Slave Narratives: A Folk History of Slavery in the United States from Interviews with Former Slaves, Volume XVI, Texas Narratives, Part 1
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Title: Slave Narratives: A Folk History of Slavery in the United States from Interviews with Former Slaves, Volume XVI, Texas Narratives, Part 1
Author: United States. Work Projects Administration
Release date: December 2, 2009 [eBook #30576]
Most recently updated: January 5, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30576
Credits: Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SLAVE NARRATIVES: A FOLK HISTORY OF SLAVERY IN THE UNITED STATES FROM INTERVIEWS WITH FORMER SLAVES, VOLUME XVI, TEXAS NARRATIVES, PART 1 ***
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by the Library of Congress,
Manuscript Division)
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| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| I. Inconsistent punctuation has been silently corrected |
| throughout the book. |
| |
| II. Clear spelling mistakes have been corrected however, |
| inconsistent language usage (such as 'day' and 'dey') |
| has been maintained. A list of corrections is included |
| at the end of the book. |
| |
| III. The numbers at the start of each interview were stamped |
| into the original work and refer to the number of the |
| published interview in the context of the entire Slave |
| Narratives project. |
| |
| IV. Two handwritten notes have been retained and are |
| annotated as such. |
| |
| |
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SLAVE NARRATIVES
_A Folk History of Slavery in the United States
From Interviews with Former Slaves_
TYPEWRITTEN RECORDS PREPARED BY
THE FEDERAL WRITERS' PROJECT
1936-1938
ASSEMBLED BY
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS PROJECT
WORK PROJECTS ADMINISTRATION
FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
SPONSORED BY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS
_Illustrated with Photographs_
WASHINGTON 1941
VOLUME XVI
TEXAS NARRATIVES
PART 1
Prepared by
the Federal Writers' Project of
the Works Progress Administration
for the State of Texas
INFORMANTS
Adams, Will 1
Adams, William 4
Adams, William M. 9
Allen, Sarah 12
Anderson, Andy 14
Anderson, George Washington (Wash) 17
Anderson, Willis 21
Armstrong, Mary 25
Arnwine, Stearlin 31
Ashley, Sarah 34
Babino, Agatha 37
Barclay, Mrs. John 39
Barker, John 42
Barnes, Joe 45
Barrett, Armstead 47
Barrett, Harriet 49
Bates, John 51
Beckett, Harrison 54
Bell, Frank 59
Bell, Virginia 62
Bendy, Edgar 66
Bendy, Minerva 68
Benjamin, Sarah 70
Bess, Jack 72
Betts, Ellen 75
Beverly, Charlotte 84
Black, Francis 87
Blanchard, Olivier 90
Blanks, Julia 93
Boles, Elvira 106
Bormer (Bonner), Betty 109
Boyd, Harrison 112
Boyd, Issabella 114
Boyd, James 117
Boykins, Jerry 121
Brackins, Monroe 124
Bradshaw, Gus 130
Brady, Wes 133
Branch, Jacob 137
Branch, William 143
Brim, Clara 147
Brooks, Sylvester 149
Broussard, Donaville 151
Brown, Fannie 154
Brown, Fred 156
Brown, James 160
Brown, Josie 163
Brown, Zek 166
Bruin, Madison 169
Bunton, Martha Spence 174
Butler, Ellen 176
Buttler, Henry H. 179
Byrd, William 182
Cain, Louis 185
Calhoun, Jeff 188
Campbell, Simp 191
Cape, James 193
Carruthers, Richard 197
Carter, Cato 202
Cauthern, Jack 212
Chambers, Sally Banks 214
Choice, Jeptha 217
Clark, Amos 220
Clark, Anne 223
Cole, Thomas 225
Coleman, Eli 236
Coleman, Preely 240
Collins, Harriet 242
Columbus, Andrew (Smoky) 246
Connally, Steve 249
Cormier, Valmar 252
Cornish, Laura 254
Crawford, John 257
Cumby, Green 260
Cummins, Tempie 263
Cunningham, Adeline 266
Daily, Will 269
Daniels, Julia Francis 273
Darling, Katie 278
Davenport, Carey 281
Davis, Campbell 285
Davis, William 289
Davison, Eli 295
Davison, Elige 298
Day, John 302
Denson, Nelsen 305
Duhon, Victor 307
ILLUSTRATIONS
Facing Page
Will Adams 1
William Adams 4
Mary Armstrong 25
Sterlin Arnwine 31
Sarah Ashley 34
Edgar and Minerva Bendy 66
Jack Bess's House 72
Jack Bess 72
Charlotte Beverly 84
Francis Black 87
Betty Bormer (Bonner) 109
Issabella Boyd 114
James Boyd 117
Monroe Brackins 124
Wes Brady 133
William Branch 143
Clara Brim 147
Sylvester Brooks 149
Donaville Broussard 151
Fannie Brown 154
Fred Brown 156
James Brown 160
Josie Brown 163
Zek Brown 166
Martha Spence Bunton 174
Ellen Butler 176
Simp Campbell 191
James Cape 193
Cato Carter 202
Amos Clark's Sorghum Mill 220
Amos Clark 220
Anne Clark 223
Preely Coleman 240
Steve Connally 249
Steve Connally's House 249
Valmar Cormier 252
John Crawford 257
Green Cumby 260
Tempie Cummins 263
Adeline Cunningham 266
Will Daily's House 269
Will Daily 269
Julia Francis Daniels 273
Katie Darling 278
Carey Davenport 281
Campbell Davis 285
Nelsen Denson 305
EX-SLAVE STORIES
(Texas)
420241
[Illustration: Will Adams]
WILL ADAMS was born in 1857, a slave of Dave Cavin, in Harrison
Co., Texas. He remained with the Cavins until 1885, then farmed for
himself. Will lives alone in Marshall, Texas, supported by a $13.00
monthly pension.
"My folks allus belongs to the Cavins and wore their name till after
'mancipation. Pa and ma was named Freeman and Amelia Cavin and Massa
Dave fotches them to Texas from Alabama, along with ma's mother, what we
called Maria.
"The Cavins allus thunk lots of their niggers and Grandma Maria say,
'Why shouldn't they--it was their money.' She say there was plenty
Indians here when they settled this country and they bought and traded
with them without killin' them, if they could. The Indians was poor
folks, jus' pilfer and loaf 'round all the time. The niggers was a heap
sight better off than they was, 'cause we had plenty to eat and a place
to stay.
"Young Massa Tom was my special massa and he still lives here. Old Man
Dave seemed to think more of his niggers than anybody and we thunk lots
of our white folks. My pa was leader on the farm, and there wasn't no
overseer or driver. When pa whip a nigger he needn't go to Massa Dave,
but pa say, 'Go you way, you nigger. Freeman didn't whip you for
nothin'.' Massa Dave allus believe pa, 'cause he tells the truth.
"One time a peddler come to our house and after supper he goes to see
'bout his pony. Pa done feed that pony fifteen ears of corn. The peddler
tell massa his pony ain't been fed nothin', and massa git mad and say,
'Be on you way iffen you gwine 'cuse my niggers of lyin'.'
"We had good quarters and plenty to eat. I 'members when I's jus'
walkin' round good pa come in from the field at night and taken me out
of bed and dress me and feed me and then play with me for hours. Him
bein' leader, he's gone from 'fore day till after night. The old heads
got out early but us young scraps slep' till eight or nine o'clock, and
don't you think Massa Dave ain't comin' round to see we is fed. I
'members him like it was yest'day, comin' to the quarters with his stick
and askin' us, 'Had your breakfas'?' We'd say, 'Yes, suh.' Then he'd ask
if we had 'nough or wanted any more. It look like he taken a pleasure in
seein' us eat. At dinner, when the field hands come in, it am the same
way. He was sho' that potlicker was fill as long as the niggers want to
eat.
"The hands worked from sun to sun. Massa give them li'l crops and let
them work them on Saturday. Then he bought the stuff and the niggers go
to Jefferson and buy clothes and sech like. Lots saved money and bought
freedom 'fore the war was over.
"We went to church and first the white preacher preached and then he
larns our cullud preachers. I seed him ordain a cullud preacher and he
told him to allus be honest. When the white preacher laid his hand on
him, all the niggers git to hollerin' and shoutin' and prayin' and that
nigger git scart mos' to death.
"On Christmas we had all we could eat and drink and after that a big
party, and you ought to see them gals swingin' they partners round. Then
massa have two niggers wrestle, and our sports and dances was big sport
for the white folks. They'd sit on the gallery and watch the niggers put
it on brown.
"Massa didn't like his niggers to marry off the place, but sometimes
they'd do it, and massa tell his neighbor, 'My nigger am comin' to you
place. Make him behave.' All the niggers 'haved then and they wasn't no
Huntsville and gallows and burnin's then.
"Old massa went to war with his boy, Billie. They's lots of cryin' and
weepin' when they sot us free. Lots of them didn't want to be free,
'cause they knowed nothin' and had nowhere to go. Them what had good
massas stayed right on.
"I 'members when that Ku Klux business starts up. Smart niggers causes
that. The carpet-baggers ruint the niggers and the white men couldn't do
a thing with them, so they got up the Ku Klux and stirs up the world.
Them carpet-baggers come round larnin' niggers to sass the white folks
what done fed them. They come to pa with that talk and he told them,
'Listen, white folks, you is gwine start a graveyard if you come round
here teachin' niggers to sass white folks." Them carpet-baggers starts
all the trouble at 'lections in Reconstruction. Niggers didn't know
anythin' 'bout politics.
"Mos' the young niggers ain't usin' the education they got now. I's been
here eighty years and still has to be showed and told by white folks.
These young niggers won't git told by whites or blacks either. They
thinks they done knowed it all and that gits them in trouble.
"I stays with the Cavins mos' twenty years after the war. After I
leaves, I allus farms and does odd jobs round town here. I's father of
ten chillen by one woman. I lives by myself now and they gives me $13.00
a month. I'd be proud to git it if it wasn't more'n a dollar, 'cause
they ain't nothin' a old man can do no more.
420055
[Illustration: William Adams]
WILLIAM ADAMS, 93, was born in slavery, with no opportunity for an
education, except three months in a public school. He has taught
himself to read and to write. His lifelong ambition has been to
become master of the supernatural powers which he believes to
exist. He is now well-known among Southwestern Negroes for his
faith in the occult.
"Yous want to know and talk about de power de people tells you I has.
Well, sit down here, right there in dat chair, befo' we'uns starts. I
gits some ice water and den we'uns can discuss de subject. I wants to
'splain it clearly, so yous can understand.
"I's born a slave, 93 years ago, so of course I 'members de war period.
Like all de other slaves I has no chance for edumacation. Three months
am de total time I's spent going to school. I teached myself to read and
write. I's anxious to larn to read so I could study and find out about
many things. Dat, I has done.
"There am lots of folks, and edumacated ones, too, what says we'uns
believes in superstition. Well, its 'cause dey don't understand. 'Member
de Lawd, in some of His ways, can be mysterious. De Bible says so. There
am some things de Lawd wants all folks to know, some things jus' de
chosen few to know, and some things no one should know. Now, jus' 'cause
yous don't know 'bout some of de Lawd's laws, 'taint superstition if
some other person understands and believes in sich.
"There is some born to sing, some born to preach, and some born to know
de signs. There is some born under de power of de devil and have de
power to put injury and misery on people, and some born under de power
of de Lawd for to do good and overcome de evil power. Now, dat produces
two forces, like fire and water. De evil forces starts de fire and I has
de water force to put de fire out.
"How I larnt sich? Well, I's done larn it. It come to me. When de Lawd
gives sich power to a person, it jus' comes to 'em. It am 40 years ago
now when I's fust fully realize' dat I has de power. However, I's allus
int'rested in de workin's of de signs. When I's a little piccaninny, my
mammy and other folks used to talk about de signs. I hears dem talk
about what happens to folks 'cause a spell was put on 'em. De old folks
in dem days knows more about de signs dat de Lawd uses to reveal His
laws den de folks of today. It am also true of de cullud folks in
Africa, dey native land. Some of de folks laughs at their beliefs and
says it am superstition, but it am knowin' how de Lawd reveals His laws.
"Now, let me tell yous of something I's seen. What am seen, can't be
doubted. It happens when I's a young man and befo' I's realize' dat I's
one dat am chosen for to show de power. A mule had cut his leg so bad
dat him am bleedin' to death and dey couldn't stop it. An old cullud man
live near there dat dey turns to. He comes over and passes his hand over
de cut. Befo' long de bleedin' stop and dat's de power of de Lawd
workin' through dat nigger, dat's all it am.
"I knows about a woman dat had lost her mind. De doctor say it was
caused from a tumor in de head. Dey took an ex-ray picture, but dere's
no tumor. Dey gives up and says its a peculiar case. Dat woman was took
to one with de power of de good spirit and he say its a peculiar case
for dem dat don't understand. Dis am a case of de evil spell. Two days
after, de woman have her mind back.
"Dey's lots of dose kind of cases de ord'nary person never hear about.
Yous hear of de case de doctors can't understand, nor will dey 'spond to
treatment. Dat am 'cause of de evil spell dat am on de persons.
"'Bout special persons bein' chosen for to show de power, read yous
Bible. It says in de book of Mark, third chapter, 'and He ordained
twelve, dat dey should be with Him, dat He might send them forth to
preach and to have de power to heal de sick and to cast out devils.' If
it wasn't no evil in people, why does de Lawd say, 'cast out sich?' And
in de fifth chapter of James, it further say, 'If any am sick, let him
call de elders. Let dem pray over him. De prayers of faith shall save
him.' There 'tis again, Faith, dat am what counts.
"When I tells dat I seen many persons given up to die, and den a man
with de power comes and saves sich person, den its not for people to say
it am superstition to believe in de power.
"Don't forgit--de agents of de devil have de power of evil. Dey can put
misery of every kind on people. Dey can make trouble with de work and
with de business, with de fam'ly and with de health. So folks mus' be on
de watch all de time. Folks has business trouble 'cause de evil power
have control of 'em. Dey has de evil power cast out and save de
business. There am a man in Waco dat come to see me 'bout dat. He say to
me everything he try to do in de las' six months turned out wrong. It
starts with him losin' his pocketbook with $50.00 in it. He buys a
carload of hay and it catch fire and he los' all of it. He spends
$200.00 advertisin' de three-day sale and it begin to rain, so he los'
money. It sho' am de evil power.
"'Well,' he say, 'Dat am de way it go, so I comes to you.'
"I says to him, 'Its de evil power dat have you control and we'uns shall
cause it to be cast out.' Its done and he has no more trouble.
"You wants to know if persons with de power for good can be successful
in castin' out devils in all cases? Well, I answers dat, yes and no. Dey
can in every case if de affected person have de faith. If de party not
have enough faith, den it am a failure.
"Wearin' de coin for protection 'gainst de evil power? Dat am simple.
Lots of folks wears sich and dey uses mixtures dat am sprinkled in de
house, and sich. Dat am a question of faith. If dey has de true faith in
sich, it works. Otherwise, it won't.
"Some folks won't think for a minute of goin' without lodestone or de
salt and pepper mixture in de little sack, tied round dey neck. Some
wears de silver coin tied round dey neck. All sich am for to keep away
de effect of de evil power. When one have de faith in sich and dey
acc'dently lose de charm, dey sho' am miserable.
"An old darky dat has faith in lodestone for de charm told me de
'sperience he has in Atlanta once. He carryin' de hod and de fust thing
he does am drop some brick on he foot. De next thing, he foot slip as
him starts up de ladder and him and de bricks drap to de ground. It am
lucky for him it wasn't far. Jus' a sprain ankle and de boss sends him
home for de day. He am 'cited and gits on de street car and when de
conductor call for de fare, Rufus reaches for he money but he los' it
or fergits it at home. De conductor say he let him pay nex' time and
asks where he live. Rufus tells him and he say, 'Why, nigger, you is on
de wrong car.' Dat cause Rufus to walk further with de lame foot dan if
he started walkin' in de fust place. He thinks there mus' be something
wrong with he charm, and he look for it and it gone! Sho' 'nough, it am
los'. He think, 'Here I sits all day, and I won't make another move till
I gits de lodestone. When de chillen comes from school I sends dem to de
drugstore for some of de stone and gits fixed.'
"Now, now, I's been waitin' for dat one 'bout de black cat crossin' de
road, and, sho' 'nough, it come. Let me ask you one. How many people can
yous find dat likes to have de black cat cross in front of 'em? Dat's
right, no one likes dat. Let dis old cullud person inform yous dat it am
sho' de bad luck sign. It is sign of bad luck ahead, so turn back. Stop
what yous doin'.
"I's tellin' yous of two of many cases of failure to took warnin' from
de black cat. I knows a man call' Miller. His wife and him am takin' an
auto ride and de black cat cross de road and he cussed a little and goes
on. Den it's not long till he turns de corner and his wife falls out of
de car durin' de turn. When he goes back and picks her up, she am dead.
"Another fellow, call' Brown, was a-ridin' hossback and a black cat
cross de path, but he drives on. Well, its not long till him hoss
stumble and throw him off. De fall breaks his leg, so take a
warnin'--don't overlook de black cat. Dat am a warnin'.
420192
WILLIAM M. ADAMS, spiritualist preacher and healer, who lives at
1404 Illinois Ave., Ft. Worth, Texas, was born a slave on the James
Davis plantation, in San Jacinto Co., Texas. After the war he
worked in a grocery, punched cattle, farmed and preached. He moved
to Ft. Worth in 1902.
"I was bo'n 93 years ago, dat is whut my mother says. We didn' keep no
record like folks does today. All I know is I been yere a long time. My
mother, she was Julia Adams and my father he was James Adams. She's bo'n
in Hollis Springs, Mississippi and my father, now den, he was bo'n in
Florida. He was a Black Creek Indian. Dere was 12 of us chillen. When I
was 'bout seven de missus, she come and gits me for her servant. I lived
in de big house till she die. Her and Marster Davis was powerful good to
me.
"Marster Davis he was a big lawyer and de owner of a plantation. But all
I do was wait on ole missus. I'd light her pipe for her and I helped her
wid her knittin'. She give me money all de time. She had a little trunk
she keeped money in and lots of times I'd have to pack it down wid my
feets.
"I dis'member jus' how many slaves dere was, but dere was more'n 100. I
saw as much as 100 sold at a time. When dey tuk a bunch of slaves to
trade, dey put chains on 'em.
"De other slaves lived in log cabins back of de big house. Dey had dirt
floors and beds dat was made out of co'n shucks or straw. At nite dey
burned de lamps for 'bout an hour, den de overseers, dey come knock on
de door and tell 'em put de light out. Lots of overseers was mean.
Sometimes dey'd whip a nigger wid a leather strap 'bout a foot wide and
long as your arm and wid a wooden handle at de end.
"On Sat'day and Sunday nites dey'd dance and sing all nite long. Dey
didn' dance like today, dey danced de roun' dance and jig and do de
pigeon wing, and some of dem would jump up and see how many time he
could kick his feets 'fore dey hit de groun'. Dey had an ole fiddle and
some of 'em would take two bones in each hand and rattle 'em. Dey sang
songs like, 'Diana had a Wooden Leg,' and 'A Hand full of Sugar,' and
'Cotton-eyed Joe.' I dis'member how dey went.
"De slaves didn' have no church den, but dey'd take a big sugar kettle
and turn it top down on de groun' and put logs roun' it to kill de
soun'. Dey'd pray to be free and sing and dance.
"When war come dey come and got de slaves from all de plantations and
tuk 'em to build de breastworks. I saw lots of soldiers. Dey'd sing a
song dat go something like dis:
"'Jeff Davis rode a big white hoss,
Lincoln rode a mule;
Jess Davis is our President,
Lincoln is a fool.'
"I 'member when de slaves would run away. Ole John Billinger, he had a
bunch of dogs and he'd take after runaway niggers. Sometimes de dogs
didn' ketch de nigger. Den ole Billinger, he'd cuss and kick de dogs.
"We didn' have to have a pass but on other plantations dey did, or de
paddlerollers would git you and whip you. Dey was de poor white folks
dat didn' have no slaves. We didn' call 'em white folks dem days. No,
suh, we called dem' Buskrys.'
"Jus' fore de war, a white preacher he come to us slaves and says: 'Do
you wan' to keep you homes whar you git all to eat, and raise your
chillen, or do you wan' to be free to roam roun' without a home, like de
wil' animals? If you wan' to keep you homes you better pray for de South
to win. All day wan's to pray for de South to win, raise the
hand.' We all raised our hands 'cause we was skeered not to, but we sho'
didn' wan' de South to win.
"Dat night all de slaves had a meetin' down in de hollow. Ole Uncle
Mack, he gits up and says: 'One time over in Virginny dere was two ole
niggers, Uncle Bob and Uncle Tom. Dey was mad at one 'nuther and one day
dey decided to have a dinner and bury de hatchet. So day sat
down, and when Uncle Bob wasn't lookin' Uncle Tom put some poison in
Uncle Bob's food, but he saw it and when Uncle Tom wasn't lookin', Uncle
Bob he turned de tray roun' on Uncle Tom, and he gits de poison food.'
Uncle Mack, he says: 'Dat's what we slaves is gwine do, jus' turn de
tray roun' and pray for de North to win.'
"After de war dere was a lot of excitement 'mong de niggers. Dey was
rejoicin' and singin'. Some of 'em looked puzzled, sorter skeered like.
But dey danced and had a big jamboree.
"Lots of 'em stayed and worked on de halves. Others hired out. I went to
work in a grocery store and he paid me $1.50 a week. I give my mother de
dollar and keeped de half. Den I got married and farmed for awhile. Den
I come to Fort Worth and I been yere since.
420198
SARAH ALLEN was born a slave of John and Sally Goodren, in the Blue
Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Before the Civil War, her owners came
to Texas, locating near a small town then called Freedom. She lives
at 3322 Frutas St., El Paso, Texas.
"I was birthed in time of bondage. You know, some people are ashamed to
tell it, but I thank God I was 'llowed to see them times as well as now.
It's a pretty hard story, how cruel some of the marsters was, but I had
the luck to be with good white people. But some I knew were put on the
block and sold. I 'member when they'd come to John Goodren's place to
buy, but he not sell any. They'd have certain days when they'd sell off
the block and they took chillen 'way from mothers, screamin' for dere
chillen.
