Saint Paul’s River, Liberia
Jan. 3rd, 1842
Dear Father,
Despite my earlier protestations, I resort again to pen and paper in a final attempt to engage with you. I find the process humiliating, and I fail to see what hurt I ever inflicted upon you that could justify such a cruel abandonment of your past intimate, namely myself. There is much to report, but being unsure of how it might interest you, if at all, it is my intent to be brief.
My three wives (I have considered a fourth, but the expense is at present beyond me) are faring well, as are the children. Six in total, all of whom receive lengthy instruction in reading and writing which sits well upon their shoulders. In addition they receive, from their mothers, instruction in the African language, as I do. I feel the necessity of being able to understand properly the words of the natives in whose land I reside, and the inconvenience, self-denial and hardship I suffer on this count is clearly worthwhile if it facilitates my being able freely to communicate with those hereabouts. That children learn faster, and with less inhibition than their elders and betters, is daily proven as we sit together and try to drink up these strange words and sounds. That my present family does not conform to what you might reasonably expect of me will no doubt disturb you. However, despite their heathen origins, my wives send their best respects to you, but nothing further, for you would scorn their poor marks were they to attempt written words. They had no school to attend, and have suffered accordingly, but not in their generosity of heart, or in their ability to act out the role of dear and gentle mother to their precious children. They know also how to administer to the needs of a husband, for as I chanced to mention in an earlier communication, the climate of this country does not suit old sores. Two such fellows have long since taken up residence on my left leg, and although I am obliged to suffer a little for want of a cure, my wives seek all the while to ease my discomfort with as much care and attention that I might reasonably expect from an American-born woman. Some months ago, I was quite afflicted by the death of my youngest child, a fine boy of about nine months. A large and healthy child, he was taken ill quite suddenly, and died thereafter. I am not able to say what his sickness was, for this remains a mystery even to those closest to him, who continue to grieve.
Perhaps you imagine that this Liberia has corrupted my person, transforming me from the good Christian colored gentleman who left your home, into this heathen whom you barely recognize. But this is not so, for, as I have often stated many times over, Liberia is the finest country for the colored man, for here he may live by the sweat of his brow, although everything remains scarce and high, such as provisions, clothing, etc. There are still many out here, and more arriving with each ship, who are not prepared for freedom, and who get on poorly because there is no one to act for them, and they are totally incapable of acting for themselves. But this is not the fault of the country, for although not free from famine, war, sickness and death, and other troubles incidental to mankind, I still proclaim that it will compare favorably with any other part of the habitable world. Persons coming to Africa, white or colored, should always remember that this is a new country and that everything has still to be created. Things can be both inconvenient and uphill, and many hardships will no doubt be experienced, but such problems are common to the first settlement in any country. We, the colored man, have been oppressed long enough. We need to contend for our rights, stand our ground, and feel the love of liberty that can never be found in your America. Far from corrupting my soul, this Commonwealth of Liberia has provided me with the opportunity to open up my eyes and cast off the garb of ignorance which has encompassed me all too securely the whole course of my life.
These days I am happy simply to raise my crops. The land is rich and produces the familiar American garden stuff, cabbage, peas, beans, onions, tomatoes, etc., as well as the native produce, which it does in abundance. The school is no more, and shall never again occupy a position of authority in any settlement of which I am a part. This missionary work, this process of persuasion, is futile amongst these people, for they never truly pray to the Christian God, they merely pray to their own gods in Christian guise, for the American God does not even resemble them in that most fundamental of features. The truth is, our religion, in its purest and least diluted form, can never take root in this country. Its young shoots will wither and die, leaving the sensible man with the conclusive evidence that he must reap what grows naturally. It has taken my dark mind many years to absorb this knowledge, and while it would be true to assert that the man I love is Christ, and I love him as one might love an intimate, having no means to return to America, and being therefore bound to an African existence, I must suspend my faith and I therefore freely choose to live the life of the African.
If it please you, I wish you to remember me kindly to my colored friends. Inform them that should they choose to come out to this country, then they must bring everything for housekeeping, farming and carpentry, etc. They will need them, for they cannot be got here nor, unless their master chooses to be bonded to his promises, can they be obtained by means of purchase from the packet. It only remains that I request of you that you do not come out to Africa, for I fear I will surely disappoint you. I suppose I shall never again see you in this life, but if the Lord so deems it, I might yet cast my eyes upon you on the pleasant banks of deliverance. Perhaps in this realm of the hereafter you might explain to me why you used me for your purposes and then expelled me to this Liberian paradise. I believed fiercely in all that you related to me, and fervently hoped that one day I might be worthy of the name I bore, the learning I had been blessed with, and the kind attentions of a master with the teachings of the Lord fused into his soul. That my faith in you is broken, is evident. You, my father, did sow the seed, and it sprouted forth with vigor, but for many years now there has been nobody to tend to it, and being abandoned it has withered away and died. Your work is complete. It only remains for me once more to urge you to remain in your country.
Nash Williams
3
Madison Williams appeared at the rooming house and enquired of the innkeeper as to the general well-being of his former master. The innkeeper slowly shook his head, and informed Madison that for three days now he had neither seen nor heard from the gentleman. Sadly, he presumed his guest to be still in a state of distress. Madison thanked him for his intelligence and, acting upon the innkeeper’s suggestion, he made his way to Edward’s room. He knocked, but there was no answer, so he knocked again, this time more briskly. From inside he heard a muted cry to enter. Madison opened the door and, peering through a gloom that belonged to neither night nor day, he discovered Edward prostrate upon the bed, and Nash’s letter scattered about the floor.
The room had a heavy, musty smell, the drapes having been pulled against the world for three whole days. Edward, as though suddenly conscious of his lamentable appearance, heaved himself into an upright position, rubbed a hand into his face, and then, with some difficulty, stood and made some efforts to stretch. Madison remained standing by the door, unsure as to whether or not he wished to witness this spectacle. Then, through a small chink in the drapes, a slither of light hit Edward and, taking this as a signal, he drew back the coarse material and flooded the room. Madison lifted his arm to his face and awaited his cue, but for the moment at least Edward chose to remain silent. He carefully positioned himself at the foot of the bed and, as he pulled on his leather shoes and strapped them into place, he observed Madison out of the corner of his eye. Madison chose to ignore him, and instead looked all about himself, studying the sparsely furnished room. There was something about the small room, the many hours of darkness having cooled the air and created a welcome respite from the familiar heat, which suggested to Madison that whatever business had to be carried on in these parts had been concluded. Madison knew, without his former master saying anything, that Edward was ready to leave. He expected an announcement.