HER CHRISTMAS
AT THE
HERMITAGE
A Tale about Rachel and Andrew Jackson
BY
HELEN TOPPING MILLER
LONGMANS, GREEN AND COMPANY
NEW YORK · LONDON · TORONTO
1955
LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO., INC.
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LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. Ltd.
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LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
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HER CHRISTMAS AT THE HERMITAGE
COPYRIGHT · 1955
BY LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO., INC.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE THIS BOOK, OR ANY PORTION THEREOF, IN ANY FORM
PUBLISHED SIMULTANEOUSLY IN THE DOMINION OF CANADA BY
LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO., TORONTO
FIRST EDITION
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER 55-9896
Printed in the United States of America
HER CHRISTMAS
AT THE HERMITAGE
1
Hannah was fat and her knees were gettingstiff. When she had a chance to rest on thewell-polished stool before the fireplace, it wasa groaning misery for her to get up again. Herhead, wrapped in a starched white turban,thrust forward followed by a lunge of her shoulderstill finally her legs could be persuaded tolift her erect. But once on foot she glared at theblack women who giggled in corners, and attoothless old Moll. Moll had come all the wayfrom Virginia. She remembered the long terrifyingjourney down the river to the Cumberland,the Indians, the hardships. She was privileged.She had no work to do now.
“You black trash better stir your stumps,”2Hannah snapped, “Heap of company comin’.You, Betty, you put more sage in that dressin’.I raised them turkeys. Ain’t goin’ to have ’emruint. Mis’ Jackson, she like her turkey seasonedhigh.”
Betty, narrow-faced and thin-lipped, gave anirritated shrug. But she did not look about forsympathetic support from the others, from theheckling tyranny of old Hannah, knowing thatit would be nonexistent. Betty was a pariah onthe plantation, holding her place only becauseshe was the best cook in the county. Last yearshe had been sent back from Pensacola forrebellious behavior. It was whispered that shehad been ordered whipped by General Jackson,had escaped that bitter disgrace because theGeneral’s lady had a heart as soft as butter. Noother house servant at the Hermitage had everbeen ordered whipped and the stigma of herdisgrace lay now over Betty’s peaked brows, herbitter mouth. Nobody ever talked to her, theyall shied away from her aura of wickedness. Allbut Emily Donelson, Rachel Jackson’s favoriteniece.
“You let Betty alone,” Emily ordered now,looking up from counting out silver on a longtable. “Dilsey, you see that Simmy rubs allthese spoons with fuller’s earth and soda. Let’ssee—I count fifty-two. There’ll be Hutchingsesand Hayses, Eastins, Donelsons—we’ll have toset two tables and the children may have towait. Has Sary got the napkins ironed good andstiff?”
“Sary ironin’ in the washhouse now, YoungMiss. She ju