spread it down on the ground, and told me to say my prayers and go to sleep. I had me down, but could not sleep, the roots hurt me so badly. I told mother I had rather jump in the river than lay there. She quietly replied, "Perhaps it would best for us all to jump in the river," then made me lie still. I had thought mother would take me on her lap if I were so willing to die.

With superhuman exertion, the fort was finished in one week, the tents were comfortable, the streets full of soldier boys drilling, drums beating, pipes playing, but no Indians yet. Our scouts were out all the time.

Dale, Austill and other brave boys with them kept the enemy back on their side of the Alabama for some time.

One night our sentinels were hailed by Jere Austill. They came and awoke father, who went out immediately and let him in. He told father that the Fort Sinquefield had stampeded, the people all making for our fort or Stephens and the people in father's fort, near Suggsville, were in the act of breaking up, too, but hey had concluded to send him down to the arsenal for a company of regulars, and if they could get them, they would hold the fort. Mother roused the cook and gave Jere a nice supper at midnight. Father put him over the river and he saw the general, told his business and was glad to hear the order for the company to come back with him, but Jere begged to be excused, said "Send the soldiers, but I must travel alone."

We fared well in the fort, thanks to Hannah, the faithful servant that stayed at home. She made the garden, milked the cows, churned the butter, raised chickens and came every other day to the fort with a large basket on her head. Mother would say, "Hannah, you are a jewel, what would we do without you, thanks to your blue eyes." So often she saw moccasin tracks in the path. Time passed on with fear and trembling with the grown folks, but we children engaged every moment. I was in every tent in the day. Some laughable things would occur.

There was a Mrs. Smith, quite an original, she was a very good woman, but violent tempered. The boys took great delight in teasing her, she often threw hot water on them. One day the carpenters were at work building a block house to mount a cannon on top, two of the men became outrageously mad with the other and Garner, a great bully who was always kicking up a fuss, drew his broadax on a defenseless man, screaming he would split him open. The man took to his heels and Garner after him, threw tents over women and children.

Finally the man ran through Mrs. Smith's and Garner after him, full tilt, the old lady grabbed up a three-legged stool, saying "you're dead," but she let him have it. One corner of the stool struck Garner on the temple and down he went, blood spurting from his nose. She thought she had killed him dead.

She ran over to mother's tent and said, "Where is Captain Eades? By the Lord, I have killed Garner and he must put me over the river, for Garner's folks will string me up if they catch me."

She ran over to meet father and he took her to the river and set her over in the canebrake. She said, "Now you go back and if Garner is dead, you come to the bluff and whistle on your thumbs, then by the Lord old Betsy Smith is off to the Choctaw Nation." When father returned, Garner had been brought around and after that became a very quiet and peaceful man, never bragged again.

Every family was obliged to go into a fort. There was an old widow named Cobb, who had two sons old enough to be in the service, but she told them to stay at home and make corn. She was not afraid of Indians, but one day while the boys were plowing in the field, they saw Indians jumping over the fence.

The boys stripped the gear off the horses, mounted in a moment and flew to the house, calling their mother. She ran out to meet them and just as she passed her chimney corner, she saw her dye tube with indigo blue. She turned the whole contents into her lap, jumped up behind her son and galloped to our fort from Choctaw Bluff, eight miles.

When they arrived, they were all blue from head to foot. That was the only thing they saved was the thread that was in the blue dye. The women in the fort all joined and soon made a piece of cloth of the blue, for all had spinning wheels and looms at the fort, for it was the only way that clothes were obtained in those days.

The day Fort Mims fell was a sad day to all the country. Every heart nearly became paralyzed with fear, and our men that had been so brave became panic stricken and their families pleading to be taken to Fort St. Stephens.

Father and dear old Capt. Foster spoke to them in vain. They stampeded. Some families took to the cane breaks, some to St. Stephens, some down the river to Fort Stoddard where the arsenal is noisy. Just as father and mother, with sister and myself were in the act of getting into the canoe to cross the Bigbee, for not a soul was left in the fort, a young man came running down the bluff calling to father not to leave him, for God's sake, to be murdered, for the Indians were coming.

"Oh, don't leave me. I shall die if you do."

Mother was standing on the bank until we were safely seated, for the canoe was a small one, could only carry four persons.

Father told the man that it was impossible for him to take him in, that his family must be saved first. The poor fellow cried out, "Oh God, I shall be killed." Mother said, "Oh, dear husband, take the coward in, I will wait here until you come after me," and she actually pushed him in, and with her foot sent the canoe flying off, and sat down on the sand quietly awaiting father's return. As soon as the boat struck shore, the fellow made tracks for the Choctaw Nation. In a few days after the excitement, all the people returned and pledged themselves to hold the fort.

In the meantime, the young folks were courting and making love, although they were in a fort expecting to lose their scalps at any moment. Mr. George Gullet[t] became engaged to my sister, Mary Eades, and they implored our parents to allow the marriage because he could be of so much help to us, could take care of sister and then father would only have mother and me to take care of, so they consented that the marriage should take place in the fort. Mother sent Hannah word that she just get up a large wedding supper and manage to get to the fort. Hannah came down in complete upsetment, "Name of de Lord, Missus, what I gwine to do for all de [?] and tings for Miss Mary's wedding?"

Mother said, "Never mind, Hannah, make plenty chicken pies. I can buy turkey from the Choctaws, save cream, make plenty of potato custards and huckleberry tarts. We will have coffee enough for all the fort, so go right at the work."

"Well, well, did I ever tink to see de day did I ebber, my Lord, Miss Mary must be crazy."

But she set to work with a will. Invitations were general to the whole inhabitants of the fort. They were married and a jolly wedding it was. One old man sat down to the long table, looked over at mother, and she said, "Help yourself, sir."

"I thank you, madam, I will with presumption."

I laughed and, being a little girl, was sent off from the table. Not long after the wedding we had respite, the Indians were driven back and all returned joyfully to their houses. Very few had been destroyed this side of Choctaw Bluff, but we could hear of fearful murders. Men would venture too far and again and again we were forced to return to the the fort until at last General Jackson came to our rescue and finished the war.

All the gallant young men joined the army. My father carried his provisions up the Alabama in his barge, even as high as Fort Jackson, above Wetumpka. Sam Dale, Jere Austill and many others were with Jackson fighting like heroes for many months, and, after the Indians gave up, they went with Jackson to Pensacola and Mobile; some went to New Orleans. Austill was very sick at the battle of New Orleans, but one of his cousins was killed there. He was a Files. About the last of fourteen [1814?], all the people were gay, money was plenty and the people were pouring in by the thousands.

The county was filled with young men looking for land, schoolteachers setting up schools. The largest school in the territory was at St. Stephens. There I was sent with many a poor waif to study grammar. Our teacher was Mr. Mayhew, from North Carolina, a splendid teacher and good man.

[Gullett, who was my great, great grandfather, was killed by a bear on the Alabama River. He buried beside this man Jeremiah. They were brothers-in-law. - Dan Cook]

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