"I was birthed in ole Virginia in de Blue Ridge Mountains. When de white
people come to Texas, de cullud people come with them. Dat's been a long
time.
"My maw was named Charlotte, my paw Parks Adams. He's a white man. I
guess I'm about eighty some years ole.
"You know, in slavery times when dey had bad marsters dey'd run away,
but we didn' want to. My missus would see her people had something good
to eat every Sunday mornin'. You had to mind your missus and marster and
you be treated well. I think I was about twelve when dey freed us and we
stayed with marster 'bout a year, then went to John Ecols' place and
rented some lan'. We made two bales of cotton and it was the first money
we ever saw.
"Back when we lived with Marster Goodren we had big candy pullin's.
Invite everybody and play. We had good times. De worst thing, we didn'
never have no schoolin' till after I married. Den I went to school two
weeks. My husban' was teacher. He never was a slave. His father bought
freedom through a blacksmith shop, some way.
"I had a nice weddin'. My dress was white and trimmed with blue ribbon.
My second day dress was white with red dots. I had a beautiful veil and
a wreath and 'bout two, three waiters for table dat day.
"My mother was nearly white. Brighter than me. We lef' my father in
Virginia. I was jus' as white as de chillen I played with. I used to be
plum bright, but here lately I'm gettin' awful dark.
"My husban' was of a mixture, like you call bright ginger-cake color. I
don' know where he got his learnin'. I feel so bad since he's gone to
Glory.
"Now I'm ole, de Lord has taken care of me. He put that spirit in people
to look after ole folks and now my chillen look after me. I've two sons,
one name James Allen, one R.M. Both live in El Paso.
"After we go to sleep, de people will know these things, 'cause if
freedom hadn' come, it would have been so miserable.
420149
ANDY ANDERSON, 94, was born a slave of Jack Haley, who owned a
plantation in Williamson Co., Texas. During the Civil War, Andy was
sold to W.T. House, of Blanco County, who in less than a year sold
Andy to his brother, John House. Andy now lives with his third wife
and eight of his children at 301 Armour St., Fort Worth, Texas.
"My name am Andy J. Anderson, and I's born on Massa Jack Haley's
plantation in Williamson County, Texas, and Massa Haley owned my folks
and 'bout twelve other families of niggers. I's born in 1843 and that
makes me 94 year old and 18 year when de war starts. I's had 'speriences
durin' dat time.
"Massa Haley am kind to his cullud folks, and him am kind to everybody,
and all de folks likes him. De other white folks called we'uns de petted
niggers. There am 'bout 30 old and young niggers and 'bout 20
piccaninnies too little to work, and de nuss cares for dem while dey
mammies works.
"I's gwine 'splain how it am managed on Massa Haley's plantation. It am
sort of like de small town, 'cause everything we uses am made right
there. There am de shoemaker and he is de tanner and make de leather
from de hides. Den massa has 'bout a thousand sheep and he gits de wool,
and de niggers cards and spins and weaves it, and dat makes all de
clothes. Den massa have cattle and sich purvide de milk and de butter
and beef meat for eatin'. Den massa have de turkeys and chickens and de
hawgs and de bees. With all that, us never was hongry.
"De plantation am planted in cotton, mostly, with de corn and de wheat a
little, 'cause massa don't need much of dem. He never sell nothin' but
de cotton.
"De livin' for de cullud folks am good. De quarters am built from logs
like deys all in dem days. De floor am de dirt but we has de benches and
what is made on de place. And we has de big fireplace for to cook and we
has plenty to cook in dat fireplace, 'cause massa allus 'lows plenty
good rations, but he watch close for de wastin' of de food.
"De war breaks and dat make de big change on de massas place. He jines
de army and hires a man call' Delbridge for overseer. After dat, de hell
start to pop, 'cause de first thing Delbridge do is cut de rations. He
weighs out de meat, three pound for de week, and he measure a peck of
meal. And 'twarn't enough. He half starve us niggers and he want mo'
work and he start de whippin's. I guesses he starts to edumacate 'em. I
guess dat Delbridge go to hell when he died, but I don't see how de
debbil could stand him.
"We'uns am not use' to sich and some runs off. When dey am cotched there
am a whippin' at de stake. But dat Delbridge, he sold me to Massa House,
in Blanco County. I's sho' glad when I's sold, but it am short gladness,
'cause here am another man what hell am too good for. He gives me de
whippin' and de scars am still on my arms and my back, too. I'll carry
dem to my grave. He sends me for firewood and when I gits it loaded, de
wheel hits a stump and de team jerks and dat breaks de whippletree. So
he ties me to de stake and every half hour for four hours, dey lays ta
lashes on my back. For de first couple hours de pain am awful. I's never
forgot it. Den I's stood so much pain I not feel so much and when dey
takes me loose, I's jus' 'bout half dead. I lays in de bunk two days,
gittin' over dat whippin', gittin' over it in de body but not de heart.
No, suh, I has dat in de heart till dis day.
"After dat whippin' I doesn't have de heart to work for de massa. If I
seed de cattle in de cornfield, I turns de back, 'stead of chasin' 'em
out. I guess dat de reason de massa sold me to his brother, Massa John.
And he am good like my first massa, he never whipped me.
"Den surrender am 'nounced and massa tells us we's free. When dat takes
place, it am 'bout one hour by sun. I says to myself, 'I won't be here
long.' But I's not realise what I's in for till after I's started, but I
couldn't turn back. For dat means de whippin' or danger from de patter
rollers. Dere I was and I kep' on gwine. No nigger am sposed to be off
de massa's place without de pass, so I travels at night and hides durin'
de daylight. I stays in de bresh and gits water from de creeks, but not
much to eat. Twice I's sho' dem patter rollers am passin' while I's
hidin'.
"I's 21 year old den, but it am de first time I's gone any place, 'cept
to de neighbors, so I's worried 'bout de right way to Massa Haley's
place. But de mornin' of de third day I comes to he place and I's so
hongry and tired and scairt for fear Massa Haley not home from de army
yit. So I finds my pappy and he hides me in he cabin till a week and den
luck comes to me when Massa Haley come home. He come at night and de
next mornin' dat Delbridge am shunt off de place, 'cause Massa Haley
seed he niggers was all gaunt and lots am ran off and de fields am not
plowed right, and only half de sheep and everything left. So massa say
to dat Delbridge, 'Dere am no words can 'splain what yous done. Git off
my place 'fore I smashes you.'
"Den I kin come out from my pappy's cabin and de old massa was glad to
see me, and he let me stay till freedom am ordered. Dat's de happies'
time in my life, when I gits back to Massa Haley.
420317
Dibble, Fred, P.W., Beehler, Rheba, P.W., Beaumont, Jefferson, Dist. #3.
A frail sick man, neatly clad in white pajamas lying patiently in a
clean bed awaiting the end which does not seem far away. Although
we protested against his talking, because of his weakness, he told
a brief story of his life in a whisper, his breath very short and
every word was spoken with great effort. His light skin and his
features denote no characteristic of his race, has a bald head with
a bit of gray hair around the crown and a slight growth of gray
whiskers about his face, is medium in height and build. WASH
ANDERSON, although born in Charleston, S.C., has spent practically
all of his life in Texas [Handwritten Note: (Beaumont, Texas--]
"Mos' folks call me Wash Anderson, but dey uster call me George. My
whole name' George Washington Anderson. I was bo'n in Charleston, Sou'f
Ca'lina in 1855. Bill Anderson was my ol' marster. Dey was two boy' and
two gal' in his family. We all lef' Charleston and come to Orange,
Texas, befo' freedom come. I was fo' year' ol' when dey mek dat trip."
"I don' 'member nuttin' 'bout Charleston. You see where I was bo'n was
'bout two mile' from de city. I went back one time in 1917, but I didn'
stay dere long."
"My pa was Irvin' Anderson and my mommer was name' Eliza. Ol' marster
was pretty rough on his niggers. Dey tell me he had my gran'daddy beat
to death. Dey never did beat me."
"Dey made de trip from Charleston 'cross de country and settle' in
Duncan's Wood' down here in Orange county. Dey had a big plantation
dere. I dunno if ol' marster had money back in Charleston, but I t'ink
he must have. He had 'bout 25 or 30 slaves on de place."
"Ol' man Anderson he had a big two-story house. It was buil' out of logs
but it was a big fine house. De slaves jis' had little log huts. Dere
warn't no flo's to 'em, nuthin' but de groun'. Dem little huts jis' had
one room in 'em. Dey was one family to de house, 'cep'n' sometime dey
put two or t'ree family' to a house. Dey jis' herd de slaves in dere
like a bunch of pigs."
"Dey uster raise cotton, and co'n, and sugar cane, and sich like, but
dey didn' uster raise no rice. Dey uster sen' stuff to Terry on a
railroad to sen' it to market. Sometime dey hitch up dey teams and sen'
it to Orange and Beaumont in wagons. De ol' marster he had a boat, too,
and sometime he sen' a boatload of his stuff to Beaumont."
"My work was to drive de surrey for de family and look atter de hosses
and de harness and sich. I jis' have de bes' hosses on de place to see
atter."
"I saw lots of sojers durin' de war. I see 'em marchin' by, goin' to
Sabine Pass 'bout de time of dat battle."
"Back in slavery time dey uster have a white preacher to come 'roun' and
preach to de cullud folks. But I don't 'member much 'bout de songs what
dey uster sing."
"I play 'roun' right smart when I was little. Dey uster have lots of fun
playin' 'hide and seek,' and 'hide de switch.' We uster ride stick
hosses and play 'roun' at all dem t'ings what chillun play at."
"Dey had plenty of hosses and mules and cows on de ol' plantation. I had
to look atter some of de hosses, but dem what I hatter look atter was
s'pose to be de bes' hosses in de bunch. Like I say, I drive de surrey
and dey allus have de bes' hosses to pull dat surrey. Dey had a log
stable. Dey kep' de harness in dere, too. Eb'ryt'ing what de stock eat
dey raise on de plantation, all de co'n and fodder and sich like."
"Atter freedom come I went 'roun' doin' dif'rent kind of work. I uster
work on steamboats, and on de railroad and at sawmillin'. I was a sawyer
for a long, long time. I work 'roun' in Lou'sana and Arkansas, and
Oklahoma, as well as in Texas. When I wasn't doin' dem kinds of work, I
uster work 'roun' at anyt'ing what come to han'. I 'member one time I
was workin' for de Burr Lumber Company at Fort Townsend up dere in
Arkansas."
"When I was 'bout 36 year' ol' I git marry. I been married twice. My
fus' wife was name' Hannah and Reverend George Childress was de preacher
dat marry us. He was a cullud preacher. Atter Hannah been dead some time
I marry my secon' wife. Her name was Tempie Perkins. Later on, us
sep'rate. Us sep'rate on 'count of money matters."
"I b'longs to de Baptis' Chu'ch. Sometime' de preacher come 'roun' and
see me. He was here a few days ago dis week."
_"UNCLE WILLIS ANDERSON"_
_REFERENCES_
A. Coronado's Children--J. Frank Dobie, Pub. 1929, Austin, Tex.
B. Leon County News--Centerville, Texas--Thursday May 21, 1936.
C. Consultant--Uncle Willis Anderson, resident of Centerville, Tex, born
April 15, 1844.
An interesting character at Centerville, Texas, is "Uncle Willis"
Anderson, an ex-slave, born April 15, 1844, 6 miles west of Centerville
on the old McDaniels plantation near what is now known as Hopewell
Settlement. It is generally said that "Uncle Willis" is one of the
oldest living citizens in the County, black or white. He is referred to
generally for information concerning days gone by and for the history of
that County, especially in the immediate vicinity of Centerville.
"Uncle Willis" is an interesting figure. He may be found sitting on the
porches of the stores facing Federal Highway No. 75, nodding or
conversing with small groups of white or colored people that gather
around him telling of the days gone by. He also likes to watch the
busses and automobiles that pass through the small town musing and
commenting on the swiftness of things today. Uncle Willis still
cultivates a small patch five miles out from the town.
"Uncle Willis" is a tall dark, brown-skinned man having a large head
covered with mixed gray wooly hair. He has lost very few teeth
considering his age. When sitting on the porches of the stores the soles
of his farm-shoes may be seen tied together with pieces of wire. He
supports himself with a cane made from the Elm tree. At present he wears
a tall white Texas Centennial hat which makes him appear more unique
than ever.
"Uncle Willis'" memory is vivid. He is familiar with the older figures
in the history of the County. He tells tales of having travelled by oxen
to West Texas for flour and being gone for six months at a time. He
remembers the Keechi and the Kickapoo Indians and also claims that he
can point out a tree where the Americans hung an Indian Chief. He says
that he has plowed up arrows, pots and flints on the Reubens Bains place
and on the McDaniel farms. He can tell of the early lawlessness in the
County. His face lights up when he recalls how the Yankee soldiers came
through Centerville telling the slave owners to free their slaves. He
also talks very low when he mentions the name of Jeff Davis because he
says, "Wha' man eavesdrops the niggers houses in slavery time and if
yer' sed' that Jeff Davis was a good man, they barbecued a hog for you,
but if yer' sed' that Abe Lincoln was a good man, yer' had to fight or
go to the woods."
Among the most interesting tales told by "Uncle Willis" is the tale of
the "Lead mine." "Uncle Willis" says that some where along Boggy Creek
near a large hickory tree and a red oak tree, near Patrick's Lake, he
and his master, Auss McDaniels, would dig lead out of the ground which
they used to make pistol and rifle balls for the old Mississippi rifles
during slavery time. Uncle Willis claims that they would dig slags of
lead out of the ground some 12 and 15 inches long, and others as large
as a man's fist. They would carry this ore back to the big house and
melt it down to get the trash out of it, then they would pour it into
molds and make rifle balls and pistol balls from it. In this way they
kept plenty of amunition on hand. In recent years the land has changed
ownership, and the present owners live in Dallas. Learning of the tale
of the "lead mine" on their property they went to Centerville in an
attempt to locate it and were referred to "Uncle Willis." Uncle Willis
says they offered him two hundred dollars if he could locate the mine.
Being so sure that he knew its exact location, said that the $200 was
his meat. However, Uncle Willis was unable to locate the spot where they
dug the lead and the mine remains a mystery.[C]
Recently a group of citizens of Leon County including W.D. Lacey, Joe
McDaniel, Debbs Brown, W.H. Hill and Judge Lacey cross questioned Uncle
Willis about the lead mine. Judge Lacey did the questioning while them
others formed an audience. The conversation went as follows:
"Which way would you go when you went to the mine?" Judge Lacey asked.
"Out tow'hd Normangee."
"How long would it take you to get there?"
"Two or three hours."
"Was it on a creek?"
"Yessuh."
"But you cant go to it now?"
"Nosuh, I just can't recollect exactly where 'tis.[B]
J. Frank Dobie mentions many tales of lost lead mines throughout Texas
in Coronado's Children, a publication of the Texas Folk-Lore Society.
Lead in the early days of the Republic and the State was very valuable,
as it was the source of protection from the Indians and also the means
of supplying food.[A]
420056
[Illustration: Mary Armstrong]
MARY ARMSTRONG, 91, lives at 3326 Pierce Ave., Houston, Texas. She
was born on a farm near St. Louis, Missouri, a slave of William
Cleveland. Her father, Sam Adams, belonged to a "nigger trader,"
who had a farm adjoining the Cleveland place.
"I's Aunt Mary, all right, but you all has to 'scuse me if I don't talk
so good, 'cause I's been feelin' poorly for a spell and I ain't so young
no more. Law me, when I think back what I used to do, and now it's all I
can do to hobble 'round a little. Why, Miss Olivia, my mistress, used to
put a glass plumb full of water on my head and then have me waltz 'round
the room, and I'd dance so smoothlike, I don't spill nary drap.
"That was in St. Louis, where I's born. You see, my mamma belong to old
William Cleveland and old Polly Cleveland, and they was the meanest two
white folks what ever lived, 'cause they was allus beatin' on their
slaves. I know, 'cause mamma told me, and I hears about it other places,
and besides, old Polly, she was a Polly devil if there ever was one, and
she whipped my little sister what was only nine months old and jes' a
baby to death. She come and took the diaper offen my little sister and
whipped till the blood jes' ran--jes' 'cause she cry like all babies do,
and it kilt my sister. I never forgot that, but I sot some even with
that old Polly devil and it's this-a-way.
"You see, I's 'bout 10 year old and I belongs to Miss Olivia, what was
that old Polly's daughter, and one day old Polly devil comes to where
Miss Olivia lives after she marries, and trys to give me a lick out in
the yard, and I picks up a rock 'bout as big as half your fist and hits
her right in the eye and busted the eyeball, and tells her that's for
whippin' my baby sister to death. You could hear her holler for five
miles, but Miss Olivia, when I tells her, says, 'Well, I guess mamma has
larnt her lesson at last.' But that old Polly was mean like her husban',
old Cleveland, till she die, and I hopes they is burnin' in torment now.
"I don't 'member 'bout the start of things so much, 'cept what Miss
Olivia and my mamma, her name was Siby, tells me. Course, it's powerful
cold in winter times and the farms was lots different from down here.
They calls 'em plantations down here but up at St. Louis they was jes'
called farms, and that's what they was, 'cause we raises wheat and
barley and rye and oats and corn and fruit.
"The houses was builded with brick and heavy wood, too, 'cause it's cold
up there, and we has to wear the warm clothes and they's wove on the
place, and we works at it in the evenin's.
"Old Cleveland takes a lot of his slaves what was in 'custom' and brings
'em to Texas to sell. You know, he wasn't sposed to do that, 'cause when
you's in 'custom', that's 'cause he borrowed money on you, and you's not
sposed to leave the place till he paid up. Course, old Cleveland jes'
tells the one he owed the money to, you had run off, or squirmed out
some way, he was that mean.
"Mamma say she was in one bunch and me in 'nother. Mamma had been put
'fore this with my papa, Sam Adams, but that makes no diff'rence to Old
Cleveland. He's so mean he never would sell the man and woman and
chillen to the same one. He'd sell the man here and the woman there and
if they's chillen, he'd sell them some place else. Oh, old Satan in
torment couldn't be no meaner than what he and Old Polly was to they
slaves. He'd chain a nigger up to whip 'em and rub salt and pepper on
him, like he said, 'to season him up.' And when he'd sell a slave, he'd
grease their mouth all up to make it look like they'd been fed good and
was strong and healthy.
"Well mamma say they hadn't no more'n got to Shreveport 'fore some law
man cotch old Cleveland and takes 'em all back to St. Louis. Then my
little sister's born, the one old Polly devil kilt, and I's 'bout four
year old then.
"Miss Olivia takes a likin' to me and, though her papa and mama so mean,
she's kind to everyone, and they jes' love her. She marries to Mr. Will
Adams what was a fine man, and has 'bout five farms and 500 slaves, and
he buys me for her from old Cleveland and pays him $2,500.00, and gives
him George Henry, a nigger, to boot. Lawsy, I's sho' happy to be with
Miss Olivia and away from old Cleveland and Old Polly, 'cause they kilt
my little sister.
"We lives in St. Louis, on Chinquapin Hill, and I's housegirl, and when
the babies starts to come I nusses 'em and spins thread for clothes on
the loom. I spins six cuts of thread a week, but I has plenty of time
for myself and that's where I larns to dance so good. Law, I sho' jes'
crazy 'bout dancin'. If I's settin' eatin' my victuals and hears a
fiddle play, I gets up and dances.
"Mr. Will and Miss Olivia sho' is good to me, and I never calls Mr. Will
'massa' neither, but when they's company I calls him Mr. Will and 'round
the house by ourselves I calls them 'pappy' and 'mammy', 'cause they
raises me up from the little girl. I hears old Cleveland done took my
mamma to Texas 'gain but I couldn't do nothin', 'cause Miss Olivia
wouldn't have much truck with her folks. Once in a while old Polly comes
over, but Miss Olivia tells her not to touch me or the others. Old Polly
trys to buy me back from Miss Olivia, and if they had they'd kilt me
sho'. But Miss Olivia say, 'I'd wade in blood as deep as Hell 'fore I'd
let you have Mary.' That's jes' the very words she told 'em.
"Then I hears my papa is sold some place I don't know where. 'Course, I
didn't know him so well, jes' what mamma done told me, so that didn't
worry me like mamma being took so far away.
"One day Mr. Will say, 'Mary, you want to go to the river and see the
boat race?' Law me, I never won't forget that. Where we live it ain't
far to the Miss'sippi River and pretty soon here they comes, the Natchez
and the Eclipse, with smoke and fire jes' pourin' out of they
smokestacks. That old captain on the 'Clipse starts puttin' in bacon
meat in the boiler and the grease jes' comes out a-blazin' and it beat
the Natchez to pieces.
"I stays with Miss Olivia till '63 when Mr. Will set us all free. I was
'bout 17 year old then or more. I say I goin' find my mamma. Mr. Will
fixes me up two papers, one 'bout a yard long and the other some
smaller, but both has big, gold seals what he says is the seal of the
State of Missouri. He gives me money and buys my fare ticket to Texas
and tells me they is still slave times down here and to put the papers
in my bosom but to do whatever the white folks tells me, even if they
wants to sell me. But he say, 'Fore you gets off the block, jes' pull
out the papers, but jes' hold 'em up to let folks see and don't let 'em
out of your hands, and when they sees them they has to let you alone.'
"Miss Olivia cry and carry on and say be careful of myself 'cause it
sho' rough in Texas. She give me a big basket what had so much to eat in
it I couldn't hardly heft it and 'nother with clothes in it. They puts
me in the back end a the boat where the big, old wheel what run the boat
was and I goes to New Orleans, and the captain puts me on 'nother boat
and I comes to Galveston, and that captain puts me on 'nother boat and I
comes up this here Buffalo Bayou to Houston.
"I looks 'round Houston, but not long. It sho' was a dumpy little place
then and I gets the stagecoach to Austin. It takes us two days to get
there and I thinks my back busted sho' 'nough, it was sich rough ridin'.
Then I has trouble sho'. A man asks me where I goin' and says to come
'long and he takes me to a Mr. Charley Crosby. They takes me to the
block what they sells slaves on. I gets right up like they tells me,
'cause I 'lects what Mr. Will done told me to do, and they starts
biddin' on me. And when they cried off and this Mr. Crosby comes up to
get me, I jes' pulled out my papers and helt 'em up high and when he
sees 'em, he say, 'Let me see them.' But I says, 'You jes' look at it up
here,' and he squints up and say, 'This gal am free and has papers,' and
tells me he a legislature man and takes me and lets me stay with his
slaves. He is a good man.
