Enterprise Heritage Center Exhibit Panels 1 & 4:
"Women in Southwest Volusia County History"
Commodore Rose
Commodore Rose is not found in early books about Florida history. She was a
slave and female, after all, deemed unworthy of recognition by most historians.
We know about her only from travel writers who took the steamboat Darlington
up the St. Johns River from Jacksonville to Enterprise after the Civil War.
But Rose would ultimately take her place beside Jacob Brock as an icon of river lore, and her voice deserves to ring out above the fray in any narrative about the St. Johns River.
Harriet Beecher Stowe, one of the first Florida promoters and a frequent passenger, asserted in her book Palmetto Leaves, “Commodore Rose, in this day of woman’s rights, is no mean example of female energy and vigor! She is stewardess of the boat and magnifies her office.”
Ledyard Bill in his diary A Winter in Florida described her as “not born to bloom and blush unseen—not she. Her every word of command might be heard ringing out sharp and clear above the noise and confusion at every landing. Her word was law, and her orders were instantly executed by every officer below the captain.”
Born a slave in the cotton country of South Carolina, Rose was purchased in the late 1840s by Captain Brock to be a stewardess on his steamer Richland, transporting cotton to market on the Pee Dee River.
In January of 1849 the boilers of the Richland exploded, burning the boat to the waterline and killing fifteen people on board. Brock was thrown from the wheelhouse and severely injured. He owed his life to Rose who rescued him. For this, she gained her “rank” and her freedom.
Rose stayed on with Brock for the next 25 years, working her way up to purser and head of operations on the Darlington when, in the 1850s, Brock began regular service from Jacksonville to Palatka and Enterprise.
Mrs. Stowe observed, “The whole charge of provisioning and running the boat and all its internal arrangements vests in Madam Rose; and nobody can get ahead of her in a bargain or resist her will in an arrangement. She knows every inch of the river, every house, every plantation along the shore, its former or present occupants and history, and is always ready with an answer to a question. The arrangement and keeping of the boat do honor to her. Nowhere in Florida does the guest sit at a more bountifully-furnished table. Our desserts and pastry were really, for the wilderness, something quite astonishing!”
Ledyard Bill went further: “The Darlington’s chief officers are Captain Brock and Admiral Rose. The first sails the boat, assisted by a pilot, while the Admiral is in actual command. [When they conferred] it was she who gave the final word. A stout-built athlete of some two hundred pounds, of medium height, [Rose] had the look of one whom experience had taught that life was a battle, and they who made the best fight won.”
Rose was responsible for keeping things running smoothly, both on the boat and at Brock’s hotel in Enterprise. She was a competent navigator, negotiator, and concierge. Her uniqueness was manifold—as an African-American second in command of a major St. Johns River steamboat during the 19th century; as a woman in a managerial position of a major business during a time when women were shut out of most professions; and as a former slave who earned her freedom through her bravery and presence of mind saving the life of her master in a terrible accident.
It is said that in 1876 as Brock lay dying in his home in Jacksonville, he was cared for by a longtime companion, an older black woman. It is nice to think it was Rose who had been by his side from the beginning.
Even before the Civil War, Brock’s steamboat line and others opened Florida for widespread tourism and development. Rose’s story serves to remind us that the resulting economic boom was made possible only by the hard labor of thousands of African-Americans like herself and the river pilots, watchmen, steamboat firemen, ship carpenters, cooks, waiters, and stewardesses who were crew members on the steamboats of the St. Johns River.
by Lani Friend
 |
| Portrait of a Freed Slave by Shepard Alonzo Mount |
But Rose would ultimately take her place beside Jacob Brock as an icon of river lore, and her voice deserves to ring out above the fray in any narrative about the St. Johns River.
Harriet Beecher Stowe, one of the first Florida promoters and a frequent passenger, asserted in her book Palmetto Leaves, “Commodore Rose, in this day of woman’s rights, is no mean example of female energy and vigor! She is stewardess of the boat and magnifies her office.”
Ledyard Bill in his diary A Winter in Florida described her as “not born to bloom and blush unseen—not she. Her every word of command might be heard ringing out sharp and clear above the noise and confusion at every landing. Her word was law, and her orders were instantly executed by every officer below the captain.”
Born a slave in the cotton country of South Carolina, Rose was purchased in the late 1840s by Captain Brock to be a stewardess on his steamer Richland, transporting cotton to market on the Pee Dee River.
In January of 1849 the boilers of the Richland exploded, burning the boat to the waterline and killing fifteen people on board. Brock was thrown from the wheelhouse and severely injured. He owed his life to Rose who rescued him. For this, she gained her “rank” and her freedom.
Rose stayed on with Brock for the next 25 years, working her way up to purser and head of operations on the Darlington when, in the 1850s, Brock began regular service from Jacksonville to Palatka and Enterprise.
Mrs. Stowe observed, “The whole charge of provisioning and running the boat and all its internal arrangements vests in Madam Rose; and nobody can get ahead of her in a bargain or resist her will in an arrangement. She knows every inch of the river, every house, every plantation along the shore, its former or present occupants and history, and is always ready with an answer to a question. The arrangement and keeping of the boat do honor to her. Nowhere in Florida does the guest sit at a more bountifully-furnished table. Our desserts and pastry were really, for the wilderness, something quite astonishing!”
