Eliza’s Delight: Martinsburg

By Howard C. Copeland, III

February 1, 2026 

Photos, clockwise: Albert Thompson (Eliza's husband), Otho Thompson (Eliza's son), Wesley Thompson (grandson), James Thompson (grandson), Howard (Chuck) Copeland III (Eliza & Albert Thompson's great-great-grandson).

My first cousin John and I were walking through a patch of woods, tucked away off of Martinsburg Road, in Dickerson, Maryland. It was an overcast, early winter day.  There were no leaves on the trees. There was a chill in the air, as well as the familiar crunching sound of fallen leaves under our feet as we walked. I had been here before by myself. John had not.

The crunch of the leaves was familiar to my cousin and me, as we, 40 years earlier, regularly hunted on 20 acres of family hunting ground on Trundle Road, land owned by Reverend Alonzo Graham. Reverend Graham was a lifelong member of the Martinsburg community, and he is also our grandfather John Theodore Thompson, Sr.’s first cousin. 

We hunted rabbit, squirrel, deer and turkey in woods very similar to where we were walking. We both grew up in the suburbs but always held tightly to our roots in Martinsburg  We were comfortable walking in the woods. However, my cousin John and I had never walked this ground together before. I had walked this ground alone, and each time it had quite an unexpected and profound impact upon me.

When I moved over this ground by myself I was stopped in my tracks. I noticed that where I was standing was surrounded by many large, oblong recesses in the ground. All around me, as far as the eye could see. This realization hit me like a ton of bricks.  My ancestors, many of whom I had only heard about, were resting in this very place. I was overwhelmed with emotion. I felt as though the people that were there were saying to me, “We are so glad that you came to acknowledge us…we were here. We had dreams and hopes loves, sorrows, joys, traumas untold. We were here.”

I will never forget this experience as long as I live. 

This day, however, as John and I walked, arrived at a certain point in the cemetery and we both stopped walking. We were several yards apart, but could see each other, just like back in the old days when we were hunting. John and I were born three and a half months apart, in the middle of the Civil Rights Movement. We both had been to the country roads up here in Martinsburg since we were both literally in our mamas bellies! We had been like brothers for a good portion of our lives. His father and my mother, both deceased, are siblings. They both grew up in Martinsburg (Yvonne and John Jr.).

It was as if that same feeling came over both of us at the very same time. My cousin looked around in amazement. I told him to take a look at all of the indentations that we stood in the midst of. I saw his face and I asked him, “Do you feel that?” He answered, emphatically, “Yes!” We both realized what an amazing thing that was happening to us at that very moment. Albert and Eliza Thompson’s two great-great-grandsons, both of us pastors, were standing in the same cemetery where our ancestors were laid to rest. For the first time, the fifth generation of their lineage walked this hallowed ground. We represented the third generation born into freedom in the United States of America. 

J.L.T. Jones, slaveholder

As a matter of fact, Albert Thompson (born in 1812), Eliza Thompson (born in 1823), and all of their children were the victims of Maryland’s own brutal form of chattel slavery. They were literally enslaved less than a half mile from where they were laid to rest. A man by the name of John Lewis Trundle Jones (J.L.T. Jones), was their enslaver. Albert and Eliza’s children’s names were, Mary, Alice, Susan (18), Ann (16), Teresa (11), Charles (8), Otho (6), and Venson (4).

The record shows that J.L.T. Jones owned twenty humans and only two dwellings for his enslaved humans. This means that our family of ten (six adults/4 children), was confined to one main space to eat, sleep, and live. These are the kinds of traumatic facts that African Americans deal with every day. However, on this day, in this cemetery, I can feel my ten family members calling out. 

To be heard. 

To be recognized. 

To be acknowledged.

To be respected.

To be honored.  

To be remembered. 

Eliza Thompson and two of her daughters, not named on the official record of enslaved, bought the 2.2 acres of property that I live on today. Eliza bought this land in 1877. Three, marginalized, African American women, bought the property. In 1877.