"He tells me there's a slave refugee camp in Wharton County but I didn't
have no money left, but he pays me some for workin' and when the war's
over I starts to hunt mamma 'gain, and finds her in Wharton County near
where Wharton is. Law me, talk 'bout cryin' and singin' and cryin' some
more, we sure done it. I stays with mamma till I gets married in 1871 to
John Armstrong, and then we all comes to Houston.
"I gets me a job nussin' for Dr. Rellaford and was all through the
yellow fever epidemic. I 'lects in '75 people die jes' like sheep with
the rots. I's seen folks with the fever jump from their bed with death
on 'em and grab other folks. The doctor saved lots of folks, white and
black, 'cause he sweat it out of 'em. He mixed up hot water and vinegar
and mustard and some else in it.
"But, law me, so much is gone out of my mind, 'cause I's 91 year old now
and my mind jes' like my legs, jes' kinda hobble 'round a bit.
420085
[Illustration: Sterlin Arnwine]
STEARLIN ARNWINE, 94, was born a slave to Albertus Arnwine, near
Jacksonville, Texas, who died when Stearlin was seven or eight. He
was bought by John Moseley, of Rusk, Texas, who made Stearlin a
houseboy, and was very kind to him. He now lives about six miles
west of Jacksonville.
"I was bo'n 'fore de war, in 1853, right near this here town, on Gum
Creek. My mammy belonged to Massa Albertus Arnwine, and he wasn' ever
married. He owned four women, my mammy, Ann, my grandmother, Gracie, and
my Aunt Winnie and Aunt Mary. He didn' own any nigger men, 'cept the
chillen of these women. Grandma lived in de house with Massa Arnwine and
the rest of us lived in cabins in de ya'd. My mammy come from Memphis
but I don' know whar my pappy come from. He was Ike Lane. I has three
half brothers, and their names is Joe and Will and John Schot, and two
sisters called Polly and Rosie.
"Massa Arnwine died 'fore de war and he made a will and it gave all he
owned to the women he owned, and Jedge Jowell promised massa on his
deathbed he would take us to de free country, but he didn'. He took us
to his place to work for him for 'bout two years and the women never did
get that 900 acres of land Massa Arnwine willed to'em. I don' know who
got it, but they didn'. I knows I still has a share in that land, but it
takes money to git it in cou't.
"When war broke I fell into the han's of Massa John Moseley at Rusk.
They brought the dogs to roun' us up from the fiel's whar we was
workin'. I was the only one of my fam'ly to go to Massa John.
"I never did wo'k in the fiel's at Massa John's place. He said I mus' be
his houseboy and houseboy I was. Massa was sho' good to me and I did
love to be with him and follow him 'roun'.
"The kitchen was out in de ya'd and I had to carry the victuals to the
big dinin'-room. When dinner was over, Massa John tuk a nap and I had to
fan him, and Lawsy me, I'd git so sleepy. I kin hear him now, for he'd
wake up and say, 'Go get me a drink outta the northeast corner of de
well.'
"We had straw and grass beds, we put it in sacks on de groun' and slep'
on de sacks. I don' 'member how much land Massa John had but it was a
big place and he had lots of slaves. We chillun had supper early in de
evenin' and mostly cornbread and hawg meat and milk. We all ate from a
big pot. I larned to spin and weave and knit and made lots of socks.
"Massa John had two step-daughters, Miss Mollie and Miss Laura, and they
wen' to school at Rusk. It was my job to take 'em thar ev'ry Monday
mornin' on horses and go back after 'em Friday afternoon.
"I never earnt no money 'fore freedom come, but once my brother-in-law
give me five dollars. I was so proud of it I showed it to de ladies and
one of 'em said, 'You don' need dat,' and she give me two sticks of
candy and tuk de money. But I didn' know any better then.
"I seed slaves for sale on de auction block. They sol' 'em 'cordin' to
strengt' and muscles. They was stripped to de wais'. I seed the women
and little chillun cryin' and beggin' not to be separated, but it didn'
do no good. They had to go.
"The only chu'ch I knowed 'bout was when we'd git together in de night
and have prayer meetin' and singin.' We use' to go way out in de woods
so de white folks wouldn' hear nothin'. Sometimes we'd stay nearly all
night on Saturday, 'cause we didn' have to work Sunday.
"'Bout the only thing we could play was stick hosses. I made miles and
miles on the stick hosses. After the War Massa John have his chillun a
big roll of Confederate money and they give us some of it to trade and
buy stick hosses with.
"When Massa John tol' us we was free, he didn' seem to min', but Miss
Em, she bawled and squalled, say her prop'ty taken 'way from her. After
dat, my mammy gathers us togedder and tuk us to the Dr. Middleton place,
out from Jacksonville. From thar to de Ragsdale place whar I's been ever
since.
"I wore my first pants when I was fourteen years ole, and they stung
'till I was mis'ble. The cloth was store bought but mammy made the pants
at home. It was what we called dog-hair cloth. Mammy made my first
shoes, we called 'em 'red rippers'.
420075
[Illustration: Sarah Ashley]
SARAH ASHLEY, 93, was born in Mississippi. She recalls her
experiences when sold on the block in New Orleans, and on a cotton
plantation in Texas. She now lives at Goodrich, Texas.
"I ain't able to do nothin' no more. I's jus' plumb give out and I stays
here by myself. My daughter, Georgia Grime, she used to live with me but
she's been dead four year.
"I was born in Miss'ippi and Massa Henry Thomas buy us and bring us
here. He a spec'lator and buys up lots of niggers and sells 'em. Us
family was sep'rated. My two sisters and my papa was sold to a man in
Georgia. Den dey put me on a block and bid me off. Dat in New Orleans
and I scairt and cry, but dey put me up dere anyway. First dey takes me
to Georgia and dey didn't sell me for a long spell. Massa Thomas he
travel round and buy and sell niggers. Us stay in de spec'lators drove
de long time.
"After 'while Massa Mose Davis come from Cold Spring, in Texas, and buys
us. He was buyin' up little chillen for he chillen. Dat 'bout four year
befo' da first war. I was 19 year old when de burst of freedom come in
June and I git turn loose.
"I was workin' in de field den. Jus' befo' dat de old Massa he go off
and buy more niggers. He go east. He on a boat what git stove up and he
die and never come back no more. Us never see him no more.
"I used to have to pick cotton and sometime I pick 300 pound and tote it
a mile to de cotton house. Some pick 300 to 800 pound cotton and have to
tote de bag de whole mile to de gin. Iffen dey didn't do dey work dey
git whip till dey have blister on 'em. Den iffen dey didn't do it, de
man on a hoss goes down de rows and whip with a paddle make with holes
in it and bus' de blisters. I never git whip, 'cause I allus git my 300
pound. Us have to go early to do dat, when de horn goes early, befo'
daylight. Us have to take de victuals in de bucket to de field.
"Massa have de log house and us live in little houses, strowed in long
rows. Dere wasn't no meetin's 'lowed in de quarters and iffen dey have
prayer meetin' de boss man whip dem. Sometime us run off at night and go
to camp meetin'. I takes de white chillen to church sometime, but dey
couldn't larn me to sing no songs 'cause I didn' have no spirit.
"Us never got 'nough to eat, so us keeps stealin' stuff. Us has to. Dey
give us de peck of meal to last de week and two, three pound bacon in
chunk. Us never have flour or sugar, jus' cornmeal and de meat and
'taters. De niggers has de big box under de fireplace, where dey kep'
all de pig and chickens what dey steal, down in salt.
"I seed a man run away and de white men got de dogs and dey kotch him
and put him in de front room and he jump through de big window and break
de glass all up. Dey sho' whips him when dey kotches him.
"De way dey whip de niggers was to strip 'em off naked and whip 'em till
dey make blisters and bus' de blisters. Den dey take de salt and red
pepper and put in de wounds. After dey wash and grease dem and put
somethin' on dem, to keep dem from bleed to death.
"When de boss man told us freedom was come he didn't like it, but he
give all us de bale of cotton and some corn. He ask us to stay and he'p
with de crop but we'uns so glad to git 'way dat nobody stays. I got
'bout fifty dollars for de cotton and den I lends it to a nigger what
never pays me back yit. Den I got no place to go, so I cooks for a white
man name' Dick Cole. He sposen give me $5.00 de month but he never paid
me no money. He'd give me eats and clothes, 'cause he has de little
store.
"Now, I's all alone and thinks of dem old times what was so bad, and I's
ready for de Lawd to call me."
420280
AGATHA BABINO, born a slave of Ogis Guidry, near Carenco,
Louisiana, now lives in a cottage on the property of the Blessed
Sacrament Church, in Beaumont, Texas. She says she is at least
eighty-seven and probably much older.
"Old Marse was Ogis Guidry. Old Miss was Laurentine. Dey had four
chillen, Placid, Alphonse and Mary and Alexandrine, and live in a big,
one-story house with a gallery and brick pillars. Dey had a big place. I
'spect a mile 'cross it, and fifty slaves.
"My mama name was Clarice Richard. She come from South Carolina. Papa
was Dick Richard. He come from North Carolina. He was slave of old
Placid Guilbeau. He live near Old Marse. My brothers was Joe and
Nicholas and Oui and Albert and Maurice, and sisters was Maud and
Celestine and Pauline.
"Us slaves lived in shabby houses. Dey builded of logs and have dirt
floor. We have a four foot bench. We pull it to a table and set on it.
De bed a platform with planks and moss.
"We had Sunday off. Christmas was off, too. Dey give us chicken and
flour den. But most holidays de white folks has company. Dat mean more
work for us.
"Old Marse bad. He beat us till we bleed. He rub salt and pepper in. One
time I sweep de yard. Young miss come home from college. She slap my
face. She want to beat me. Mama say to beat her, so dey did. She took de
beatin' for me.
"My aunt run off 'cause dey beat her so much. Dey brung her back and
beat her some more.
"We have dance outdoors sometime. Somebody play fiddle and banjo. We
dance de reel and quadrille and buck dance. De men dance dat. If we go
to dance on 'nother plantation we have to have pass. De patterrollers
come and make us show de slip. If dey ain't no slip, we git beat.
"I see plenty sojers. Dey fight at Pines and we hear ball go
'zing--zing.' Young marse have blue coat. He put it on and climb a tree
to see. De sojers come and think he a Yankee. Dey take his gun. Dey turn
him loose when dey find out he ain't no Yankee.
"When de real Yankees come dey take corn and gooses and hosses. Dey
don't ask for nothin'. Dey take what dey wants.
"Some masters have chillen by slaves. Some sold dere own chillen. Some
sot dem free.
"When freedom come we have to sign up to work for money for a year. We
couldn't go work for nobody else. After de year some stays, but not
long.
"De Ku Klux kill niggers. Dey come to take my uncle. He open de door.
Dey don't take him but tell him to vote Democrat next day or dey will.
Dey kilt some niggers what wouldn't vote Democrat.
"Dey kill my old uncle Davis. He won't vote Democrat. Dey shoot him. Den
dey stand him up and let him fall down. Dey tie him by de feet. Dey drag
him through de bresh. Dey dare his wife to cry.
"When I thirty I marry Tesisfor Babino. Pere Abadie marry us at Grand
Coteau. We have dinner with wine. Den come big dance. We have twelve
chillen. We works in de field in Opelousas. We come here twenty-five
year ago. He die in 1917. Dey let's me live here. It nice to be near de
church. I can go to prayers when I wants to.
420164
MRS. JOHN BARCLAY (nee Sarah Sanders) Brownwood, Texas was born in
Komo, Mississippi, September 1, 1853. She was born a slave at the
North Slades' place. Mr. and Mrs. North Slade were the only owners
she ever had. She served as nurse-maid for her marster's children
and did general housework. She, with her mother and father and
family stayed with the Slades until the end of the year after the
Civil War. They then moved to themselves, hiring out to "White
Folks."
"My marster and mistress was good to all de slaves dat worked for dem.
But our over-seer, Jimmy Shearer, was sho' mean. One day he done git mad
at me for some little somethin' and when I take de ashes to de garden he
catches me and churns me up and down on de groun'. One day he got mad
at my brother and kicked him end over end, jes' like a stick of wood. He
would whip us 'til we was raw and then put pepper and salt in de sores.
If he thought we was too slow in doin' anything he would kick us off de
groun' and churn us up and down. Our punishment depended on de mood of
de over-seer. I never did see no slaves sold. When we was sick dey give
us medicine out of drug stores. De over-seer would git some coarse
cotton cloth to make our work clothes out of and den he would make dem
so narrow we couldn' hardly' walk.
"There was 1800 acres in Marster Slade's plantation, we got up at 5:00
o'clock in de mornin' and de field workers would quit after sun-down. We
didn' have no jails for slaves. We went to church with de white folks
and there was a place in de back of de church for us to sit.
"I was jes' a child den and us chilluns would gather in de back yard and
sing songs and play games and dance jigs. Song I 'member most is 'The
Day is Past and Gone.'
"One time marster found out the over-seer was so mean to me, so he
discharged him and released me from duty for awhile.
"We never did wear shoes through de week but on Sunday we would dress up
in our white cotton dresses and put on shoes.
"We wasn't taught to read or write. Our owner didn't think anything
about it. We had to work if there was work to be done. When we got
caught up den we could have time off. If any of us got sick our mistress
would 'tend to us herself. If she thought we was sick enough she would
call de white doctor.
"When de marster done told us we was free we jumped up and down and
slapped our hands and shouted 'Glory to God!' Lord, child dat was one
happy bunch of niggers. Awhile after dat some of de slaves told marster
dey wanted to stay on with him like dey had been but he told 'em no dey
couldn't, 'cause dey was free. He said he could use some of 'em but dey
would have to buy what dey got and he would have to pay 'em like men.
"When I was 'bout 18 years old I married John Barclay. I's had ten
chillun and four gran'-chillun and now I lives by myself."
420128
JOHN BARKER, age 84, Houston.
5 photographs marked _Green Cumby_ have been assigned to this
manuscript--the 'Green Cumby' photos are attached to the proper
manuscript and the five referred to above are probably pictures of
_John Barker_.
JOHN BARKER, age 84, was born near Cincinnati, Ohio, the property
of the Barker family, who moved to Missouri and later to Texas. He
and his wife live in a neat cottage in Houston, Texas.
"I was born a slave. I'm a Malagasser (Madagascar) nigger. I 'member all
'bout dem times, even up in Ohio, though de Barkers brought me to Texas
later on. My mother and father was call Goodman, but dey died when I was
little and Missy Barker raised me on de plantation down near Houston.
Dey was plenty of work and plenty of room.
"I 'member my grandma and grandpa. In dem days de horned toads runs over
de world and my grandpa would gather 'em and lay 'em in de fireplace
till dey dried and roll 'em with bottles till dey like ashes and den rub
it on de shoe bottoms. You see, when dey wants to run away, dat stuff
don't stick all on de shoes, it stick to de track. Den dey carries some
of dat powder and throws it as far as dey could jump and den jump over
it, and do dat again till dey use all de powder. Dat throwed de common
hounds off de trail altogether. But dey have de bloodhounds, hell
hounds, we calls 'em, and dey could pick up dat trail. Dey run my
grandpa over 100 mile and three or four days and nights and found him
under a bridge. What dey put on him was enough! I seen 'em whip runaway
niggers till de blood run down dere backs and den put salt in de places.
"I 'spect dere was 'bout 40 or 50 acres in de plantation. Dey worked and
worked and didn't have no dances or church. Dances nothin!
"My massa and missus house was nice, but it was a log house. They had
big fireplaces what took great big chunks of wood and kep' fire all
night. We lives in de back in a little bitty house like a chicken house.
We makes beds out of posts and slats across 'em and fills tow sacks with
shucks in 'em for mattress and pillows.
"I seed slaves sold and they was yoked like steers and sold by pairs
sometimes. Dey wasn't 'lowed to marry, 'cause they could be sold and it
wasn't no use, but you could live with 'em.
"We used to eat possums and dese old-fashioned coons and ducks.
Sometimes we'd eat goats, too. We has plenty cornmeal and 'lasses and we
gets milk sometimes, but we has no fine food, 'cept on Christmas, we
gits some cake, maybe.
"My grandma says one day dat we all is free, but we stayed with Massa
Barker quite a while. Dey pays us for workin' but it ain't much pay,
'cause de war done took dere money and all. But they was good to us, so
we stayed.
"I was 'bout 20 when I marries de fust time. It was a big blow-out and I
was scared de whole time. First time I ever tackled marryin'. Dey had a
big paper sack of rice and throwed it all over her and I, enough rice to
last three or four days, throwed away jus' for nothin'. I had on a
black, alpaca suit with frock tail coat and, if I ain't mistaken, a
right white shirt. My wife have a great train on her dress and one dem
things you call a wreath. I wore de loudest shoes we could find, what
you call patent leather.
"Dis here my third wife. We marries in Eagle Pass and comes up to de
Seminole Reservation and works for de army till we goes to work for de
Pattersons, and we been here 23 years now.
"Ghosties? I was takin' care of a white man when he died and I seed
something 'bout three feet high and black. I reckon I must have fainted
'cause they has de doctor for me. And on dark nights I seed ghosties
what has no head. Dey looks like dey wild and dey is all in different
performance. When I goin' down de road and feel a hot steam and look
over my shoulder I can see 'em plain as you standin' dere. I seed 'em
when my wife was with me, but she can't see 'em, 'cause some people
ain't gifted to see 'em.
420133
JOE BARNES, 89, was born in Tyler Co., Texas, on Jim Sapp's
plantation. He is very feeble, but keeps his great grandchildren in
line while their mother works. They live in Beaumont. Joe is tall,
slight, and has gray hair and a stubby gray mustache. In his kind,
gentle voice he relates his experiences in slavery days.
"Dey calls me Paul Barnes, but my name ain't Paul, it am Joe. My massa
was Jim Sapp, up here in Tyler County, and missus' name was Ann. De Sapp
place was big and dey raise' a sight of cotton and corn. Old massa Jim
he have 'bout 25 or 30 slaves.
"My mammy's name was Artimisi, but dey call her Emily, and pa's name
Jerry Wooten, 'cause he live on de Wooten place. My steppa named Barnes
and I taken dat name. My parents, dey have de broomstick weddin'.
"When I's a chile us play marbles and run rabbits and ride de stick hoss
and de like. When I gits more bigger, us play ball, sort of like
baseball. One time my brudder go git de hosses and dey lots of rain and
de creek swoll up high. De water so fast it wash him off he hoss and I
ain't seed him since. Dey never find de body. He's 'bout ten year old
den.
"Massa live in de big box house and de quarters am in a row in de back.
Some of dem box and some of dem log. Dey have two rooms. Every day de
big, old cowhorn blow for dinner and us have de little tin cup what us
git potlicker in and meat and cornbread and salt bacon. Us gits greens,
too. De chimneys 'bout four feet wide and dey cooks everything in de
fireplace. Dey have pots and ovens and put fire below and 'bove 'em.
"I used to wear what I calls a one-button cutaway. It was jis' a shirt
make out of homespun with pleats down front. Dey make dey own cloth dem
time.
"Massa marry de folks in de broomstick style. Us don' have de party but
sometime us sing and play games, like de round dance.
"Dey give de little ones bacon to suck and tie de string to de bacon and
de other round dey wrists, so dey won't swallow or lose de bacon. For de
little bits of ones dey rings de bell for dey mommers to come from de
field and nuss 'em.
"After freedom come us stay a year and den move to Beaumont and us work
in de sawmill for Mr. Jim Long. De fust money I git I give to my mammy.
Me and mammy and stepdaddy stays in Beaumont two years den moves to
Tyler and plants de crop. But de next year us move back to Beaumont on
de Langham place and mammy work for de Longs till she die.
"When I git marry I marry Dicey Allen and she die and I never marry no
more. I worked in sawmillin' and on de log pond and allus gits by pretty
good. I ain't done no work much de last ten year, I's too old.
"I sort a looks after my grandchillen and I sho' loves dem. I sits
'round and hurts all de time. It am rheumatism in de feets, I reckon. I
got six grandchillen and three great-grandchillen and dat one you hears
cryin', dat de baby I's raisin' in dere.
"I's feared I didn't tell you so much 'bout things way back, but da
truth am, I can't 'member like I used to.
420166
ARMSTEAD BARRETT, born in 1847, was a slave of Stafford Barrett,
who lived in Huntsville, Texas. He is the husband of Harriett
Barrett. Armstead has a very poor memory and can tell little about
early days. He and Harriet receive old age pensions.
"I's really owned by Massa Stafford Barrett, but my mammy 'longed to
Massa Ben Walker and was 'lowed to keep me with her. So after we'uns got
free, I lives with my daddy and mammy and goes by de name of Barrett.
Daddy's name was Henry Barrett and he's brung to Texas from Richmond, in
Virginny, and mammy come from Kentucky. Us all lived in Huntsville. I
waited on Miss Ann and mammy was cook.
"Old massa have doctor for us when us sick. We's too val'ble. Jus' like
to de fat beef, massa am good to us. Massa go to other states and git
men and women and chile slaves and bring dem back to sell, 'cause he
spec'lator. He make dem wash up good and den sell dem.
"Mos' time we'uns went naked. Jus' have on one shirt or no shirt a-tall.
"I know when peace 'clared dey all shoutin'. One woman hollerin' and a
white man with de high-steppin' hoss ride clost to her and I see him git
out and open he knife and cut her wide 'cross de stomach. Den he put he
hat inside he shirt and rid off like lightnin'. De woman put in wagon
and I never heered no more 'bout her.
"I didn't git nothin' when us freed. Only some cast-off clothes. Long
time after I rents de place on halves and farms most my life. Now I's
too old to work and gits a pension to live on.
"I seems to think us have more freedom when us slaves, 'cause we have no
'sponsibility for sickness den. We have to take care all dat now and de
white man, he beats de nigger out what he makes. Back in de old days, de
white men am hones'. All the nigger knowed was hard work. I think de
cullud folks ought to be 'lowed more privileges in votin' now, 'cause
dey have de same 'sponsibility as white men and day more and more
educated and brighter and brighter.
"I think our young folks pretty sorry. They wont do right, but I 'lieve
iffen dey could git fair wages dey'd do better. Dey git beat out of what
dey does, anyway.