Ledyard Bill went further: “The Darlington’s chief officers are Captain Brock and Admiral Rose. The first sails the boat, assisted by a pilot, while the Admiral is in actual command. [When they conferred] it was she who gave the final word. A stout-built athlete of some two hundred pounds, of medium height, [Rose] had the look of one whom experience had taught that life was a battle, and they who made the best fight won.”
Rose was responsible for keeping things running smoothly, both on the boat and at Brock’s hotel in Enterprise. She was a competent navigator, negotiator, and concierge. Her uniqueness was manifold—as an African-American second in command of a major St. Johns River steamboat during the 19th century; as a woman in a managerial position of a major business during a time when women were shut out of most professions; and as a former slave who earned her freedom through her bravery and presence of mind saving the life of her master in a terrible accident.
It is said that in 1876 as Brock lay dying in his home in Jacksonville, he was cared for by a longtime companion, an older black woman. It is nice to think it was Rose who had been by his side from the beginning.
Even before the Civil War, Brock’s steamboat line and others opened Florida for widespread tourism and development. Rose’s story serves to remind us that the resulting economic boom was made possible only by the hard labor of thousands of African-Americans like herself and the river pilots, watchmen, steamboat firemen, ship carpenters, cooks, waiters, and stewardesses who were crew members on the steamboats of the St. Johns River.
by Lani Friend
Miss Doris of the Daylilies
The night Mrs.
Glass died, Miss Doris sent me on a mission. I was to walk the long wooded driveway
from her house to Broadway Street to get the old couple who lived behind the
Coxes to call the medical examiner. To accompany me, she sent resident prankster,
“Jonesy”. Jonesy’s job was to keep us safe—a laughable thought at best, but it
was our first brush with death, and I wasn’t making that daunting trek alone.
I was eleven at
the time, and don’t remember much about Mrs. Glass except that she liked
children and was very kind to us. She was in her nineties and wheelchair-bound.
Miss Doris had cared for her for many years.
The house was
full of kids back then, many of us dropped off for days or weeks by parents who
compensated Doris in cash or in kind. Carolyn, my best friend, lived nearby and,
when not in school, helped with chores, often on a live-in basis. Carolyn would
take the laundry up to the attic to dry, and Mrs. Glass would wheel by the door
of the attic stairway. Seeing it open, she would dutifully lock it and leave.
Carolyn would be forced to run down the stairs and pound on the door and scream
until someone came from the yard or the kitchen to let her out.
Mrs. Glass’s
demise brought pandemonium to the slumbering household. Jonesy and I were relieved
to be dispatched on our assignment and burst out the screen door into the
darkness. On the winding, root-wracked road to Broadway, Jonesy was in full jester
mode, jumping out from behind trees with the flashlight under his chin, howling
like a banshee. His spiky hair and missing teeth added a ghoulish touch, providing
a welcome distraction from our somber task.
Jonesy and I were
summer drop-offs—refugees from storm-tossed seas and part of an endless parade
of young people placed throughout the year in Miss Doris’s mostly benign care. At
a very young age, Miss Doris had watched her mother die in childbirth. Early
on, she decided that “no one would be motherless” if she could help it, and with
no kids of her own, she became a second mother to generations of youngsters who
landed on her doorstep.
Thornby was a safe
haven for children of working parents. Camelot for some. Part of an era that
would never come again, a place that would live on in legend—where the woods
went on forever and the days revolved around feeding and milking; cooking and
preserving; driving to the nearest grocery store in DeLand or to Sanford to
pick beans and berries; cutting flowers for the church; and taking food to the
sick and clothes to the needy. Doing for others—what Miss Doris did best. “I
will show thee my faith by my works,” James 2:18. Miss Doris taught by example,
and we all learned from her.
She worked hard and
expected others to follow suit. But there was heavy labor to be done, and Miss
Doris took advantage of the kids, assigning some to clean out animal pens, chop
and stack wood, or haul yard debris, and yelling at them if they didn’t do it
right. One boy retaliated by digging up her sagos.
Carolyn was given
extra responsibilities, working for Miss Doris while taking care of her own siblings.
Miss Doris was hard on her, once famously making her extract a duck egg out of
the esophagus of a snake. Carolyn later became an outstanding teacher, winning
awards and teaching college classes in education. Maybe it was the extra
responsibility she shouldered at an early age. Over the years, we all grew up
and had our own families, but we always came back to visit Miss Doris, often bringing
our own children for her to mind.
My last visit
with Miss Doris at Thornby was on a break from my job up north. We sat on the
front steps in the early evening watching cedar waxwings drink from the
fountain in the circle filled with daylilies. Symbols of humility and devotion,
each daylily bloom lasted only one day. Suddenly she said, “I never do this ‘cause
it wastes electricity,” and turned on the fountain spray. The waxwings exploded
in frenzied delight, engulfed in the glimmering shower, trilling and hovering, droplets
reflecting off their wings and beaks. For a few magical moments, they and we were
transported to an ineffable realm of pure joy. Then, at some unseen signal,
they rose as one into the dimming light as our day and our visit drew to a
close.
I will always
remember that visit. She asked me to stay with her in the house because she was
alone. I made some excuse not to. I’ll always remember that, too, and it taught
me about priorities. Regret is a steadfast mentor, always at your side.
Jonesy later got
in trouble with the law. His legal case went all the way to the Supreme Court which issued a landmark ruling giving
important protections to anyone accused of a crime. When he turned his life
around, Jonesy wrote to Miss Doris crediting her for his redemption and for teaching
him what it meant to be a man.
Miss Doris of the
Daylilies. Her spirit lives on through her many children.
by Lani Friend