Let that sink in. Eliza, Mary, and Alice Thompson, three African America women, owned my property. The property was purchased for the sum of $450.00 ($450.00 in 1877, translates to $15,000 in 2026), from local farmers William and Catherine Schaeffer. This is no small feat. This is incredible! Mary and Alice were not included on the J.L.T. Jones ledger of enslaved humans. The only male family member on the original deed was our great uncle Venson, who is described in the 1880 census as disabled. In that same census record in 1880, Albert Thompson shows up as a widower. Eliza had passed by then. Gone. Less than three years later, the stalwart matriarch of this family had gone on to see how long eternity would be. 

Eliza is an enigma. For as long as I could remember all our family ever talked about was Albert Thompson. The home that he built on the property was registered as the Albert Thompson Home. He has been mentioned as one of the original founders of Martinsburg’s African American section. We have a wonderful portrait of him that the family is SO proud of. Only just a few years ago I was contacted by a history professor at the University of Maryland Baltimore County (Melissa Blair). Melissa had been doing research on African American famers for a book that she was writing.

During her search, Melissa was the one who traced the original deed to our 2.2 acres all the way back to Eliza. Not Albert. Until this moment she was a footnote in our family history. There are no portraits of her. Her name was nowhere but in our family bible. Now, right in front of me, I am staring at a digitized version of her name on this deed from June 16, 1877. She is the proverbial tip of the spear for our family. She is the tip of the spear -- not Albert Thompson. Eliza. Her name was Eliza Thompson. She and her two daughters worked, saved, purchased and took possession of that property. In 1877. Right here in the SOUTH. An African American, formerly enslaved woman. The property is less than five miles from where she was enslaved. This fact changed the entire narrative of the Thompson family history.

Most of the property that was sold to African Americans in the Martinsburg area was swampy. However, Eliza’s property was wedged on the side of route 107 that was not swampy. A good piece of land that would house and feed her family. Literally, for generations to come. Eliza was shrewd enough to make an investment in her family’s future. Where did she get the $450.00 (15,000.00 2026 U.S. dollars)? 

Eliza and Albert were both of mixed ethnicity (African & European). One of their daughters, Ann, left Martinsburg to go to Chicago. Because of her fair skin, and European features, she was able to “pass” as a white person. She married a white man and never returned. There are also family stories of Ann’s little brother Otho. He was my great grandfather. He was able, on a regular basis, to walk right onto the white section of the train in Dickerson and sit down. He was never stopped because he looked the part…he looked like a white man.

I include these facts in the story of Eliza, because she had a certain amount of influence that few women, let alone formerly enslaved women, possessed. She owned property in 1877. In the Jim Crow South. Because of the lack of records, or access to old enslaver ledgers, our family history trail grows cold, beyond these two people. I will continue to search for more of Eliza. She deserves it.  She was a force of nature. Eliza Thompson was a Supernova. She, not Albert, is still the guiding light for the Thompson diaspora. We are all over the world. Lawyers, pastors, scholars, CEOs, authors, government employees, educators, and beginning in WWI, military service members. 

I will be forever grateful to my dear friend James “Jimmy” Poole, who revealed to me where my family was enslaved. Jimmy, a great grandson of former enslavers, helped this great grandson of the formerly enslaved, find my connection to J.L.T Jones, therefore my connection to Eliza. Ms. Gwen Reese, a dear friend and community member spoke about what happened to my cousin and me in the woods that day. It was just a few weeks before she passed away.  Ms. Gwen was the curator and historian of the Sugarland Ethnohistory Project. She was familiar with the sensation that we experienced.

Before she passed away a few weeks later, Ms. Gwen said words to me that I will never forget. She said, “Chucky you have to speak for them.” I have heard her words in my head and heart, ever since. The search for Eliza’s story goes on.

Thank you, Eliza Thompson for your courage, commitment and foresight. 

Thank you.

Love,

The Thompson Diaspora

An earlier version of this article appeared in the February 2026 edition of The Monocacy Monocle.