"I 'member a owner had some slaves and de overseer had it in for two of
dem. He'd whip dem near every day and dey does all could be did to
please him. So one day he come to de field and calls one dem slaves and
dat slave draps he hoe and goes over and grabs dat overseer. Den de
other slave cut dat overseer's head right slap off and throwed it down
one of de rows. De owner he fools 'round and sells dem two slaves for
$800.00 each and dat all de punishment dem two slaves ever got.
420167
HARRIET BARRETT, 86, was born in Walker Co., Texas, in 1851, a
slave of Steve Glass. She now lives in Palestine, Texas.
"Massa Steve Glass, he own my pappy and mammy and me, until the war
freed us. Pappy's borned in Africy and mammy in Virginy, and brung to
Texas 'fore de war, and I's borned in Texas in 1851. I's heered my
grandpa was wild and dey didn't know 'bout marryin' in Africy. My
brother name Steve Glass and I dunno iffen I had sisters or not.
"Dey put me to cookin' when I's a li'l kid and people says now dat Aunt
Harriet am de bes' cook in Madisonville. Massa have great big garden and
plenty to eat. I's cook big skillet plumb full corn at de time and us
all have plenty meat. Massa, he step out and kill big deer and put in de
great big pot and cook it. Then us have cornbread and syrup.
"Us have log quarters with stick posts for bed and deerskin stretch over
it. Den us pull moss and throw over dat. I have de good massa, bless he
soul. Missy, she plumb good. She sick all de time and dey never have
white chillen. Dey live in big, log house, four rooms in it and de great
hall both ways through it.
"Massa, he have big bunch slaves and work dem long as dey could see and
den lock 'em up in de quarters at night to keep 'em from runnin' off. De
patterrollers come and go through de quarters to see if all de niggers
dere. Dey walk right over us when us sleeps.
"Some slave run off, gwine to de north, and massa he cotch him and give
him thirty-nine licks with rawhide and lock dem up at night, too, and
keep chain on him in daytime.
"I have de good massa, bless he soul, and missy she plumb good. I'll
never forgit dem. Massa 'low us have holiday Saturday night and go to
nigger dance if it on 'nother plantation. Boy, oh boy, de tin pan
beatin' and de banjo pickin' and de dance all night long.
"When de war start, white missy die, and massa have de preacher. She was
white angel. Den massa marry Missy Alice Long and she de bad woman with
us niggers. She hard on us, not like old missy.
"I larned lots of remedies for sick people. Charcoal and onions and
honey for de li'l baby am good, and camphor for de chills and fever and
teeth cuttin'. I's boil red oak bark and make tea for fever and make
cactus weed root tea for fever and chills and colic. De best remedy for
chills and fever am to git rabbit foot tie on string 'round de neck.
"Massa, he carry me to war with him, 'cause I's de good cook. In dat New
Orleans battle he wounded and guns roarin' everywhere. Dey brung massa
in and I's jus' as white as he am den. Dem Yankees done shoot de roof
off de house. I nuss de sick and wounded clean through de war and seed
dem dyin' on every side of me.
"I's most scared to death when de war end. Us still in New Orleans and
all de shoutin' dat took place 'cause us free! Dey crowds on de streets
and was in a stir jus' as thick as flies on de dog. Massa say I's free
as him, but iffen I wants to cook for him and missy I gits $2.50 de
month, so I cooks for him till I marries Armstead Barrett, and then us
farm for de livin'. Us have big church weddin' and I has white loyal
dress and black brogan shoes. Us been married 51 years now.
420150
JOHN BATES, 84, was born in Little Rock, Arkansas, a slave of Mock
Bateman. When still very young, John moved with his mother, a slave
of Harry Hogan, to Limestone Co., Texas. John now lives in
Corsicana, supported by his children and an old age pension.
"My pappy was Ike Bateman, 'cause his massa's name am Mock Bateman, and
mammy's name was Francis. They come from Tennessee and I had four
brothers and six sisters. We jes' left de last part of de name off and
call it Bates and dat's how I got my name. Mammy 'longed to Massa Harry
Hogan and while I's small us move to Texas, to Limestone County, and I
don't 'member much 'bout pappy, 'cause I ain't never seed him since.
"Massa Hogan was a purty good sort of fellow, but us went hongry de fust
winter in Texas. He lived in de big log house with de hallway clean
through and a gallery clean 'cross de front. De chimney was big 'nough
to burn logs in and it sho' throwed out de heat. It was a good, big
place and young massa come out early and holler for us to git up and be
in de field.
"Missy Hogan was de good woman and try her dead level best to teach me
to read and write, but my head jes' too thick, I jes' couldn't larn. My
Uncle Ben he could read de Bible and he allus tell us some day us be
free and Massa Harry laugh, haw, haw, haw, and he say, 'Hell, no, yous
never be free, yous ain't got sense 'nough to make de livin' if yous was
free.' Den he takes de Bible 'way from Uncle Ben and say it put de bad
ideas in he head, but Uncle gits 'nother Bible and hides it and massa
never finds it out.
"We'uns goes to de big baptisin' one time and it's at de big sawmill
tank and 50 is baptise' and I's in dat bunch myself. But dey didn't have
no funerals for de slaves, but jes' bury dem like a cow or a hoss, jes'
dig de hole and roll 'em in it and cover 'em up.
"War come and durin' dem times jes' like today nearly everybody knows
what gwine on, news travels purty fast, and iffen de slaves couldn't git
it with de pass dey slips out after dark and go in another plantation by
de back way. Course, iffen dem patterrollers cotch dem it jus' too bad
and dey gits whip.
"When de news comes in dat us free, Massa Harry never call us up like
everybody else did the slaves, us has to go up and ask him 'bout it. He
come out on de front gallery and says we is free and turns 'round and
goes in de house without 'nother word. We all sho' feels sorry for him
the way he acts and hates to leave him, but we wants to go. We knowed he
wasn't able to give us nothin' so begins to scatter and 'bout ten or
fifteen days Massa Harry dies. I think he jes' grieve himself to death,
all he trouble comin' on him to once.
"Us worked on diff'rent farms till I marries and my fust wife am Emma
Williams and a cullud preacher marries us at her house. Us picked cotton
after dat and den I rents a place on de halvers for five year and after
sev'ral years I buys eighty acres of land. Fin'ly us done paid dat out
and done some repairs and den us sep'rate after livin' twenty-three year
together. So I gives dat place to her and de six chillen and I walks out
ready to start all over 'gain.
"Then I meets Sarah Jones and us marries, but she gives me de
divorcement. All dis time I works on a farm for de day wages, den I
rents 'nother farm on de halvers on de black land and stays dere sev'ral
year. Fin'ly I gits de job workin' at de cotton oil mill in Corsicana
and stays at dat job till dey says I's too old. I done buy dis li'l home
here and now has a place to live. Sarah done come back to me and us has
seven chillen. One of de boys works at de cotton oil mill and two works
at de compress right here in Corsicana and one works at de beer place in
Dallas.
"Us raises a li'l on dese two lots and de chillen brings some from de
farm, I mean my fust wife's chillen, and with de pension check us manage
to live a li'l longer. Us boys pays de taxes and de insurance for us.
420306
HARRISON BECKETT, born a slave of I.D. Thomas of San Augustine,
Texas, now lives in Beaumont. A great-grandson climbed into
Harrison's lap during the interview, and his genial face lit up
with a smile. He chuckled as he told of his own boyhood days, and
appeared to enjoy reminiscing. At times he uses big words, some of
his own coining.
"I's 'mong de culls now, like a hoss what am too old. I's purty small
yit when 'mancipation comes and didn't have no hard work. Old Massa have
me and de other li'l niggers keep de stock out de fields. Us li'l
boogers have to run and keep de cows out de corn and de cotton patch.
Dat ought to been 'nough to keep us out of debbilment.
"It come to pass my mammy work in de field. Her name Cynthia Thomas and
daddy's name Isaac Thomas. But after freedom he goes back to Florida and
find out he people and git he real name, and dat am Beckett. Dat 'bout
ten years after 'mancipation he go back to he old home in Florida.
Mammy's people was de Polkses, in Georgia. Mammy come in from de field
at nine or ten o'clock at night and she be all wore out and too tired to
cook lots of times. But she have to git some food for us. We all had a
tin pan and git round de table and dat like a feast. But lots of times
she's so tired she go to bed without eatin' nothin' herself.
"My sisters was Ellen and Sani and Georgy-Ann and Cindy and Sidi-Ann.
Dey's all big 'nough to work in de field. My brudders name Matthew and
Ed and Henry and Harry, what am me, and de oldes' one am General Thomas.
"Dey more'n a hundred head of black folks on Massa Thomas' two farms,
and 'bout a hundred fifty acres in each farm. One de farms in iron ore,
what am red land, and de other in gray land, half sand and half black
dirt.
"Us slaves live in pole houses and some in split log houses, with two
rooms, one for to sleep in and one for to cook in. Day ain't
no glass windows, jus' holes in de walls. Dere was jack beds to sleep
on, made out of poles. Dey has four legs and ain't nail to de walls.
"Old Massa he care for he hands purty well, considerin' everything. In
ginnin' time he 'low de women to pick up cotton from de ground and make
mattresses and quilts. He make some cloth and buy some. A woman weave
all de time and when de shickle jump out on de floor I picks it up. I
used to could knit socks and I was jes' a li'l boy then, but I keep
everything in 'membrance.
"Dey have some school and de chillen larnt readin' and writin', and
manners and behaviour, too. Sometime dey git de broke-down white man to
be teacher. But us didn't know much and it taken ten years or more after
freedom to git de black men de qualification way he could handle things.
"One time us boys git some watermillions out in de bresh and hit 'em or
drap 'em to break 'em open. Dere come massa and cotch us not workin',
but eatin' he watermillions. He tell my daddy to whip me. But lots of
times when us sposed to mind de calves, us am out eatin' watermillions
in de bresh. Den de calves git out and massa see dem run and cotch us.
"Old massa was kind and good, though. He have partiality 'bout him, and
wouldn't whip nobody without de cause. He whip with de long, keen switch
and it didn't bruise de back, but sho' did sting. When he git real mad,
he pull up you shirt and whip on de bare hide. One time he whippin' me
and I busts de button off my shirt what he holdin' on to, and runs
away. I tries to outrun him, and dat tickle him. I sho' give de ground
fits with my feets. But dem whippin's done me good. Dey break me up from
thievin' and make de man of me.
"De way dey dress us li'l nigger boys den, dey give us a shirt what come
way down 'tween de knees and ankles. When de weather am too cold, dey
sometimes give us pants.
"De white preachers come round and preach. Dey have de tabernacle like a
arbor and cullud folks come from all round to hear de Gospel 'spounded.
Most every farm have de cullud man larnin' to preach. I used to 'long to
de Methodists but now I 'longs to de Church of Christ.
"Massa Thomas, he de wholesale merchant and git kilt in New Orleans. A
big box of freight goods fall on him, a box 'bout a yard square on de
end and six yards long. He's carryin' back some good for to make
exchangement and dey pullin' up de box with pulley and rope and it fall
on him. De New Orleans folks say it am de accidentment, but de rest say
de rope am cut. One of massa's old friends was Lawyer Brooks. He used to
firmanize de word.
"Massa have two boys, Mr. Jimmie and Li'l Ide and dey both goes to de
war. Li'l Ide, he go up in Arkansas and dey say when dat first cannon
busts at Li'l Rock, he starts runnin' and never stops till he gits back
home. I don't see how he could do dat, 'cause Li'l Rock am way far off,
but dat what dey say. Den de men comes to git 'serters and dey gits Li'l
Ide and takes him back. Mr. Jimmie, he didn't break de ranks. He stood
he ground.
"Mammy and dem tell me when war am over de boss and he wife, dey calls
de slaves up in de bunch and tells 'em, 'You's free as I is. Keep on or
quit, if you wants. You don't have to stay no further, you's free
today.' Dat near June 19th, and all of 'em stays. Massa say, 'Go 'head
and finish de crop and I feed you and pay you.' Dey all knowed when he
kilt de hawgs us git plenty of meat. Dat young massa say all dat, 'cause
old massa done git kilt.
"It's at Panola County where I first hears of de Klux. Dey call dem
White Caps den. Dey move over in Panola County and ranges at de place
call Big Creek Merval by McFaddin Creek. Dey's purty rough. De
landowners tell dey niggers not to kill de White Caps but to scare dem
'way. At night dey come knock and if you don't open it dey pry it open
and run you out in de field. Dey run de niggers from Merryville round
Longview. Dey some good men in de Klux and some bad men. But us work
hard and go home and dey ain't bother us none.
"Dey used to be a nigger round dere, call Bandy Joe. He git kilt at
Nacogdoches fin'ly. He could turn into anything. De jedge of he parish
was Massa Lee and he say dey ought let Bandy Joe live, so dey could larn
he art. Dey done try cotch him de long time, and maybe be holdin' him
and first thing they know he gone and dey left holdin' he coat. Dey
shoot at him and not hurt him. He tell he wife dey ain't no kind bullet
can hurt him but de silver bullet.
"Dat Bandy Joe, he say he a spirit and a human both. Iffen he didn't
want you to see him you jus' couldn't see him. Lots of folks liked him.
De jedge say he wish he could'a been brung to town, so he could 'zamine
him 'bout he gifts. De jedge knowed Bandy Joe could dis'pear jus' like
nothin', and he like to hear he quotation how he git out he skin. I'd
like to know dat myself.
"I 'magines I seed ghosties two, three times. I used to range round at
nighttime. I rides through a old slavery field and de folks tell me,
'Harry, you better be careful gwine 'cross dat old field. They's things
dere what makes mules run 'way. One night it am late and my mule run
'way. I make my mind I go back and see what he run from and somethin' am
by de fence like de bear stand up straight. It stand dere 'bout fifteen
minutes while I draws my best 'pinion of it. I didn't get any nearer dan
to see it. A man down de road tell me de place am hanted and he dunno
how many wagons and mules git pull by dat thing at dat place.
"One time I's livin' 'nother place and it am 'twixt sundown and dusk. I
had a li'l boy 'hind me and I seed a big sow with no head comin' over de
fence. My ma, she allus say what I see might be 'magination and to turn
my head and look 'gain and I does dat. But it still dere. Den I seed a
hoss goin' down de road and he drag a chain, and cross de bridge and
turn down de side road. But when I git to de side road I ain't seed no
hoss or nothin'. I didn't say nothin' to de li'l boy 'hind me on de mule
till I gits most home, den asks him did he see anythin'. He say no. I
wouldn't tell him 'fore dat, 'cause I 'fraid he light out and outrun me
and I didn't want to be by myself with dem things. When I gits home and
tell everybody, dey say dat a man name McCoy, what was kilt dere and I
seed he spirit.
"I's 'bout twenty-one when I marries Mandy Green. Us has twelve chillen,
and a world of grandchillen. I travels all over Louisiana and Texas in
my time, and come here three year ago. My son he work in de box fact'ry
here, and he git a bodily injurement while he workin' and die, and I
come here to de burial and I been here ever since.
420269
FRANK BELL, 86, was a slave of Johnson Bell, who ran a saloon in
New Orleans. Frank lives in Madisonville, Texas.
"I was owned by Johnson Bell and born in New Orleans, in Louisiana.
'Cordin' to the bill of sale, I'm eighty-six years old, and my master
was a Frenchman and was real mean to me. He run saloon and kept bad
women. I don't know nothing 'bout my folks, if I even had any, 'cept
mama. They done tell me she was a bad woman and a French Creole.
"I worked 'round master's saloon, kep' everything cleaned up after
they'd have all night drinkin' parties, men and women. I earned nickels
to tip off where to go, so's they could sow wild oats. I buried the
nickels under rocks. If master done cotch me with money, he'd take it
and beat me nearly to death. All I had to eat was old stuff those people
left, all scraps what was left.
"One time some bad men come to master's and gits in a shootin' scrape
and they was two men kilt. I sho' did run. But master cotch me and make
me take them men to the river and tie a weight on them, so they'd sink
and the law wouldn't git him.
"The clothes I wore was some master's old ones. They allus had holes in
them. Master he stay drunk nearly all time and was mean to his slave.
I'm the only one he had, and didn't cost him nothing. He have bill of
sale made, 'cause the law say he done stole me when I'm small child.
Master kept me in chains sometimes. He shot several men.
"I didn't have no quarters but stays 'round the place and throw old sack
down and lay there and sleep. I'm 'fraid to run, 'cause master say he'd
hunt me and kill nigger.
"When I's 'bout seventeen I marries a gal while master on drunk spell.
Master he run her off, and I slips off at night to see her, but he finds
it out. He takes a big, long knife and cuts her head plumb off, and ties
a great, heavy weight to her and makes me throw her in the river. Then
he puts me in chains and every night he come give me a whippin', for
long time.
"When war come, master swear he not gwine fight, but the Yankees they
captures New Orleans and throws master in a pen and guards him. He gets
a chance and 'scapes.
"When war am over he won't free me, says I'm valuable to him in his
trade. He say, 'Nigger, you's suppose to be free but I'll pay you a
dollar a week and iffen you runs off I'll kill you.' So he makes me do
like befo' the war, but give me 'bout a dollar a month, 'stead week.
"He say I cost more'n I'm worth, but he won't let me go. Times I don't
know why I didn't die befo' I'm growed, sleepin' on the ground, winter
and summer, rain and snow. But not much snow there.
"Master helt me long years after the war. If anybody git after him, he
told them I stay 'cause I wants to stay, but told me if I left he'd kill
him 'nother nigger. I stayed till he gits in a drunk brawl one night
with men and women and they gits to shootin' and some kilt. Master got
kilt. Then I'm left to live or die, so I wanders from place to place. I
nearly starved to death befo' I'd leave New Orleans, 'cause I couldn't
think master am dead and I'm 'fraid. Finally I gits up nerve to leave
town, and stays the first night in white man's barn. I never slep'.
Every time I hears something, I jumps up and master be standin' there,
lookin' at me, but soon's I git up he'd leave. Next night I slep' out in
a hay field, and master he git right top of a tree and start hollerin at
me. I never stays in that place. I gits gone from that place. I gits
back to town fast as my legs carry me.
"Then I gits locked up in jail. I don't know what for, never did know.
One the men says to me to come with him and takes me to the woods and
gives me an ax. I cuts rails till I nearly falls, all with chain locked
'round feet, so I couldn't run off. He turns me loose and I wanders
'gain. Never had a home. Works for men long 'nough to git fifty, sixty
cents, then starts roamin' 'gain, like a stray dog like.
"After long time I marries Feline Graham. Then I has a home and we has a
white preacher marry us. We has one boy and he farms and I lives with
him. I worked at sawmill and farms all my life, but never could make
much money.
"You know, the nigger was wild till the white man made what he has out
of the nigger. He done ed'cate them real smart.
420193
Aunt VIRGINIA BELL, 1205 Ruthven St., Houston, was born a slave
near Opelousas, Louisiana, on the plantation of Thomas Lewis.
Although she remembers being told she was born on Christmas Day,
she does not know the year, but says she guesses she is about 88
years old.
"Well, suh, the fus' question you ask me, 'bout how old I is, I don'
know 'zactly. You see it ain't like things is today. The young folks can
tell you their 'zact age and everything, but in those days we didn' pay
much 'tention to such things. But I knows I was bo'n in slavery times
and my pappy tol' me I was bo'n on a Christmas Day, but didn' 'member
jus' what year.
"We was owned by Massa Lewis. Thomas Lewis was his name, and he was a
United States lawyer. I ain't gwineter talk 'gainst my white folks like
some cullud folks do, 'cause Massa Lewis was a mighty fine man and so
was Miss Mary, and they treated us mighty good.
"Massa had a big plantation near Opelousas and I was bo'n there. I
'member the neighbor folks used to bring their cotton to the gin on his
farm for ginnin' and balin'. My mother's name was Della. That was all,
jus' Della. My pappy's name was Jim Blair. Both of them was from
Virginny, but from diff'rent places, and was brought to Louisiana by
nigger traders and sold to Massa Lewis. I know my pappy was lots older
than my mother and he had a wife and five chillen back in Virginny and
had been sold away from them out here. Then he and my mother started a
family out here. I don' know what become of his family back in Virginny,
'cause when we was freed he stayed with us.
"When I got old enough I was housegirl and used to carry notes for Miss
Mary to the neighbors and bring back answers. Miss Mary would say, 'Now,
Virginny, you take this note to sech and sech place and be sure and be
back in sech and sech time,' and I allus was.
"Massa Lewis had four or five families of us slaves, but we used to have
some fun after work and us young folks would skip rope and play ring
games. Durin' week days the field hands would work till the sun was jus'
goin' down and then the overseer would holler 'all right' and that was
the signal to quit. All hands knocked off Sat'day noon.
"We didn' have no schoolin' or preachin'. Only the white folks had them,
but sometimes on Sundays we'd go up to the house and listen to the white
folks singin'.
"Iffen any of the slave hands wanted to git married, Massa Lewis would
git them up to the house after supper time, have the man and woman jine
hands and then read to them outen a book. I guess it was the Scriptures.
Then he'd tell 'em they was married but to be ready for work in the
mornin'. Massa Lewis married us 'cordin' to Gospel.
"Massa used to feed us good, too, and we had plenty clothes. Iffen we
got took sick, we had doctor treatment, too. Iffen a hand took sick in
the field with a misery, they was carried to their quarters and Massa or
Miss Mary would give them a dose of epecac and make them vomit and would
sen' for the doctor. They wouldn' fool none iffen one of us took sick,
but would clean us out and take care of us till we was well.
"There was mighty little whippin' goin' on at our place, 'cause Massa
Lewis and Miss Mary treated us good. They wasn't no overseer goin' to
whip, 'cause Massa wouldn' 'low him to. Le's see, I don' rec'lec' more
than two whippin's I see anyone git from Massa, and that has been so
long ago I don' rec'lec' what they was for.
"When the War done come 'long it sho' changed things, and we heerd this
and that, but we didn' know much what it was about. Then one day Massa
Lewis had all the wagons loaded with food and chairs and beds and other
things from the house and our quarters, and I heerd him say we was
movin' to Polk County, way over in Texas. I know it took us a long time
to git there, and when we did I never see so much woods. It sho' was
diff'rent from the plantation.
"I had to work in the fields, same as the res', and we stayed there
three years and made three crops of cotton, but not so much as on our
old place, 'cause there wasn't so much clearin'. Then one day Massa
Lewis tol' us we was free, jus' as free as he was--jus' like you take
the bridle offen a hoss and turn him loose. We jus' looked 'roun as
iffen we hadn' good sense. We didn' have nothin' nor nowhere to go, and
Massa Lewis say iffen we finish makin' de crop, he would take us back to
Opelousas and give us a place to stay and feed us. So after pickin' we
goes back and when we git there we sees where those rascal Yankees
'stroyed everything--houses burned, sugar kettles broke up. It looked
mighty bad.
"Massa Lewis hadn' no money, but he fixed us up a place to stay and give
us what he could to eat, but things was mighty hard for a while. I know
pappy used to catch rabbits and take them to town and sell them or trade
them for somethin' to eat, and you know that wasn't much, 'cause you
can't git much for a little ol' rabbit.
"Then the Provo' Marshal, that was his name, give us a order for things
to put in a crop with and to live till we made the crop. 'Course, I
guess we wasn' as bad off as some, 'cause white folks knew we was Massa
Lewis' folks and didn' bother us none.
Then I got married to John Bell, and it was a scripture weddin', too. He
died 28 years ago, but I has stayed married to him ever since. We had
thirteen chillen, but they is all dead now 'cept four, but they was
raised up right and they is mighty good to they ol' mammy.
420114
[Illustration: Edgar and Minerva Bendy]
EDGAR BENDY, 90 odd years, was the slave of Henry Bendy, of
Woodville, Texas, has to make an effort to remember and is forced
to seek aid from his wife, Minerva, at certain points in his story.
Edgar has lived in Woodville all his life.
"I's a good size' boy when de war gwine on and I seed de soldiers come
right here in Woodville. A big bunch of dem come through and dey have
cannons with dem. My marster he didn't go to war, 'cause he too old, I
guess.
"I's born right here and done live hereabouts every since. Old man Henry
Bendy, he my marster and he run de store here in Woodville and have de
farm, too. I didn't do nothin' 'cept nuss babies. I jes' jump dem up and
down and de old marster hire me out to nuss other white folks chillen,
big and little.
"My daddy name' Jack Crews and my mammy was Winnie. Both of dem worked
on de farm and I never seed dem much. I didn't have no house of my own,
'cause de marster, he give me de room in he house. He have lots of
slaves and 'bout 100 acres in cult'vation. He gave dem plenty to eat and
good homespun clothes to wear. He was mighty good.
"Marster have de plank house and all de things in it was home-made. De
cook was a old cullud woman and I eat at de kitchen table and have de
same what de white folks eats. Us has lots of meat, deer meat and possum
and coon and sich, and us sets traps for birds.
"Dey ain't nothin' better dat go in de wood dan de big, fat possum. Dey
git fat on black haws and acorns and chinquapin and sich. Chinquapin is
good for people to eat and to roast. I used to be plumb give up to be de
best hunter in Tyler and in de whole country. I kilt more deer dan any
other man in de county and I been guide for all de big men what comes
here to hunt. My wife, Minerva, she used to go huntin' with me.
"I kep' on huntin' and huntin' till de Jack-a-my-lanterns git after me.
Dat a light you sees all 'round you. Dey follow all 'long and dey stop
you still. Den one time it git all over me. Come like de wind, blow,
blow, and come jes' like fire all on my arm and my clothes and things. When
dat git after me I quit huntin' at nighttime and ain't been huntin'
since.
"One time I fishin' on de creek and I ain't got no gun, and I look up
and dere a big, wild cat. He never pay me no mind, no more dan nothin',
but dat ain't made no diff'rence to me. I jes' flew in dat creek!
"I used to belong to de lodge but when I git so old I couldn't pay my
jews, I git unfinancial and I ain't a member no more.
420174
MINERVA BENDY, 83, was born a slave to Lazarus Goolsby, Henry Co.
Alabama, who brought her to Texas when she was five. They settled
near Woodville, where Minerva still lives.
"My earlies' 'membrance was de big, white sandy road what lead 'way from
de house. It was clean and white and us chillen love to walk in de soft,
hot sand. Dat in Henry County, Alabama, where I's born and my old
marster was Lazarus Goolsby and he have de big plantation with lots of
nigger folks. I 'member jus' as good as yesterday wigglin' my toes in
dat sandy road and runnin' 'way to de grits mill where dey grind de
meal. Dat have de big water wheel dat sing and squeak as it go 'round.
"Aunt Mary, she make all us little chillen sleep in de heat of de day
under de big, spreadin' oak tree in de yard. My mama have 17 chillen.
Her name Dollie and my daddy name Herd.
"I's jus' a little chile in dem days and I stay in de house with de
white folks. Dey raise me a pet in de family. Missus Goolsby, she have
two gals and dey give me to de oldest. When she die dey put me in de bed
with her but iffen I knowed she dyin' dey wouldn't been able to cotch
me. She rub my head and tell her papa and mama, 'I's gwine 'way but I
wants you promise you ain't never whip my little nigger.' Dey never did.
"I's jus' 'bout five year old when us make de trip to Texas. Us come
right near Woodville and make de plantation. It a big place and dey
raise corn and cotton and cane. We makes our own sugar and has many as
six kettle on de furnace at one time. Dey raise dey tobacco, too. I's
sick and a old man he say he make me tobacco medicine and dey dry de
leafs and make dem sweet like sugar and feed me like candy.
"I 'member old marster say war broke out and Capt. Collier's men was
a-drillin' right dere south of Woodville. All de wives and chillen watch
dem drill. Dey was lots of dem, but I couldn't count. De whole shebang
from de town go watch dem.
"Four of the Goolsby boys goes to dat war and dey call John and Ziby and
Zabud and Addison. Zabud, he git wounded, no he git kilt, and Addison he
git wounded. I worry den, 'cause I ain't see no reason for dem to have
to die.
"After us free dey turn us loose in de woods and dat de bad time, 'cause
most us didn't know where to turn. I wasn't raise to do nothin' and I
didn't know how. Dey didn't even give us a hoecake or a slice of bacon.
"I's a June bride 59 year ago when I git married. De old white Baptist
preacher name Blacksheer put me and dat nigger over dere, Edgar Bendy,
togedder and us been togedder ever since. Us never have chick or chile.
I's such a good nuss I guess de Lawd didn't want me to have none of my
own, so's I could nuss all de others and I 'spect I's nussed most de
white chillen and cullud, too, here in Woodville.
420177
SARAH BENJAMIN, 82, was born a slave of the Gilbert family, in
Clavin Parish, Louisiana. In 1867 she married Cal Benjamin and they
settled in Corsicana, Texas, where Sarah now lives.
"I is Sarah Benjamin and is 82 year old, 'cause my mammy told me I's
born in 1855 in Clavin Parish in Louisiana. Her name was Fannie and my
pappy's name Jack Callahan. There was jus' three of us chillen and I's
de oldest.
"Marse Gilbert was tol'able good to we'uns, and give us plenty to eat.
He had a smokehouse big as a church and it was full, and in de big
kitchen we all et, chillen and all. De grown folks et first and den de
chillen. Did we have plenty of possums and fish by de barrels full! All
dis was cooked in de racks over de fireplace and it were good.
"Our clothes was all homespun and de shoes made by de shoemaker. Old
marse wanted all us to go to church and if dey didn't have shoes dey
have something like de moccasin.
"I don't know how many slaves there was, but it was a lot, maybe 60 or
70. Dey worked hard every day 'cept Sunday. Iffen they was bad they
might git whuppin's, but not too hard, not to de blood. Iffen dey was
still bad, dey puts chains on dem and puts dem in de stocks, 'cause
there wasn't no jail there.
"Once when I's little, marse stripped me stark modern naked and puts me
on de block, but he wouldn't sell me, 'cause he was bid only $350.00 and
he say no, 'cause I was good and fat.
"Dey didn't larn us nothin' and iffen you did larn to write, you better
keep it to yourse'f, 'cause some slaves got de thumb or finger cut off
for larnin' to write. When de slaves come in from de fields dey didn't
larn nothin', they jus' go to bed, 'lessen de moonshine nights come and
dey could work in de tobacco patch. De marster give each one de little
tobacco patch and iffen he raised more'n he could use he could sell it.
"On Christmas we all has de week vacation and maybe de dance. We allus
have de gran' dinner on dat day, and no whuppin's. But dey couldn't
leave de plantation without de pass, even on Christmas.
"De women had to run de gin in de daytime and de man at night. Dey fed
de old gin from baskets and my mammy fed from dose baskets all day with
de high fever and died dat night. She wouldn't tell de marster she sick,
fer fear she have to take de quinine.
"De day we was freed, de slaves jus' scattered, 'cepting me. Missy
Gilbert says I wasn't no slave no more but I had to stay and he'p her
for my board 'till I's grown. I stayed 'till I was 'bout 16, den I runs
away and marries Cal Benjamin, and we comes to Texas. Cal and me has six
chillen, but he died 'fore dey was grown.
420023
JACK BESS was born near Goliad, Texas in 1854, a slave of Steve
Bess who was a rancher. He worked with stock as a very young boy
and this was his duty during and after the Civil War, as he
remained with his boss for three years after emancipation. He then
came to old Ben Ficklin four miles south of the present San Angelo,
Texas, when it was the county seat of Tom Green County and before
there was a San Angelo. He continued his work on ranches here and
has never done any other kind of work. For the past several years
he has been very feeble and has made his home with a daughter in
San Angelo, Texas.
Jack who was assisted out of bed and dressed by his grandson, hobbled in
on his cane and said, "I was jes' a small boy workin' on de ranch when I
hear talk 'bout conscription' de men for de war what was agoin' to set
de slaves free. We didn' know hardly what dey was a talkin' 'bout 'cause
we knowed dat would be too good to be true. I jes' keeps on workin' wid
my hosses and my cattle (dere wasn't no sheep den) jes' like dere wasn't
no war, 'cause dat was all I ever knowed how to do.
"Our ole marster, he wasn't so very mean to us, course he whips us once
and awhile but dat wasn't like de slave holders what had dem colored
drivers. Dey sho' was rough on de slaves. I's been told lots 'bout de
chains and de diffe'nt punishments but our treatment wasn't so bad. Our
beds was pretty good when we uses dem. Lots of de time we jes' sleeps on
de groun', 'specially in summer.
"Our log huts was comfortable and we had some kind of floors in all of
dem. Some was plank and some was poles but dat was better den de dirt
floors some cabins have.
"De eats we have was jes' good eats, lots of meats and vegetables and de
like; 'possum and coon and beef and pork all cooked good. Our clothes
was jes' home spun like all de others.
"We didn' have such a big ranch and not many slaves but we all gits
along. We learns a little 'bout readin' and writin'.
"I don't 'member any camp meetin's 'til after de war. We had a few den
and on Christmas times we jes' tears up de country. Lawdy! Lawd! Dat
fiddlin' went on all night, and we dance awhile den lay down and sleeps,
den gits up and dances some mo'e. We would have big cakes and
everything good to eat.
"When we gits sick dey jes' gives us some kind of tea, mostly made from
weeds. Mos' of de time we gits well.
"When de news comes dat we was free our boss, he say, 'You free now.'
Course we was glad but we didn' know nothin' to do but jes' stay on
dere, and we did 'bout three years and de boss pays us a little by de
month for our work.
"I's lef' dere den and comes to old Ben Ficklin to work on a ranch. Dat
was before dere was any San Angelo, Texas. I's been here ever since,
jes' a workin' from one ranch to another long as I was able. Now I's
jes' stayin' 'round wid my chillun and dey takes good care of me."
420170
ELLEN BETTS, 118 N. Live Oak St., Houston, Texas, is 84. All of her
people and their masters came from Virginia and settled in
Louisiana about 1853. Her grandparents belonged to the Green family
and her parents, Charity and William Green, belonged to Tolas
Parsons. Ellen lives with friends who support her. Her sole
belonging is an old trunk and she carries the key on a string
around her neck.
"I got borned on de Bayou Teche, clost to Opelousas. Dat in St. Mary's
Parish, in Louisiana, and I belonged to Tolas Parsons, what had 'bout
500 slaves, countin' de big ones and de little ones, and he had God know
what else. When my eyes jes' barely fresh open, Marse Tolas die and will
de hull lot of us to he brother, William Tolas. And I tells you dat
Marse William am de greates' man what ever walk dis earth. Dat's de
truth. I can't lie on him when de pore man's in he grave.
"When a whuppin' got to be done, old Marse do it heself. He don't 'low
no overseer to throw he gals down and pull up dere dress and whup on
dere bottoms like I hear tell some of 'em do. Was he still livin' I
'spect one part of he hands be with him today. I knows I would.
"When us niggers go down de road folks say, 'Dem's Parson's niggers.
Don't hit one dem niggers for God's sake, or Parsons sho' eat your
jacket up.'
"Aunt Rachel what cook in de big house for Miss Cornelia had four
young'uns and dem chillen fat and slick as I ever seen. All de niggers
have to stoop to Aunt Rachel jes' like dey curtsy to Missy. I mind de
time her husband, Uncle Jim, git mad and hit her over de head with de
poker. A big knot raise up on Aunt Rachel's head and when Marse 'quire
'bout it, she say she done bump de head. She dassn't tell on Uncle Jim
or Marse sho' beat him. Marse sho' proud dem black, slick chillen of
Rachels. You couldn't find a yaller chile on he place. He sho' got no
use for mixin' black and white.
"Marse William have de pretties' place up and down dat bayou, with de
fine house and fine trees and sech. From where we live it's five mile to
Centerville one way and five mile to Patterson t'other. Dey hauls de
lumber from one place or t'other to make wood houses for de slaves.
Sometime Marse buy de furniture and sometime de carpenter make it.
"Miss Sidney was Marse's first wife and he had six boys by her. Den he
marry de widow Cornelius and she give him four boys. With ten chillen
springin' up quick like dat and all de cullud chillen comin' 'long fast
as pig litters, I don't do nothin' all my days, but nuss, nuss, nuss. I
nuss so many chillen it done went and stunted my growth and dat's why I
ain't nothin' but bones to dis day.
"When de cullud women has to cut cane all day till midnight come and
after, I has to nuss de babies for dem and tend de white chillen, too.
Some dem babies so fat and big I had to tote de feet while 'nother gal
tote de head. I was sech a li'l one, 'bout seven or eight year old. De
big folks leave some toddy for colic and cryin' and sech and I done
drink de toddy and let de chillen have de milk. I don't know no better.
Lawsy me, it a wonder I ain't de bigges' drunker in dis here country,
countin' all de toddy I done put in my young belly!
"When late of night come, iffen dem babies wake up and bawl, I set up a
screech and out-screech dem till dey shut dere mouth. De louder day bawl
de louder I bawl. Sometime when Marse hear de babies cry, he come down
and say, 'Why de chillen cry like dat, Ellen?' I say, 'Marse, I git so
hongry and tired I done drink de milk up.' When I talk sassy like dat,
Marse jes' shake he finger at me, 'cause he knowed I's a good one and
don't let no little mite starve.
"Nobody ever hit me a lick. Marse allus say bein' mean to de young'uns
make dem mean when dey grows up and nobody gwineter buy a mean nigger.
Marse don't even let de chillen go to de big cane patch. He plant little
bitty patches close to de house and each li'l nigger have a patch and he
work it till it got growed. Marse have de house girls make popcorn for
'em and candy.
"I nuss de sick folks too. Sometime I dose with Blue Mass pills and
sometime Dr. Fawcett leave rhubarb and ipicac and calomel and castor oil
and sech. Two year after de war, I git marry and git chillen of my own
and den I turn into de wet nuss. I wet nuss de white chillen and black
chillen, like dey all de same color. Sometime I have a white'un pullin'
de one side and a black one de other.
"I wanted to git de papers for midwifin' but, law, I don't never have no
time for larnin' in slave time. If Marse cotch a paper in you hand he
sho' whop you. He don't 'low no bright niggers 'round, he sell 'em
quick. He allus say, 'Book larnin' don't raise no good sugar cane.' De
only larnin' he 'low was when dey larn de cullud chillen de Methodist
catechism. De only writin' a nigger ever git, am when he git born or
marry or die, den Marse put de name in de big book.
Law, I 'lect de time Marse marry Miss Cornelia. He went on de mail boat
and brung her from New Orleans. She de pretties' woman in de world
almost, 'ceptin' she have de bigges' mouth I nearly ever seed. He brung
her up to de house and all de niggers and boys and girls and cats and
dogs and sech come and salute her. Dere she stand on de gallery, with a
purty white dress on with red stripes runnin' up and down. Marse say to
her, 'Honey, see all de black folks, dey 'longs to you now.' She wave to
us and smile on us and nex' day she give her weddin' dress to my ma. Dat
de fines' dress I ever seen. It was purple and green silk and all de
nigger gals wear dat dress when dey git marry. My sister Sidney wore it
and Sary and Mary.
"Miss Cornelia was de fines' woman in de world. Come Sunday mornin' she
done put a bucket of dimes on de front gallery and stand dere and throw
dimes to de nigger chillen jes' like feedin' chickens. I sho' right here
to test'fy, 'cause I's right dere helpin' grab. Sometime she done put da
washtub of buttermilk on de back gallery and us chillen bring us gourds
and dip up dat good, old buttermilk till it all git drunk up. Sometime
she fotch bread and butter to de back gallery and pass it out when it
don't even come mealtime.
"Miss Cornelia set my ma to cuttin' patterns and sewin' right away. She
give all de women a bolt or linsey to make clothes and ma cut de
pattern. Us all have de fine drawers down to de ankle, buttoned with
pretty white buttons on de bottom. Lawsy, ma sho' cut a mite of drawers,
with sewin' for her eleven gals and four boys, too. In de summertime we
all git a bolt of blue cloth and white tape for trimmin', to make Sunday
dresses. For de field, all de niggers git homespun what you make jumpers
out of. I 'lect how Marse say, 'Don't go into de field dirty Monday
mornin'. Scrub youself and put on de clean jumper.'
"Marse sho' good to dem gals and bucks what cuttin' de cane. When dey
git done makin' sugar, he give a drink call 'Peach 'n Honey' to de women
folk and whiskey and brandy to de men. And of all de dancin' and
caperin' you ever seen! My pa was fiddler and we'd cut de pigeon wing
and cut de buck and every other kind of dance. Sometime pa git tired and
say he ain't gwineter play no more and us gals git busy and pop him corn
and make candy, so to 'tice him to play more.
"Marse sho' turn over in he grave did he know 'bout some dat 'lasses.
Dem black boys don't care. I seen 'em pull rats out de sugar barrel and
dey taste de sugar and say, 'Ain't nothin' wrong with dat sugar. It
still sweet.' One day a pert one pull a dead scorpion out de syrup
kettle and he jes' laugh and say, 'Marse don't want waste none dis
syrup,' and he lick de syrup right off dat scorpion's body and legs.
"Lawsy me, I seen thousands and thousands sugar barrels and kettles of
syrup in my day. Lawd knows how much cane old Marse have. To dem cuttin'
de cane it don't seem so much, but to dem what work hour in, hour out,
dem sugar cane fields sho' stretch from one end de earth to de other.
Marse ship hogs and hogs of sugar down de bayou. I seen de river boats
go down with big signs what say, 'Buy dis here 'lasses' on de side. And
he raise a world of rice and 'taters and corn and peanuts, too.
"When de work slight, us black folks sho have de balls and dinners and
sech. We git all day to barbecue meat down on de bayou and de white
folks come down and eat long side de cullud.
"When a black gal marry, Marse marry her hisself in de big house. He
marry 'em Saturday, so dey git Sunday off, too. One time de river boat
come bearin' de license for niggers to git marry with. Marse chase 'em
off and say, 'Don't you come truckin' no no-count papers roun' my
niggers. When I marry 'em, dey marry as good as if de Lawd God hisself
marry 'em and it don't take no paper to bind de tie.' Marse don't stand
no messin' 'round, neither. A gal have to be of age and ask her pa and
ma and Marse and Missy, and if dey 'gree, dey go ahead and git marry.
Marse have de marry book to put de name down.
"One time Marse take me 'long to help tote some chillen. He done write
up to Virginny for to buy fresh hands. Dey a old man dat hobble 'long de
road and de chillen start to throw rocks and de old man turn 'round to
one prissy one and say, 'Go on, young'un, you'll be where dogs can't
bark at you tomorrow. Nex' mornin' us cookin' in de kitchen and all a
sudden dat li'l boy jes' crumple up dead on de floor. Law, we's scairt.
Nobody ever bother dat old man no more, for he sho' lay de evil finger
on you.
"Marse's brother, Conrad, what was a widdyman, come to live on de
plantation and he had a li'l gal 'bout eight year old. One day she in de
plum orchard playin' with a rattlesnake and Marse Conrad have de fit. De
li'l gal won't let nobody hurt dat snake and she play with him. He won't
bite her. She keeps him 'bout three year, and she'd rub and grease him.
One day he got sick and dey give him some brandy, but he die and old Doc
pickle him in de bottle of brandy. Dat gal git so full of grief dey take
her to de infirm'ry in New Orleans and den one day she up and die.
"Dat snake ain't all what Doc Fawcett pickle. A slave woman give birth
to a baby gal what have two faces with a strip of hair runnin' 'tween.
Old Doc Fawcett pickle it in de jar of brandy. Old doc start to court
Miss Cornelia when Marse die, but she don't have none of him and he
done went straight 'way and kill hisself.
"One day a li'l man come ridin' by on a li'l dun hoss so fast you
couldn't see dat hoss tail a-switchin'. He whoopin' and hollerin'. Us
niggers 'gun whoop and holler, too. Den first thing you know de Yanks
and de Democrats 'gun to fight right dere. Dey a high old mountain front
Marse's house and de Yanks 'gun pepper cannon ball down from de top dat
hill. De war met right dere and dem Yanks and Democrats fit for
twenty-four hours straight runnin'.
"When de bullets starts rainin' down, Marse call us and slip us way back
into de woods, where it so black and deep. Next day, when de fight over,
Marse come out with great big wagons piles full of mess-poke for us to
eat. Dat what us call hog meat. Us sho' glad to 'scape from de Yankees.
"When us driv back to de plantation, sech a sight I never seen. Law, de
things I can tell. Dem Yanks have kilt men and women. I seed babies pick
up from de road with dere brains bust right out. One old man am drawin'
water and a cannon ball shoots him right in de well. Dey draws him up
with de fishin' line. Dey's a old sugar boat out on de bayou with blood
and sugar runnin' long side de busted barrels. 'Lasses run in de bayou
and blood run in de ditches. Marse have de great big orchard on de road
and it wipe clean as de whistle. Bullets wipe up everythin' and bust dat
sugar cane all to pieces. De house sot far back and 'scape de bullets,
but, law, de time dey have!
"Dey's awful, awful times after dat. A old cotton dress cost five
dollars and a pound of coffee cost five dollars and a pint cup flour
cost six bits. De Yanks 'round all de time and one day they comes right
in de house where Miss Cornelia eatin' her dinner. Dey march 'round de
table, jes' scoopin' up meat and 'taters and grabbin' cornpone right and
left. Miss Cornelia don't say a word, jes' smile sweet as honey-cake. I
reckon dem sojers might a took de silver and sech only she charm 'em by
bein' so quiet and ladylike. First thing you know dem sojers curtsy to
Missy and take dereself right out de door and don't come back.
"Den it seem like Marse have all de trouble in de world. He boy, Ned,
die in de war and William, what name for he pa, drink bad all de time.
And after de war dem Ku Kluxers what wear de false faces try to tinker
with Marse's niggers. One day Uncle Dave start to town and a Kluxer ask
him where am he pass. Dat Kluxer clout him but Uncle Dave outrun him in
de cane. Marse grab de hoss and go 'rest dat man and Marse a jedge and
he make dat man pay de fine for hittin' Uncle Dave. After dey hears of
dat, dem old poky faces sho' scairt of old Marse and dey git out from
Opelousas and stays out. When me and my husband, John, come to Texas de
folks say dat Louisiana masters de meanes' in de world and I say right
back at 'em dat dey is good and mean in every spot of de earth. What
more, de Louisiana masters free dere niggers a year befo' any Texas
nigger git free.
"When 'mancipation come, Marse git on de big block and say, 'You all is
as free as I is, standin' right here. Does you want to stay with me, you
can, and I'll pay you for de work.' All de niggers cheer and say dey
want to stay, but Marse die not long after and all us niggers scatter.
"I sho' 'lect dat day old Marse die. He won't die till ma gits there. He
keep sayin', "Where's Charity, tell Charity to come." Dey fotch ma from
de cane patch and she hold Marse's hand till he die. Us niggers went to
de graveyard and us sho' cry over old Marse.
"Marse's brother, Goldham, carries all he hands back to de free country
to turn 'em loose. He say de free country am de ones what's yellin'
'bout slave times, so dey could jes' take care of de niggers. Marse
Goldham so big dat when he stand in de door you couldn't git by him,
'thout he stand sideways.
"Law, times ain't like dey was in slave days. All my ten chillen is dead
and my old man gone, and now I reckon my time 'bout 'rive. All I got to
do now am pray de Lawd to keep me straight, den when de great day come,
I can march de road to glory.
420125
[Illustration: Charlotte Beverley]
CHARLOTTE BEVERLY was born a slave to Captain Pankey's wife, in
Montgomery County, Texas. She has lived most of her life within a
radius of 60 miles from Houston, and now lives with one of her
children in a little house on the highway between Cleveland and
Shepherd, Texas. She does not know her age, but appears to be about
ninety.
"I's born in Montgomery County and I's the mudder of eleven chillen,
four gals and seven boys. My grandma come from Alabama and my daddy was
Strawder Green and he belong to Col. Hughes. My maw named Phyllis and
she belong to Capt. Pankey.
"There was 'bout forty niggers, big and little, on the plantation. Lawd,
they was good to us. Us didn' know nothin' 'bout bad times and cutting
and whipping and slashing. I had to work in the house and I 'member one
thing I has to do was scrub Mistus' gol' snuffbox twict a week. She kep'
sweet, Scotch snuff and sometimes I takes a pinch out.
"We used to go to the white folks church and if us couldn' git in we'd
stand round by the door and sing. Mistus wouldn' 'low us dance on the
place but they give us pass to go to dance on nex' plantation, where my
daddy live.
"Every year they have big Christmas dinner and ham and turkey
and allus feed us good. Us have Christmas party and sing songs. That was
sweet music.
"Marster have a lovely house, all ceiled and plastered. It was a log
house but it was make all beautiful inside with mirrors and on the board
was lots of silver and china and silver spoons with the gol' linin's and
part of my job was to keep 'em sparklin'.
"Folks in them times cooks in the fireplace and my auntie, she cook. She
make 'simmon bread and 'tater pone and the like. She mash up 'simmons
with butter and pour sweet milk and flour in it. That make good 'simmon
bread. We has skillets what was flat and deep and set on three legs.
"The slaves lived in little log houses and sleep on wood beds. The beds
was make three-legged. They make augur hole in side of the house and put
in pieces of wood to make the bed frame, and they put straw and cotton
mattress on them bed.
"Old marster used to let he slaves have a extry cotton patch to
theyselves and they work it by the moonlight. They could sell that
cotton and have the money for theyselves.
"My white mistus was a Christian and she'd own her God anywhere. She
used to shout, jus' sit and clap her hands and say, 'Hallalujah.' Once I
seed her shout in church and I thinks something ail her and I run down
the aisle and goes to fannin' her.
"One of the slaves was a sort-a preacher and sometimes marster 'lowed
him to preach to the niggers, but he have to preach with a tub over his
head, 'cause he git so happy he talk too loud. Somebody from the big
house liable to come down and make him quit 'cause he makin' 'sturbance.
"I brings water from the well and they have what they call piggins, and
they was little tubs with two handles. Mistus wouldn' 'low me to do any
heavy work.
"I see sojers and knits socks for 'em by moonshine. Me and my husban'
was married by a Yankee sojer. I was dress in white Tarleyton weddin'
dress and I didn' wear no hoop skirt. I had a pretty wreath of little
white flowers, little bitty, little dainty ones, the pretties' little
things. When I marry, my sister marry too and our husban's was brudders.
My husban' dress in suit of white linen. He sho' look handsome. He give
me a gol' ring and a cup and saucer for weddin' gif'. We git married in
Huntsville and us didn' go no weddin' journey trip. We was so poor we
couldn' go round the house! I's 'bout twenty some year when I marries,
but I don' know jus' how old. We has a big dance that night and the
white folks come, 'cause they likes to see the niggers dance.
"The white folks had interes' in they cullud people where I live.
Sometimes they's as many as fifty cradle with little nigger babies in
'em and the mistus, she look after them and take care of them, too. She
turn them and dry them herself. She had a little gal git water and help.
She never had no chillen of her own. I'd blow the horn for the mudders
of the little babies to come in from the fields and nurse 'em, in
mornin' and afternoon. Mistus feed them what was old enough to eat
victuals. Sometimes, they mammies take them to the field and fix pallet
on ground for them to lay on.
"The las' word my old Mistus Pankey say when she die was, 'You take care
of Charlette.'
420249
[Illustration: Francis Black]
FRANCIS BLACK was born at Grand Bluff, Mississippi, about 1850, on
the Jim Carlton plantation. When five years old, she was stolen and
taken to the slave market in New Orleans. Failing to sell her
there, the slave traders took her to Jefferson, Texas, and sold her
to Bill Tumlin. Francis stayed with him five years after she was
freed, then married and moved to Cass County, Texas. She became
blind a year ago, and now lives at the Bagland Old Folks Home, 313
Elm St., Texarkana, Texas.
"My name am Francis Black, and I don't know jes' how old I is, but
'members lots 'bout them slave days. I was a big gal, washin' and
ironin', when they sot the darkies free. From that, I cal'late I'm in my
eighties.
"I was born in Grand Bluff, in Mississippi, on Old Man Carlton's
plantation, and I was stole from my folks when I was a li'l gal and
never seed them no more. Us kids played in the big road there in
Mississippi, and one day me and 'nother gal is playin' up and down the
road and three white men come 'long in a wagon. They grabs us up and
puts us in the wagon and covers us with quilts. I hollers and yells and
one the men say, 'Shet up, you nigger, or I'll kill you.' I told him,
'Kill me if you wants to--you stole me from my folks.'
"Them men took us to New Orleans to the big slave market. I had long
hair and they cut it off like a boy and tried to sell me, but I told
them men what looks at me, the men cut my hair off and stole me. The man
what cut my hair off cursed me and said if I didn't hush he'd kill me,
but he couldn't sell us at New Orleans and took us to Jefferson.
"I never knowed what they done with the other gal, but they sold me to
Marse Bill Tumlin, what run a big livery stable in Jefferson, and I
'longed to him till surrender. I lived in the house with them, 'cause
they had a boy and gal and I did for them. They bought me clothes and
took good care of me but I never seed no money till surrender. I et what
they et, after they got through. Missy say she didn't 'lieve in feedin'
the darkies scraps, like some folks.
"I played with them two chillen all day, then sot the table. I was so
small I'd git in a chair to reach the dishes out of the safe. I had to
pull a long flybrush over the table whilst the white folks et.
"Marse Tumlin had a farm 'bout four mile from town, and a overseer, and
I seed him buckle the niggers crost a log and whip them. Marse lived in
Jefferson, heself, and when he'd go to the farm he allus took his boy
with him. We'd be playin' in the barn and Marse call from the house,
'Come on, Jimmie, we're gwine to the farm.' Jimmie allus say to me,
'Come on, nigger, let's ride round the farm.' I'd say, 'I ain't no
nigger.' He'd say, 'Yes, you is, my pa paid $200 for you. He bought you
for to play with me.'
"Jefferson was a good town till it burned up. I 'members the big fire
what looked like the whole town gwineter burn up. Marse Bill lost his
livery stable in the fire.
"The Yankee soldiers, all dressed in blue, come to run the town after
the war. Marse Tumlin done told me I'm free, but I stays on till I'm
most growed. Then I works round town and marries Dave Black, and we
moved to Cass County. I raises six chillun but my old man done git so
triflin' and mean I quit him and worked for myself. I come to Texarkana
to work, and allus could earn my own livin' till 'bout a year ago I lost
my seein', and Albert Ragland done took me in his home for the old
folks. They gives me a $10 a month pension now. They is good to me here
and feeds us good.
420142
OLIVIER BLANCHARD, 95 years old, was a slave of Clairville La San,
who owned a large plantation in Martinville Parish, Louisiana. His
father was a Frenchman and Olivier speaks rather haltingly, as
though it is difficult for him to express his thoughts in English,
for he has talked a species of French all his life. He lives in
Beaumont, Texas.
"I was plowing and hoeing before the freedom and I talk more of the
French 'cause I comes from St. Martinville Parish. I was born there in
Louisiana and my mama was Angeline Jean Pierre and she was slave born.
My papa was Olivier Blanchard and he white man carpenter on old
plantation. We belong to Clairville La San and all live on
that place. My papa just plain carpenter but could draw patterns for
houses. I don't know where he larn that work.
"I was count freeborn and still have one white half sister alive. When
freedom come my mama and papa split up and mama get marry.
"I pick cotton and mama cook. She make koosh-koosh and cyayah--that last
plain clabber. Mama cook lots of gaspergou and carp and the poisson ami
fish, with the long snout--what they call gar now. I think it eel fish
they strip the skin off and wrap round the hair and make it curly.
"The Bayou Teche, it run close by and the women do all the clothes with
a big paddle with holes in it to clean them in the bayou. They paddle
them clean on the rocks and then wash them in the water.
"One time one big bayou 'gator come up and bite a woman's arm off. She
my sister in law. But they keep on washing the clothes in the bayou just
the same.
"We have plenty to eat and peaches and muscadines and pecans, 'cause
there right smart woods and swamp there. We play in the woods and most
time in the bayou on boats with planks what would float. We had the good
time and had a little pet coon. You know, the coon like sweet things and
he steal our syrup and when we chase him with the switch he hide under
the bed.
"My old missus was good Catholic and she have us christened and make the
first communion. That not registered, 'cause it before the freedom, but
it were in old St. Martin's church, same old church what stand now.
There was a statue of Pere Jean, the old priest, in front the church and
one of St. Martin, too.
"Plenty men from St. Martinville go to the war and Archie DeBlieu, he go
to Virginia and fight. The first one to pass our place was John Well
Banks and he was a Yankee going up the Red River.
"The yellow fever came durin' that war and kill lots. All the big
plantation have the graveyard for the cullud people. That fever so bad
they get the coffin ready before they dead and they so scared that some
weren't dead but they think they are and bury them. There was a white
girl call Colene Sonnier what was to marry Sunday and she take sick
Friday before. She say not to bury her in the ground but they put her
there while they got the tomb ready. When they open the ground grave to
put her in the tomb they find she buried alive and she eat all her own
shoulder and hand away. Her sweetheart, Gart Berrild, he see that
corpse, and he go home and get took with yellow fever and die.
"They was the old lady what die. She was a terrible soul. One time after
she die I go to get water out of her rain barrel and I had a lamp in one
hand. That old lady's ghost blowed out the lamp and slapped the pitcher
out my hand. After she first die her husband put black dress on her and
tie up the jaw with a rag and my girl look in the room and there that
old lady, Liza Lee, sittin' by the fire. My girl tell her mama and after
three day she go back, and Liza Lee buried but my wife see her sittin'
by the fire. Then she sorry she whip the chile for sayin' she saw Liza
Lee. That old lady, Liza Lee, was a tart and she stay a tart for a long
time.
"I marry 72 year ago in the Catholic Church in St. Martinville. My wife
call Adeline Chretien and she dead 37 year. We have seven children but
four live now. Frank my only boy live now, in Iowa, in Louisiana, and my
two girls live, Enziede De Querive and Rose Baptiste.
420199
JULIA BLANKS was born of a slave mother and a three-quarter Indian
father, in San Antonio, in the second year of the Civil War. Her
mother, part French and part Negro, was owned by Mrs. John G.
Wilcox, formerly a Miss Donaldson, who had lived at the White
House, and who gave Julia to her daughter. After the slaves were
freed, Julia continued to live with her mother in San Antonio
until, at fifteen, she married Henry Hall. Five years later her
second marriage took place, at Leon Springs, Texas, where she lived
until moving to the Adams ranch, on the Frio River. Here she raised
her family. After leaving the Adams ranch, Julia and Henry bought
two sections of state land, but after four years they let it go
back because of Henry's ill health, and moved to Uvalde.
"I was born in San Antonio, in 1862. My mother's name was Rachael
Miller. I don't know if she was born in Tennessee or Mississippi. I
heard her talk of both places. I don't know nothing about my father,
because he run off when I was about three months old. He was
three-quarter Cherokee Indian. They were lots of Indians then, and my
husband's people come from Savannah, Georgia, and he said they was lots
of Indians there. I had two sisters and one brother and the sisters are
dead but my brother lives somewhere in Arizona. My mother's master's
name was John C. Wilcox.
"When we was small chillen, they hired my sisters out, but not me. My
grandfather bought my grandmother's time and they run a laundry house.
They hired my mother out, too.
"You see, my grandmother was free born, but they stole her and sold her
to Miss Donaldson. She was half French. She looked jes' like a French
woman. She wasn't a slave, but she and her brother were stolen and sold.
She said the stage coach used to pass her aunt's house, and one day she
and her brother went down to town to buy some buns, and when they were
comin' back, the stage stopped and asked 'em to ride. She wanted to
ride, but her brother didn't. But they kep' coaxin' 'em till they got
'em in. They set her down between the two women that was in there and
set her brother between two men, and when they got close to the house,
they threw cloaks over their heads and told the driver to drive as fast
as he could, and he sure drove. They taken 'em to Washin'ton, to the
White House, and made her a present to Mary Wilcox (Miss Donaldson) and
her brother to somebody else. Then this woman married John C. Wilcox and
they come to Texas.
"She saw a cousin of hers when they got to Washin'ton, and she knew,
after that, he had somethin' to do with her and her brother bein'
stolen. One day she found a piece of yellow money and took it to her
cousin and he told her it wasn't no good and gave her a dime to go get
her some candy. After that, she saw gold money and knew what it was.
"She said she had a good time, though, when she was growing up. They
were pretty good to her, but after they came to San Antonio, Mrs. Wilcox
began bein' mean. She kep' my mother hired out all the time and gave me
to her daughter and my sister to her son. My mother was kep' hired out
all the time, cooking; and after freedom, she just took to washin' and
ironin'. My grandfather bought his time and my grandmother's time out.
They didn't stay with her.
"I've heard my mother talk about coffee. They roasted beans and made
coffee. She says, out on the plantation, they would take bran and put it
in a tub and have 'em stir it up with water in it and let all the white
go to the bottom and dip it off and strain it and make starch. I have
made starch out of flour over and often, myself. I had four or five
little girls; and I had to keep 'em like pins. In them days they wore
little calico dresses, wide and full and standin' out, and a bonnet to
match every dress.
"I used to hear my grandmother tell about the good times they used to
have. They would go from one plantation to another and have quiltin's
and corn huskin's. And they would dance. They didn't have dances then
like they do now. The white people would give them things to eat. They
would have to hoof it five or six miles and didn't mind it.
"They had what they called _patros_, and if you didn't have a pass they
would whip you and put you in jail. Old Man Burns was hired at the
courthouse, and if the marsters had slaves that they didn't want to
whip, they would send them to the courthouse to be whipped. Some of the
marsters was good and some wasn't. There was a woman, oh, she was the
meanest thing! I don't know if she had a husband--I never did hear
anything about him. When she would get mad at one of her slave women,
she would make the men tie her down, and she had what they called
cat-o'-nine-tails, and after she got the blood to come, she would dip it
in salt and pepper and whip her again. Oh, she was mean! My mother's
marster was good; he wouldn't whip any of his slaves. But his wife
wasn't good. If she got mad at the women, when he would come home she
would say: 'John, I want you to whip Liza.' Or Martha. And he would say,
'Them are your slaves. You whip them.' He was good and she was mean.
"When my aunt would go to clean house, she (Mrs. Wilcox) would turn all
the pictures in the house but one, the meanest looking one--you know how
it always looks like a picture is watching you everywhere you go--and
she would tell her if she touched a thing or left a bit of dirt or if
she didn't do it good, this picture would tell. And she believed it.
"My grandmother told a tale one time. You know in slave time they had an
old woman to cook for the chillen. One day they were going to have
company. This woman that was the boss of the place where the chillen was
kept told the old cullud woman to take a piece of bacon and grease the
mouths of all the chillen. Then she told a boy to bring them up to these
people, and the woman said: 'Oh, you must feed these chillen good, just
look at their mouths!' And the woman said, 'Oh, that's the way they
eat.' They didn't get meat often. That was just to make them believe
they had lots to eat.
"No. They were cut off from education. The way my stepfather got his
learning was a cullud blacksmith would teach school at night, and us
chillen taught our mother. She didn't know how to spell or read or
nothin'. She didn't know B from bull's foot. Some of them were allowed
to have church and some didn't. Mighty few read the Bible 'cause they
couldn't read. As my mother used to say, they were raised up as green
as cucumbers. That old blacksmith was the onlyist man that knew how to
read and write in slavery time that I knew of. My grandmother or none of
them knew how to read; they could count, but that was all. That's what
makes me mad. I tell my grandchillen they ought to learn all they can
'cause the old people never had a chance. My husband never did have any
schooling, but he sure could figger. Now, if you want me to get tangled
up, just give me a pencil and paper and I don't know nothing." She
tapped her skull. "I figger in my head! The chillen, today, ought to
appreciate an education.
"Oh, yes, they were good to the slaves when they were sick. They would
have the doctor come out and wait on them. Most plantations had what
they called an old granny cullud woman that treated the chillen with
herbs and such things.
"Games? I don't know. We used to play rap jacket. We would get switches
and whip one another. You know, after you was hit several times it
didn't hurt much. I've played a many time. In slave time the men used to
go huntin' at night, and hunt 'possums and 'coons. They would have a dog
or two along. They used to go six or seven miles afoot to corn huskin's
and quiltin's. And those off the other plantations would come over and
join in the work. And they would nearly always have a good dinner.
Sometimes some of the owners would give 'em a hog or somethin' nice to
eat, but some of 'em didn't.
"No'm, I don't know if they run off to the North, but some of them
runned off and stayed in the swamps, and they was mean. They called them
runaways. If they saw you, they would tell you to bring them something
to eat. And if you didn't do it, if they ever got you they sure would
fix you.
"I don't know when my mother was set free. My husband's marster's name
was King. He was from Savannah, Georgia, but at the time was living
close to Boerne. My husband's father was killed in the war. When my
husband was about ten years old, his marster hadn't told them they was
free. You know some of them didn't tell the slaves they was free until
they had to. After freedom was declared, lots of people didn't tell the
slaves they were free. One morning, my husband said, he happended to
look out and he saw a big bunch of men coming down the road, and he
thought he never saw such pretty men in his life on them horses. They
had so many brass buttons on their clothes it looked like gold. So he
run and told his mama, and she looked and saw it was soldiers, and some
of 'em told the boss, and he looked and saw them soldiers comin' in the
big gate and he called 'em in quick, and told them they were free. So
when the soldiers come, they asked him if he had told his slaves they
were free, and he said yes. They asked the Negroes if they lived there,
and they said yes. One said, 'He just told us we was free.' The soldiers
asked him why he had just told them, and he said they wasn't all there
and he was waiting for them all to be there.
"My husband said he thought them was the prettiest bunch of men he ever
saw, and the prettiest horses. Of course, he hadn't never saw any
soldiers before. I know it looked pretty to me when I used to see the
soldiers at the barracks and hear the band playin' and see them drillin'
and ever'thing. You see, we lived on a little cross-street right back of
St. Mary's Church in San Antonio, I don't know how that place is now.
Where the post office is now, there used to be a blacksmith shop and my
father worked there. I went back to San Antonio about fifteen years ago
and jes' took it afoot and looked at the changes.
"I was fifteen years old the first time I married. It was almost a
run-a-way marriage. I was married in San Antonio. My first husband's
name was Henry Hall. My first wedding dress was as wide as a wagon
sheet. It was white lawn, full of tucks, and had a big ruffle at the
bottom. I had a wreath and a veil, too. The veil had lace all around it.
We danced and had a supper. We danced all the dances they danced then;
the waltz, square, quadrille, polka, and the gallopade--and that's what
it was, all right; you shore galloped. You'd start from one end of the
hall and run clear to the other end. In those days, the women with all
them long trains--the man would hold it over his arm. No, Lord!
Honeymoons wasn't thought of then. No'm, I never worked out a day in my
life." Jokingly, "I guess they thought I was too good looking. I was
about twenty years old when I married the second time. I was married in
Leon Springs the second time.
"Before we come out to this country from Leon Springs, they was wild
grapes, dewberries, plums and agaritas, black haws, red haws. M-m-m!
Them dewberries, I dearly love 'em! I never did see wild cherries out
here. I didn't like the cherries much, but they make fine wine. We used
to gather mustang grapes and make a barrel of wine.
"After I married the second time, we lived on the Adams ranch on the
Frio and stayed on that ranch fifteen years. We raised all our chillen
right on that ranch. I am taken for a Mexkin very often. I jes' talk
Mexkin back to 'em. I learned to talk it on the ranch. As long as I have
lived at this place, I have never had a cross word about the chillen.
All my neighbors here is Mexkins. They used to laugh at me when I tried
to talk to the hands on the ranch, but I learned to talk like 'em.
"We used to have big round-ups out on the Adams ranch. They had fences
then. The neighbors would all come over and get out and gather the
cattle and bring 'em in. Up at Leon Springs at that time they didn't
have any fences, and they would have big round-ups there. But after we
come out here, it was different. He would notify his neighbors they were
goin' to gather cattle on a certain day. The chuck wagon was right there
at the ranch, that is, _I_ was the chuck wagon. But if they were goin' to
take the cattle off, they would have a chuck wagon. They would round up
a pasture at a time and come in to the ranch for their meals. Now on the
Wallace ranch, they would always take a chuck wagon. When they were
gettin' ready to start brandin' at the ranch, my husband always kep' his
brandin' irons all in the house, hangin' up right where he could get his
hands on 'em. Whenever they would go off to other ranches to gather
cattle, you would see ever' man with his beddin' tied up behind him on
his horse. He'd have jes' a small roll. They would always have a slicker
if nothin' else. That slicker answered for ever'thing sometimes. My
husband slep' many a night with his saddle under his head.
"He used to carry mail from San Antonio to Dog Town, horseback. That was
the town they used to call Lodi (Lodo), but I don't know how to spell
it, and don't know what it means. It was a pretty tough town. The jail
house was made out of 'dobe and pickets. They had a big picket fence all
around it. They had a ferry that went right across the San Antonio River
from Floresville to Dog Town. I know he told me he come to a place and
they had a big sign that said, 'Nigga, don't let the sun go down on you
here.' They was awful bad down in there. He would leave Dog Town in the
evenin' and he would get to a certain place up toward San Antonio to
camp, and once he stopped before he got to the place he always camped
at. He said he didn't know what made 'im stop there that time, but he
stopped and took the saddle off his horse and let 'im graze while he lay
down. After a while, he saw two cigarette fires in the dark right up the
road a little piece, and he heard a Mexkin say, 'I don't see why he's so
late tonight. He always gets here before night and camps right there.'
He knew they was waylayin' 'im, so he picked his saddle up right easy
and carried it fu'ther back down the road in the brush and then come got
his horse and took him out there and saddled 'im up and went away 'round
them Mexkins. He went on in to San Antonio and didn't go back any more.
A white man took the mail to carry then and the first trip he made, he
never come back. He went down with the mail and they found the mail
scattered somewhere on the road, but they never found the man, or the
horse, either.
"On the Adams ranch, in the early days, we used to have to pack water up
the bank. You might not believe it, but one of these sixty-pound lard
cans full of water, I've a-carried it on my head many a time. We had
steps cut into the bank, and it was a good ways down to the water, and
I'd pack that can up to the first level and go back and get a couple a
buckets of water, and carry a bucket in each hand and the can on my head
up the next little slantin' hill before I got to level ground. I carried
water that way till my chillen got big enough to carry water, then they
took it up. When I was carryin' water in them big cans my head would
sound like new leather--you know how it squeaks, and that was the way it
sounded in my head. But, it never did hurt me. You see, the Mexkins
carry loads on their heads, but they fix a rag around their heads some
way to help balance it. But I never did. I jes' set it up on my head and
carried it that way. Oh, we used to carry water! My goodness! My mother
said it was the Indian in me--the way I could carry water.
"When we were first married and moved to the Adams ranch, we used to
come here to Uvalde to dances. They had square dances then. They hadn't
commenced all these frolicky dances they have now. They would have a
supper, but they had it to sell. Every fellow would have to treat his
girl he danced with.
"I can remember when my grandfather lived in a house with a dirt floor,
and they had a fireplace. And I can remember just as well how he used to
bake hoecakes for us kids. He would rake back the coals and ashes real
smooth and put a wet paper down on that and then lay his hoecake down on
the paper and put another paper on top of that and the ashes on top. I
used to think that was the best bread I ever ate. I tried it a few
times, but I made such a mess I didn't try it any more. One thing I have
seen 'em make, especially on the ranch. You take and clean a stick and
you put on a piece of meat and piece of fat till you take and use up the
heart and liver and sweetbread and other meat and put it on the stick
and wrap it around with leaf fat and then put the milk gut, or marrow
gut, around the whole thing. They call that _macho_ (mule), and I tell
you, it's good. They make it out of a goat and sheep, mostly.
"Another thing, we used to have big round-ups, and I have cooked great
pans of steak and mountain orshters. Generally, at the brandin' and
markin', I cooked up many a big pan of mountain orshters. I wish I had a
nickel for ever' one I've cooked, and ate too! People from up North have
come down there, and, when they were brandin' and cuttin' calves there,
they sure did eat and enjoy that dinner.
"The men used to go up to the lake, fishin', and catch big trout, or
bass, they call 'em now; and we'd take big buckets of butter--we didn't
take a saucer of butter or a pound; we taken butter up there in buckets,
for we sure had plenty of it--and we'd take lard too, and cook our fish
up there, and had corn bread or hoe cakes and plenty of butter for
ever'thing, and it sure was good. I tell you--like my husband used to
say--we was livin' ten days in the week, then.
"When we killed hogs, the meat from last winter was hung outside and
then new meat, salted down and then smoked, put in there, and we would
cook the old bacon for the dogs. We always kep' some good dogs there,
and anybody'll tell you they was always fat. We had lots of wild turkeys
and I raised turkeys, too, till I got sick of cookin' turkeys. Don't
talk about deer! You know, it wasn't then like it is now. You could go
kill venison any time you wanted to. But I don't blame 'em for passin'
that law, for people used to go kill 'em and jes' take out the hams and
tenderloin and leave the other layin' there. I have saved many a sack of
dried meat to keep it from spoilin'.
"We would raise watermelons, too. We had a big field three mile from the
house and a ninety-acre field right in the house. We used to go get
loads of melons for the hogs and they got to where they didn't eat
anything but the heart.
"I used to leave my babies at the house with the older girl and go out
horseback with my husband. My oldest girl used to take the place of a
cowboy, and put her hair up in her hat. And ride! My goodness, she loved
to ride! They thought she was a boy. She wore pants and leggin's. And
maybe you think she couldn't ride!
"After we left that ranch, we took up some state land. I couldn't tell
you how big that place was. We had 640 in one place and 640 in another
place; it was a good big place. After my husband got sick, we had to let
it go back. We couldn't pay it out. We only lived on it about four
years.
"My husband has been dead about nineteen years. I had a pen full and a
half of chillen. I have four livin' chillen, two girls and two boys. I
have a girl, Carrie, in California, workin' in the fruit all the time;
one boy, George, in Arizona, workin' in the mines; and a girl in
Arizona, Lavinia, washes and irons and cooks and ever'thing else she can
get at. And I have one boy here. I have ten grandchillen and I've got
five great grandchillen.
"I belong to the Methodist Church. I joined about twenty-five years ago.
My husband joined with me. But here, of late years, when I go to church,
it makes me mad to see how the people do the preacher up there trying to
do all the good he can do and them settin' back there laughin' and
talkin'. I was baptized. There was about five or six of us baptized in
the Leona down here.
"People tell that I've got plenty and don't need help. Even the Mexkins
here and ever'body say I've got money. Jes' because we had that farm
down there they think I come out with money. But what in the world would
I want with money if I didn't use it? I can't take it with me when I die
and I could be gettin' the use of it now while I need it. I could have
what I want to eat, anyway. I'm gettin' a little pension, but it ain't
near enough to keep us. I've got these two grandchillen here, and things
is so high, too, so I don't have enough of anything without skimpin' all
the time.
420312
ELVIRA BOLES, 94, has outlived nine of her ten children. She lives
at 3109 Manzana St., El Paso, Texas, with her daughter, Minnie. She
was born a slave of the Levi Ray family near Lexington,
Mississippi, and was sold as a child to Elihn Boles, a neighboring
plantation owner. During the last year of the Civil War she was
brought to Texas, with other refugee slaves.
"I jus' 'member my first marster and missus, 'cause she don' want me
there. I'se a child of the marster. Dey didn' tell me how old I was when
dey sold me to Boles. My missus sold me to Boles. Dey tuk us to where
dere was a heap of white folks down by the court house and we'd be there
in lots and den de whites 'ud bid for us. I don' know how old I was, but
I washed dishes and den dey put me to work in de fields. We don' git a
nickel in slavery.
"Marster Boles didn' have many slaves on de farm, but lots in brickyard.
I toted brick back and put 'em down where dey had to be. Six bricks each
load all day. That's de reason I ain't no 'count, I'se worked to death.
I fired de furnace for three years. Stan'in' front wid hot fire on my
face. Hard work, but God was wid me. We'd work 'till dark, quit awhile
after sundown. Marster was good to slaves, didn' believe in jus' lashin'
'em. He'd not be brutal but he'd kill 'em dead right on the spot.
Overseers 'ud git after 'em and whop 'em down.
"I'se seventeen, maybe, when I married to slave of Boles. Married on
Saturday night. Dey give me a dress and dey had things to eat, let me
have something like what you call a party. We just had common clothes
on. And then I had to work every day. I'd leave my baby cryin' in de
yard and he'd be cryin', but I couldn' stay. Done everything but split
rails. I've cut timber and ploughed. Done everything a man could do. I
couldn' notice de time, but I'd be glad to git back to my baby.
"Log cabins had dirt floor, sometimes plankin' down. I worked late and
made pretty quilts. Sometimes dey'd let us have a party. Saturday
nights, de white people give us meat and stuff. Give us syrup and we'd
make candy, out in de yard. We'd ask our frien's and dance all night.
Den go to work next day. We'd clean off de yard and dance out dere.
Christmas come, dey give us a big eggnog and give us cake. Our white
folks did. White folks chillen had bought candy. We didn' git any, but
dey let us play wid de white chillen. We'd play smut. Whoever beat wid
de cards, he'd git to smut you. Take de smut from fireplace and rub on
your face.
"Doctor take care of us iffen we sick, so's git us well to git us to
work.
"Iffen dey had a pretty girl dey would take 'em, and I'se one of 'em,
and my oldest child, he boy by Boles, almost white.
"We had to steal away at night to have church on de ditch bank, and
crawl home on de belly. Once overseers heered us prayin', give us one
day each 100 lashes.
"Den when de Yankees come through, dey 'ud be good to de slaves, to keep
'em from tellin' on 'em. Freedom was give Jan. 1, 1865, but de slaves
didn' know it 'till June 19. We'se refugees. Boles, our marster, sent us
out and we come from Holmes County to Cherokee County in a wagon. We was
a dodgin' in and out, runnin' from de Yankees. Marster said dey was
runnin' us from de Yankees to keep us, but we was free and didn' know
it. I lost my baby, its buried somewhere on dat road. Died at Red River
and we left it. De white folks go out and buy food 'long de road and
hide us. Dey say we'd never be free iffen dey could git to Texas wid us,
but de people in Texas tol' us we's free. Den marster turn us loose in
de world, without a penny. Oh, dey was awful times. We jus' worked from
place to place after freedom.
"When we started from Mississippi, dey tol' us de Yankees 'ud kill us
iffen dey foun' us, and dey say, 'You ain't got no time to take nothin'
to whar you goin'. Take your little bundle and leave all you has in your
house.' So when we got to Texas I jus' had one dress, what I had on.
Dat's de way all de cullud people was after freedom, never had nothin'
but what had on de back. Some of dem had right smart in dere cabins, but
they was skeered and dey lef' everything. Bed clothes and all you had
was lef'. We didn' know any better den."
420102
[Illustration: Betty Bormer (Bonner)]
BETTY BORMER, 80, was born a slave to Col. M.T. Johnson, who farmed
at Johnson Station in Tarrant County. He owned Betty's parents,
five sisters and four brothers, in addition to about 75 other
slaves. After the family was freed, they moved with the other
slaves to a piece of land Col. Johnson allowed them the use of
until his death. Betty lives in a negro settlement at Stop Six, a
suburb of Fort Worth.
"I'se bo'n April 4th, in 1857, at Johnson Station. It was named after my
marster. He had a big farm, I'se don' know how many acres. He had seven
chillen; three boys, Ben, Tom and Mart, and four girls, Elizabeth,
Sally, Roddy and Veanna.
"Marster Johnson was good to us cullud folks and he feeds us good. He
kep' lots of hawgs, dat makes de meat. In de smokehouse am hung up meat
enough for to feed de army, it looks like. We'uns have all de clothes we
need and dey was made on de place. My mammy am de sewing woman and my
pappy am de shoemaker. My work, for to nuss de small chillen of de
marster.
"On Sat'day we's let off work and lots de time some of us come to Fort
Worth wid de marster and he gives us a nickel or a dime for to buy
candy.
"Dey whips de niggers sometimes, but 'twarn't hard. You know, de nigger
gits de devilment in de head, like folks do, sometimes, and de marster
have to larn 'em better. He done dat hisself and he have no overseer. No
nigger tried run away, 'cause each family have a cabin wid bunks for to
sleep on and we'uns all live in de quarters. Sich nigger as wants to
larn read and write, de marster's girls and boys larns 'em. De girls
larned my auntie how to play de piano.
"Dere am lots of music on dat place; fiddle, banjo and de piano.
Singin', we had lots of dat, songs like Ole Black Joe and 'ligious songs
and sich. Often de marster have we'uns come in his house and clears de
dinin' room for de dance. Dat am big time, on special occasion. Dey not
calls it 'dance' dem days, dey calls it de 'ball.'
"Sho', we'uns goes to church and de preacher's name, it was Jack Ditto.
"Durin' de war, I notices de vittles am 'bout de same. De soldiers come
dere and dey driv' off over de hill some of de cattle for to kill for to
eat. Once dey took some hosses and I hears marster say dem was de
Quantrell mens. Dey comes several times and de marster don' like it, but
he cain't help it.
"When freedom come marster tells all us to come to front of de house. He
am standin' on de porch. Him 'splains 'bout freedom and says, 'You is
now free and can go whar you pleases.' Den he tells us he have larned us
not to steal and to be good and we'uns should 'member dat and if we'uns
gets in trouble to come to him and he will help us. He sho' do dat, too,
'cause de niggers goes to him lots of times and he always helps.
"Marster says dat he needs help on de place and sich dat stays, he'd pay
'em for de work. Lots of dem stayed, but some left. To dem dat leaves,
marster gives a mule, or cow and sich for de start. To my folks, marster
gives some land. He doesn't give us de deed, but de right to stay till
he dies.
"Sho', I seen de Klux after de war but I has no 'sperience wid 'em. My
uncle, he gits whipped by 'em, what for I don' know 'zactly, but I think
it was 'bout a hoss. Marster sho' rave 'bout dat, 'cause my uncle
weren't to blame.
"When de Klux come de no 'count nigger sho make de scatterment. Some
climb up de chimney or jump out de winder and hide in de dugout and
sich.
"De marster dies 'bout seven years after freedom and everybody sorry
den. I never seen such a fun'ral and lots of big men from Austin comes.
He was de blessed man!
"I married de second year after de T.P. railroad come to Fort Worth, to
Sam Jones and he work on de Burk Burnett stock ranch. I'se divorseted
from him after five years and den after 12 more years I marries Rubbin
Felps. My las' husban's named Joe Borner, but I'se never married to the
father of my only chile. His name am George Pace.
"I allus gits long fair, 'cause after freedom I keeps on workin' doin'
de nussin'. Now I'se gittin' 'leven dollars from de state for pension,
and gits it every month so now I'se sho' of somethin' to eat and dat
makes me happy.
420289
HARRISON BOYD, 87, was born in Rusk County, Texas, a slave of Wash
Trammel. Boyd remained with his master for four years after
emancipation, then moved to Harrison County, where he now lives.
His memory is poor, but he managed to recall a few incidents.
"I was fifteen years when they says we're free. That's the age my Old
Missy done give me when the war stopped. She had all us niggers' ages in
a book, and told me I was born near Henderson. My Old Marse was Wash
Trammel and he brunged me and my mama and papa from Alabama. Mama was
named Juliet and papa, Amos. Marse Trammel owned my grandpa and grandma,
too, and they was named Jeanette and Josh.
"The plantation was two made into one, and plenty big, and more'n a
hundred slaves to work it. Marse lived in a hewed log house,
weather-boarded out and in, and the quarters was good, log houses with
bed railin's hewed out of logs. We raised everything we et, 'cept sugar,
and Marse bought that in big hogsheads. We got our week's rations every
Sunday, and when we went to eat, everybody's part was put out to them on
a tin plate.
"Marse Trammel give a big cornshucking every fall. He had two bottom
fields in corn. First we'd gather peas and cushaws and pumpkins out the
corn field, then get the corn and pile it front the cribs. They was two
big cribs for the corn we kep' to use and five big cribs for sale corn.
My uncle stayed round the sale corn cribs all spring, till ginnin' time,
'cause folks come for miles after corn. Marse had five wheat cribs and
one rye crib. We went ten mile to Tatum to git our meal and flour
ground.
"The patterrollers darsn't come 'bout our place or bother us niggers.
Marse Wash allus say, 'I'll patterroller my own place.' Marse was good
to us and only once a overseer beat a woman up a trifle, and Marse
Trammel fired him that same day.
"The sojers 'fiscated lots of corn from Marse and some more owners in
Rusk County piled corn up in a big heap and made me go mind it till the
rest the sojers got there. I was settin' top that corn pile, me and my
big bulldog, and the General rode up. My dog growled and I made him
hush. The General man say to me, 'Boy, you is 'scused now, go on home.'
I got to a fence and looked back, and that General was hewin' him a hoss
trough out a log. The sojers come in droves and set up they camp. I sot
on a stump and watched them pass. They stayed three, four days till the
corn was all fed up.
"While they's camped there they'd cotch chickens. They had a fishin'
pole and line and hook. They'd put a grain of corn on the hook and ride
on they hoss and pitch the hook out 'mong the chickens. When a chicken
swallowed the corn they'd jerk up the line with that chicken and ride
off.
"Marse had six hundred bales cotton in the Shreveport warehouse when war
was over. He got word them Yankees done take it on a boat. He got his
brother to take him to Shreveport and say, 'I'll follow that cotton to
Hell and back.' He followed his cotton to Alabama and got it back, but
he died and was buried there in Alabama 'fore Old Missy knowed it.
"I stayed with her four years after surrender and then went to farmin'
with my folks, for $10.00 a month. After a year or two I went to
railroadin', helping cut the right-of-way for the T.& P. Railroad, from
Marshall to Longview. They paid us $1.50 the day and three drinks of
whiskey a day.
"I marries four times but had only one child, but I never done nothin'
'citin'. I lives by myself now, and gits $11.00 pension to eat on.
420074
[Illustration: Issabella Boyd]
ISSABELLA BOYD was born a slave of Gus Wood, in Richmond, Va., who
moved to Texas by boat before the Civil War. Isabella still lives
in Beaumont.
"Lemme see, I come from Richmond, Virginy, to Texas. Massa Gus Wood was
my owner and I kin recollect my white folks. I's born in dat country and
dey brought me over to Richmond and my papa and mama, too. I was jus'
'bout big 'nough to begin to 'member.
"I come from Richmond yere on de boat, sometime de steamboat, sometime
de big boat. When we left New Orleans dat evenin' we struck a big storm.
Us git on dat boat in Richmond and went floatin' down to de big boat dat
mornin'. Looks like it jus' fun for us, but every time we look back and
think 'bout home it make us sad.
"I had a dear, good mistus and my boss man, he furnish a house for he
servants, a purty good house. And dey had a place for de Sunday School.
Dem was good times. De mistus cook dinner and send it down for de old
folks and chillen to have plenty.
"My mistus kep' me right in de house, right by her, sewing. I could sew
so fast I git my task over 'fore de others git started good.
"Lots of times when de gals wants to go to de dance I he'p make de
dresses. I 'member de pretties' one like yesterday. It have tucks from
de waist to de hem and had diamonds cut all in de skirt.
"Our boss man was 'ticular 'bout us being tended to and we was well took
care of. He brung us to Beaumont when it was de plumb mud hole, and he
settle down and try to build up and make it a go.
"Massa Wood he allus takes de paper and one night they set up da long
time and do dey readin'. Next mornin' de old cook woman, she say, 'Well,
dey have de big war, and lots of dem wounded.' Befo' long us has to take
care of some dem wounded soldiers, and dey has de camp place near us.
Dey all camp 'round dere and I don't know which was de Yankees and de
'federates.
"When we all gits free, dey's de long time lettin' us know. Dey wants to
git through with de corn and de cotton befo' dey let's de hands loose.
Dey was people from other plantations say. 'Niggers, you's free and yere
you workin'.' Us say, 'No, de gov'ment tell us when we's free.' We
workin' one day when somebody from Massa Grissom place come by and tell
us we's free, and us stop workin'. Dey tell us to go on workin' and de
boss man he come up and he say he gwine knock us off de fence if we
don't go to work. Mistus come out and say, 'Ain't you gwine make dem
niggers go to work?' He send her back in de house and he call for de
carriage and say he goin' to town for to see what de gov'ment goin' do.
Nex' day he come back and say, 'Well, you's jus' as free as I is.'
"He say to me I could stay and cook for dem, and he give me five dollar
a month and a house to stay in and all I kin eat. I stays de month to do
dere work.
"After dat I wishes sometimes dat old times is back 'gain. I likes to be
free, but I wasn't used to it and it was hard to know how to do. I
'members de dances we has in de old times, when we makes de music with
banjo and other things. Some de good massas 'lowed de niggers dance in
de back yard and if we goes over dere without de pass de patterroles
gits us maybe. One time my papa he runnin' from dem patterroles and he
run slap into de young massa and he say, 'Oh, you ain't no nigger, I kin
tell by de smell.'
"Dat mind me of de ghost story dey used to tell 'bout de ghosties what
live in de big bridge down in de hollow. De niggers day say dat ghostie
make too much noise, with all he hollerin' and he rattlin' dem chain. So
dat night one us niggers what dey call Charlie, he say he ain't 'fraid
and he gwineter git him a ghostie, sho' 'nough. Us didn't believe him
but purty soon us hears right smart wrastlin' with de chains and
hollerin' down by de bridge and after 'while he come and say he git de
best of dat ghostie, 'cause he ain't got strength like de man.
"Me and my old man us have twelve chillens altogedder. My husban' he
come from South Car'lina whar dey eats cottonseed. I used to joke him
'bout it. I allus say Virginny de best, 'cause I come from dere.
420039
[Illustration: James Boyd]
JAMES BOYD was born in Phantom Valley, Indian Territory, in an
Indian hut. A man named Sanford Wooldrige stole him and brought him
to Texas, somewhere near Waco. James does not know his age, but
thinks he is a hundred years or more old. He now lives in Itasca,
Texas.
"I's born in dat Phantom Valley, in de Indian Territory, what am now
call Oklahoma. Us live in a Indian hut. My pappy Blue Bull Bird and
mammy Nancy Will. She come to de Indian Territory with Santa Anna, from
Mississippi, and pappy raise in de Territory. I don' 'member much 'bout
my folks, 'cause I stole from dem when I a real li'l feller. I's
a-fishin' in de Cherokee River and a man name Sanford Wooldrige come by.
You see, de white folks and de Indians have de fight 'bout dat day. I's
on de river and I heared yellin' and shootin' and folkses runnin' and I
slips into some bresh right near. Den come de white man and he say,
'Everybody kilt, nigger, and dem Indians gwine kill you iffen day cotch
you. Come with me and I ain't 'low dem hurt you.' So I goes with him.
"He brung me to Texas, but I don't know jus' where, 'cause I didn't know
nothin' 'bout dat place. Massa Sanford good to us, but look out for he
missus, she sho' tough on niggers. Dere 'bout 1,600 acres in de
plantation and de big house am nice. When de niggers wouldn't work dey
whup 'em. Us work all week and sometime Sunday, iffen de crops in a
rush. Massa not much on presents or money but us have warm clothes and
plenty to eat and de dry place to live, and dat more'n lots of niggers
has now.
"Sometime us have de corn huskin' and dere a dollar for de one what
shuck de mos' corn. Us have de big dance 'bout twict a year, on
Christmas and sometime in de summer. When de white folks have dere big
balls us niggers cook and watch dem dance. Us have fun den.
"I likes to think of dem times when us fish all de hot day or hunts or
jus' lazed 'round when de crops am laid by. I likes to shet de eyes and
be back in old times and hear 'em sing, "Swing, low, Sweet Chariot." I
can't sing, now you knows can't no old man sing what ain't got no teef
or hair. I used to like to swing dat 'Ginia Reel and I's spry and young
den.
"Dere's lots I can't 'member, 'cause my mem'ry done gone weak like de
res' of me, but I 'member when us free us throw de hats in de air and
holler. Old massa say, 'How you gwine eat and git clothes and sech?' Den
us sho' scairt and stays with us white folks long as us can. But 'bout a
year after dat I gits de job punchin' cattle on a ranch in South Texas.
I druv cattle into Kansas, over what de white folks calls de Chissum
Trail. I worked lots of cattle and is what dey call a top hand. I's
workin' for Massa Boyd den, and he gits me to drive some cattle to
Mexico. He say he ain't well no more and for me to sell de cattle and
send him de money and git de job down dere. I goes on down to Mexico and
do what he say. I marries a gal name Martina in 1869, down in Matamoras.
Us have four chillen and she die. Dat break me up and I drifts back to
Huntsville.
"I done change my name from Scott Bird, what it am up in de Territory,
and make it James Boyd, 'cause I done work for Massa Boyd. I's gwine be
'bout 108 year old in next January, iffen de Lawd spare me dat long.
"After I been in Huntsville awhile, I marries Emma Smith but us only
stay together 'bout a year and a half. Wasn't no chillen. Den I drifts
to Fort Bend County and dere I marries Mary McDowd and us have two
chillen. She die with de yellow fever and off I goes for Burleson
County. Dere I marries Sally McDave and she quits me after us have three
chillen. Down in old Washington County I marries Frances Williams and us
lived together till 1900. Dere am no chillen dere. Den I goes to Austin
after she die and marries Eliza Bunton in 1903. Us have eight chillen
and she die in 1911. Den I comes to Hill County and marries Mittie Cahee
in 1916. She quit me. In 1924 I marries Hegar Price clost to Milford. Us
live together now, in Itasca. Us didn't have no chillen, but dat don't
matter, 'cause I's de daddy of 'bout twenty already.
"I mos' allus wore de black suit when I marries. Jes' seemed more
dressed up like. Some my wives wear white and some colors, didn't make
much diff'rence, so dey a likely lookin' gal for me. Sometime it am a
preacher and sometime it am Jestice of Peace, but de fust time it am
Catholic and priest and all.
"Talkin' 'bout all dis marryin', I mos' forgit to show you my scar. I
fit in dat freedom war 'long side Massa Sanford and got shot. Dat bullet
go through de breast and out de back and keep me six months in de bed.
De fust battle I's in am at Halifax, in North Car'lina. Us git de news
of freedom when us at Vicksburg, in Mississippi. Mos' us niggers 'fraid
say much. De new niggers 'spect de gov'ment give dem de span of mules
and dey be rich and not work. But dey done larn a lot dese past years.
Us am sho' slaves now to hard work, and lucky iffen us git work. Lots
dem niggers figgers dey'd git dere massa's land, but dey didn't. Dey
oughta of knowed dey wouldn't. Warn't no plantation ever divided I
knowed of, but some de massas give de oldest slaves a li'l piece land.
"After de cattle days done gone, I farms in Hill County. I works twelve
year for Massa Claude Wakefield, right near Milford, too. De old man
ain't due to live nowhere long and I's gittin' 'bout ready to cross de
river. I's seed a heap of dis here earth and de people in it, but I
tells you it am sho' hard time now. Us is old and cripple' and iffen de
white folks don't holp us I don't know what us gwine do.
"Some dese young niggers gone plumb wild with dere cigars and cars and
truckin' and jazzin' and sech. Some go to school and larn like white
folks and teach and be real helpful. But talk 'bout workin' in slave
time--'twarn't so hard as now. Den you fuss 'cause dere's work, now you
fuss 'cause dere ain't no work. But den us have somethin' to eat and
wear and a place to sleep, and now us don't know one day what gwine fill
us tomorrow, or nothin'.
"I'd sho' like to shake Massa Boyd's hand again and hear him come
singin' down de lane. Us hear him sing or whistle long 'fore he git dere
and it mighty good to see him. De slaves allus say, 'I's gwine 'way
tomorrow,' and I guess I's gwine 'way pretty soon tomorrow.
420195
JERRY BOYKINS, spry and jolly at the age of 92, lived with his aged
wife in their own cabin at 1015 Plum St., Abilene, Texas. He was
born a slave to John Thomas Boykin, Troupe Co., Georgia, 80 miles
from Lagrange, Ga. His master was a very wealthy plantation owner,
working 1,000 slaves.
"I been well taken care of durin' my life. When I was young I lived
right in de big house with my marster. I was houseboy. My mother's name
was Betsy Ann Boykin and she was cook for Old Missus. My grandpa was
blacksmith. I slept on a pallet in de kitchen and in winter time on cold
nights I 'members how cold I would get. I'd wake up and slip in by
marsters bed and den I'd say, 'Marster John, I's about to freeze.' He'd
say, 'You ought to freeze, you little black devil. What you standin'
dere for?' I'd say, 'Please, marster John, jes' let me crawl in by your
feet.' He'd say, 'Well, I will dis one time,' and dat's de way I'd do
every cold night.
"I was full of mischief and I'd tu'n de mules out of de lot, jus' to see
de stableboy git a lickin'. One time I wanted a fiddle a white man named
Cocoanut Harper kep' tryin' to sell me for $7.50. I didn' never have any
money, 'cept a little the missie give me, so I kep' teasin' her to buy
de fiddle for me. She was allus on my side, so she tol' me to take some
co'n from de crib and trade in for de fiddle. In de night I slips out
and hitch up de mules and fetched de co'n to old Harper's house and
traded for dat fiddle. Den I hides out and play it, so's marster wouldn'
fin' out, but he did and he whip all de daylight outta me. When de
missie try to whip me, I jes' wrop up in her big skirts and she never
could hurt me much.
"I allus ate my meals in de house at de white folks table, after dey
done et. Iffen I couldn' sit in de marster's chair, I'd swell up like a
toad.
"De marster done all de whippin', 'cause dey had been two overseers
killed on de plantation for whippin' slaves till de blood run out dey
body.
"Was I bovered with haints and spooks? I been meetin' up with 'em all my
life. When I was younger I was such an old scratch I'd meet 'em right in
de road, some without heads. I'd take to my heels and then I'd stop and
look 'round and they'd be gone.
"I wore home-weaved shirts till I was grown, then I had some pants and
dey was homemade, too. The women gathered womack leaves to dye de goods
black.
"I well rec'lects when my marster went to war. He called all us in de
kitchen and telled us he had to go over dere and whip those
sons-of-bitches and would be back 'fore breakfast. He didn' return for
two years. I says, 'Marster, we sho' would have waited breakfast on you
a long time.' He said, 'Yes; deys de hardes' sons-of-bitches to whip I
ever had dealins' with.'
"When war was over, he called us together and tol' us we were free. He
said, 'Now, I'm goin' to give you a big day and after that you can stay
and work for pay or you can go.' So he rolled out two barrels of whiskey
and killed hogs and spread a big day.
"I wants to tell you 'bout how we killed hogs in my day. We digged a
deep pit in de groun' and heated big rocks red hot and filled up de pit
with water and dropped dem hot rocks in and got de water hot; den we
stuck de hogs and rolled 'em in dat pit.
"Soon after I's free a man come for me from Louisville to hire me as
foreman in his cotton mule barn. So I went there and I worked in
Kentucky for 18 year. Fifty-one years ago I married my ol' woman, Rachel
Taylor, at Corsicana, Texas, and I think she's jes' as fine as the day I
married her. We has six chillen and all works hard for a livin' and we
got one lil' grandbaby 10 years ol'. She lives here at our house and
we're educatin' her.
"I knows I's goin' to live to be over 100 years ol', 'cause my marster
done tol' me so."
420073
[Illustration: Monroe Brackins]
MONROE BRACKINS, born in Monroe Co., Mississippi, in 1853, was the
property of George Reedes. He was brought to Medina County, Texas,
when two years old. Monroe learned to snare and break mustangs and
became a cowpuncher. He lives in Hondo, Texas. He has an air of
pride and self-respect, and explained that he used little dialect
because he learned to talk from the "white folks" as he was growing
up.
"I was bo'n in Mississippi, Monroe County. I'm 84 years old. My master,
George Reedes, brought me, my father and mother and my two sisters to
Texas when I was two years old. My father was Nelson Brackins and my
mother was Rosanna.
"My master settled here at a place called Malone, on the Hondo River. He
went into the stock business. Our house there was a little, old picket
house with a grass roof over it out of the sage grass. The bed was made
with a tick of shucks and the children slept on the floor. The boss had
just a little lumber house. Later on he taken us about 20 miles fu'ther
down on the Hondo, the Old Adams Ranch, and he had a rock house.
"I was about six years old then. I had some shoes, to keep the thorns
outa my feet, and I had rawhide leggin's. We just had such clothes as we
could get, old patched-up clothes. They just had that jeans cloth,
homemade clothes.
"I was with George Reedes 10 or 12 years. It was my first trainin'
learnin' the stock business and horse breakin.' He was tol'able good to
us, to be slaves as we was. His brother had a hired man that whipped me
once, with a quirt. I've heard my father and mother tell how they
whipped 'em. They'd tie 'em down on a log or up to a post and whip 'em
till the blisters rose, then take a paddle and open 'em up and pour salt
in 'em. Yes'm, they whipped the women. The most I remember about that,
my father and sister was in the barn shuckin' co'n and the master come
in there and whipped my sister with a cowhide whip. My father caught a
lick in the face and he told the master to keep his whip offen him. So
the master started on my father and he run away. When he finally come in
he was so wild his master had to call him to get orders for work, and
finally the boss shot at him, but they didn't whip him any more. Of
course, some of 'em whipped with more mercy. They had a whippin' post
and when they strapped 'em down on a log they called it a 'stroppin'
log.'
"I remember they tasked the cotton pickers in Mississippi. They had to
bring in so many pounds in the evenin' and if they didn't they got a
whippin' for it. My sister there, she had to bring in 900 pounds a day.
Well, cotton was heavier there. Most any of 'em could pick 900 pounds.
It was heavier and fluffier. We left the cotton country in Mississippi,
but nobody knew anything about cotton out here that I knew of.
"I've heard my parents say too, them men that had plantations and a
great lot of slaves, they would speculate with 'em and would have a
chain that run from the front ones to the back ones. Sometimes they
would have 15 or 20 miles to make to get them to the sale place, but
they couldn't make a break. Where they expected to make a sale, they
kept 'em in corrals and they had a block there to put 'em up on and bid
'em off. The average price was about $500, but some that had good
practice, like a blacksmith, brought a good price, as high as $1,500.
"I heard my mother and father say they would go 15 or 20 miles to a
dance, walkin', and get back before daylight, before the 'padderollers'
got 'em. The slaves would go off when they had no permission and them
that would ketch 'em and whip 'em was the 'padderollers.' Sometimes they
would have an awful race.
"If they happened to be a slave on the plantation that could jes' read a
little print, they would get rid of him right now. He would ruin the
niggers, they would get too smart. The' was no such thing as school here
for culluds in early days. The white folks we was raised up with had
pretty good education. That's why I don't talk like most cullud folks. I
was about grown and the' was an English family settled close, about half
a mile, I guess. They had a little boy, his name was Arthur Ederle, and
he come over and learned me how to spell 'cat' and 'dog' and 'hen' and
such like. I was right around about 20 years old. I couldn't sign my
name when I was 18 years old.
"I can remember one time when I was young, I saw something I couldn't
'magine what it was, like a billygoat reared up on a tree. But I knew
the' wasn't a billygoat round there near, nor no other kinds of goats.
It was in the daytime and I was out in a horse pasture, I was jes'
walkin' along, huntin', when I saw that sight. I guess I got within 50
steps of it, then I turned around and got away. I never did think much
about a ghost, but I think it could be possible.
"I don't remember scarcely anything about the war because I was so
little and times was so different; the country wasn't settled up and
everything was wild, no people, hardly. Of course, my life was in the
woods, you might say, didn't hardly know when Sunday come.
"The northern soldiers never did get down in here that I know of. I know
once, when they was enlisting men to go to battle a whole lot of 'em
didn't want to fight and would run away and dodge out, and they would
follow 'em and try to make 'em fight. They had a battle up here on the
Nueces once and killed some of 'em. I know my boss was in the bunch that
followed 'em and he got scared for fear this old case would be brought
up after the war. The company that followed these men was called Old
Duff Company. I think somewhere around 40 was in the bunch that they
followed, but I don't know how many was killed. They was a big bluff and
a big water hole and they said they was throwed in that big water hole.
"We had possums and 'coons to eat sometimes. My father, he gen'rally
cooked the 'coons, he would dress 'em and stew 'em and then bake 'em. My
mother wouldn't eat them. There was plenty of rabbits, too. Sometimes
when they had potatoes they cooked 'em with 'em. I remember one time
they had just a little patch of blackhead sugar cane. After the freedom,
my mother had a kind of garden and she planted snap beans and
watermelons pretty much every year.
"The master fed us tol'bly well. Everything was wild, beef was free,
just had to bring one in and kill it. Once in awhile, of a Sunday
mornin', we'd get biscuit flour bread to eat. It was a treat to us. They
measured the flour out and it had to pan out just like they measured. He
give us a little somethin' ever' Christmas and somethin' good to eat. I
heard my people say coffee was high, at times, and I know we didn't get
no flour, only Sunday mornin'. We lived on co'nbread, mostly, and beef
and game outta the woods. That was durin' the war and after the war,
too.
"I was around about 6 or 7 years old when we was freed. We worked for
George Reedes awhile, then drifted on down to the Frio river and stayed
there about a year, then we come to Medina County and settled here close
to where I was raised. We didn't think it hard times at all right after
the war. The country was wild and unsettled, with ranches 15 or 20 miles
apart. You never did see anybody and we didn't know really what was
goin' on in the rest of the country. Sometimes something could happen in
5 miles of us and we didn't know it for a month.
"I was on the Adams Ranch on the Hondo when my master come out and told
us we were as free as he was. He said we could stay on and work or could
go if we wanted to. He gave my mother and father 50 cents apiece and 25
cents for the children. We stayed awhile and then went west to the Frio.
"I used to be along with old man Big-foot Wallace in my early days. He
was a mighty fine man. I worked for the people that was gathering stock
together there. Big Foot raised nice horses, old reg'lar Texas horses,
and they was better than the reg'lar old Spanish bronco. I used to go to
his camp down on the San Miguel. He lived in one part and his chickens
in the rest of his house. His friends liked to hear him talk about his
travels. He used to run stock horses and had a figger 7 on the left
shoulder for his brand and the tip of each ear split was his earmark.
"The last man I broke horses for was Wilson Bailey. I was there about 12
years. He raised just cavi-yard--we called it a cavi-yard of horses,
just the same thing as a _remuda_. We called 'em that later, but we got
that from the Spanish. We would get up in a tree with our loop till the
horse come under and drop it down on him. When they were so spoilt, we
got 'em in a sort of cavi-yard and drove 'em under trees and caught 'em
in a snare. We had lots of wild horses, just this side of Pearsall.
'Bout the only way I'd get throwed was to get careless. We'd ketch 'im
up, hackamore 'im up, saddle 'im up and get on 'im and let 'im go.
Sometimes he'd be too wild to pitch, he'd break and run and you had to
let 'im run himself down. I used to rather ketch up a wild horse and
break 'im than to eat breakfast.
"When I first started farmin' I taken up some state land, about 80
acres, down on Black Creek, in Medina County. I stayed there ten or
twelve years. Cotton hadn't got in this country and I raised some corn,
sugar cane and watermelons. I commenced with horses, but 'long 'way down
the line I used oxen some, too. I used one of those old walking plows.
"I sold that place and moved to a place on the Tywaukney Creek
(Tonkawa). I come up to church and met my wife then. Her name was Ida
Bradley and I was 38 years old. We lived down on the Tywaukney right
about 23 years and raised our children there. We jes' had a little home
weddin'. I wore a suit, dark suit. We got married about 8 o'clock in the
evenin' and we had barbecue, cake and ice cream. You see, in them times
I wasn't taught anything about years and dates, but I judge it was about
25 years after the war before I settled on the Tywaukney."
420310
GUS BRADSHAW was born about 1845, at Keecheye, Alabama, a slave of
David Cavin. He recalls being brought to Texas in the 1850's, when
the Cavin family settled near old Port Caddo. Gus remained with his
master for ten years after emancipation. He now lives alone on a
fifty acre farm seven miles northeast of Marshall, which he bought
in 1877. Gus receives an $11.00 per month pension.
"I was born at Keecheye, Alabama, and belonged to old man David Cavin.
The only statement I can make 'bout my age is I knows I was 'bout twenty
years old when us slaves was freed. I never knowed my daddy, but my
mammy was Amelia Cavin. I's heard her say she's born in Alabama more
times than I got fingers and toes. Our old master brung us to Texas when
I's a good sized kid. I 'members like it am yesterday, how we camped
more'n a week in New Orleans. I seed 'em sell niggers off the block
there jus' like they was cattle. Then we came to old Port Caddo on Caddo
Lake and master settles a big farm close to where the boats run. Port
Caddo was a big shipping place then, and Dud and John Perry run the
first store there. The folks hauled cotton there from miles away.
"Mammy's folks was named Maria and Joe Gloster and they come to Texas
with the Cavins. My grandma say to me, 'Gus, don't run you mouth too
much and allus have manners to whites and blacks.' Chillen was raise
right then, but now they come up any way. I seed young niggers turn the
dipper up and drink 'fore old folks. I wouldn't dare do that when I's
comin' up.
"Maria say to me one day, 'Son, I's here when the stars fell.' She tell
me they fell like a sheet and spread over the ground. Ike Hood, the old
blacksmith on our place, he told me, too. I says, 'Ike, how old was you
when the stars fell?' He say, 'I's thirty-two.'
"Massa David had big quarters for us niggers, with chimneys and
fireplaces. They use to go round and pick up old hawg or cow bones to
bile with greens and cabbage. They was plenty of wild game, and deer and
wolves howlin' right through this country, but you can't even find the
track of one now.
"The first work I done was pickin' cotton. Every fellow was out at
daylight pickin' cotton or hoein' or plowin'. They was one overseer and
two nigger drivers. But at night you could hear us laughin' and talkin'
and singin' and prayin', and hear them fiddles and things playin'. It
look like darkies git 'long more better then than now. Some folks says
niggers oughtn't to be slaves, but I says they ought, 'cause they jus'
won't do right onless they is made to do it.
"Massa David allus give us eggnog and plenty good whiskey at Christmas.
We had all day to eat and drink and sing and dance. We didn't git no
presents, but we had a good time.
"I don't know much 'bout the war, only Massa Bob Perry come over one day
and say to Grandma Maria, 'They is surrender, Maria, you is free.' She
say to him, 'I don't care, I gwine stay with my white folks.'
"The Klu Klux done lots of cuttin' up round there. Two of 'em come to
Dr. Taylor's house. He had two niggers what run off from the Klux and
they want to whip 'em, but Dr. Taylor wouldn't 'low 'em. I knowed old
Col. Alford, one of the Klux leaders, and he was a sight. He told me
once, 'Gus, they done send me to the pen for Kluxing.' I say, 'Massa
Alford, didn't they make a gentleman of you?' He say, 'Hell, no!'
"I knowed old Col. Haggerdy, too. He marries a widow of a rich old
Indian ch
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