Slave Narratives: A Folk History of Slavery in the United States from Interviews with Former Slaves, Volume XVI, Texas Narratives, Part 2
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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 2
Author: United States. Work Projects Administration
Release date: January 14, 2010 [eBook #30967]
Most recently updated: January 6, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30967
Credits: Produced by Miranda van de Heijning and The Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. This
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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 2 ***
Produced by Miranda van de Heijning and 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 and capitalisation 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. Inconsistent spelling of place names and |
| personal names has also been retained. A list of corrections |
| is included at the end of the book. |
| |
| III. Handwritten corrections have been incorporated within |
| the text. Exceptions are notes which were just question |
| marks or were followed by question marks: these have been |
| explicitly included as 'Handwritten Notes'. |
| |
| IV. 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. |
| |
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
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 2
Prepared by the Federal Writers' Project of the Works Progress
Administration for the State of Texas
INFORMANTS
Easter, Willis 1
Edwards, Anderson and Minerva 5
Edwards, Ann J. 10
Edwards, Mary Kincheon 15
Elder, Lucinda 17
Ellis, John 21
Ezell, Lorenza 25
Farrow, Betty 33
Finnely, John 35
Ford, Sarah 41
Forward, Millie 47
Fowler, Louis 50
Franklin, Chris 55
Franks, Orelia Alexie 60
Frazier, Rosanna 63
Gibson, Priscilla 66
Gilbert, Gabriel 68
Gilmore, Mattie 71
Goodman, Andrew 74
Grant, Austin 81
Green, James 87
Green, O.W. 90
Green, Rosa 94
Green, William (Rev. Bill) 96
Grice, Pauline 98
Hadnot, Mandy 102
Hamilton, William 106
Harper, Pierce 109
Harrell, Molly 115
Hawthorne, Ann 118
Hayes, James 126
Haywood, Felix 130
Henderson, Phoebe 135
Hill, Albert 137
Hoard, Rosina 141
Holland, Tom 144
Holman, Eliza 148
Holt, Larnce 151
Homer, Bill 153
Hooper, Scott 157
Houston, Alice 159
Howard, Josephine 163
Hughes, Lizzie 166
Hursey, Moses 169
Hurt, Charley 172
Ingram, Wash 177
Jackson, Carter J. 180
Jackson, James 182
Jackson, Maggie 185
Jackson, Martin 187
Jackson, Nancy 193
Jackson, Richard 195
James, John 198
Johns, Thomas 201
Johns, Mrs. Thomas 205
Johnson, Gus 208
Johnson, Harry 212
Johnson, James D. 216
Johnson, Mary 219
Johnson, Mary Ellen 223
Johnson, Pauline,
and Boudreaux, Felice 225
Johnson, Spence 228
Jones, Harriet 231
Jones, Lewis 237
Jones, Liza 241
Jones, Lizzie 246
Jones, Toby 249
Kelly, Pinkie 253
Kilgore, Sam 255
Kinchlow, Ben 260
Kindred, Mary 285
King, Nancy 288
King, Silvia 290
ILLUSTRATIONS
Facing page
Anderson and Minerva Edwards 5
Ann J. Edwards 10
Mary Kincheon Edwards 15
John Ellis 21
Lorenza Ezell 25
Betty Farrow 33
Sarah Ford 41
Louis Fowler 50
Orelia Alexie Franks 60
Priscilla Gibson 66
Andrew Goodman 74
Austin Grant 81
James Green 87
O.W. Green and Granddaughter 90
William Green, (Rev. Bill) 96
Pauline Grice 98
Mandy Hadnot 102
William Hamilton 106
Felix Haywood 130
Phoebe Henderson 135
Albert Hill 137
Eliza Holman 148
Bill Homer 153
Scott Hooper 157
Alice Houston 159
Moses Hursey 169
Charley Hurt 172
Wash Ingram 177
Carter J. Jackson 180
James Jackson 182
Martin Jackson 187
Richard Jackson 195
John James 198
Gus Johnson 208
James D. Johnson 216
Mary Ellen Johnson 223
Pauline Johnson and Felice Boudreaux 225
Spence Johnson 228
Harriet Jones 231
Harriet Jones
with Daughter and Granddaughter 231
Lewis Jones 237
Lizzie Jones 246
Sam Kilgore 255
Ben Kinchlow 260
Mary Kindred 285
EX-SLAVE STORIES
(Texas)
420285
WILLIS EASTER, 85, was born near Nacogdoches, Texas. He does not
know the name of his first master. Frank Sparks brought Willis to
Bosqueville, Texas, when he was two years old. Willis believes
firmly in "conjuremen" and ghosts, and wears several charms for
protection against the former. He lives in Waco, Texas.
"I's birthed below Nacogdoches, and dey tells me it am on March 19th, in
1852. My mammy had some kind of paper what say dat. But I don't know my
master, 'cause when I's two he done give me to Marse Frank Sparks and he
brung me to Bosqueville. Dat sizeable place dem days. My mammy come
'bout a month after, 'cause Marse Frank, he say I's too much trouble
without my mammy.
"Mammy de bes' cook in de county and a master hand at spinnin' and
weavin'. She made her own dye. Walnut and elm makes red dye and walnut
brown color, and shumake makes black color. When you wants yallow color,
git cedar moss out de brake.
"All de lint was picked by hand on our place. It a slow job to git dat
lint out de cotton and I's gone to sleep many a night, settin' by de
fire, pickin' lint. In bad weather us sot by de fire and pick lint and
patch harness and shoes, or whittle out something, dishes and bowls and
troughs and traps and spoons.
"All us chillen weared lowel white duckin', homemake, jes' one garment.
It was de long shirt. You couldn't tell gals from boys on de yard.
"I's twelve when us am freed and for awhile us lived on Marse Bob
Wortham's place, on Chalk Bluff, on Horseshoe Bend. After de freedom
war, dat old Brazos River done change its course up 'bove de bend, and
move to de west.
"I marries Nancy Clark in 1879, but no chilluns. Dere plenty deer and
bears and wild turkeys and antelopes here den. Dey's sho' fine eatin'
and wish I could stick a tooth in one now. I's seed fifty antelope at a
waterin' hole.
"Dere plenty Indians, too. De Rangers had de time keepin' dem back. Dey
come in bright of de moon and steals and kills de stock. Dere a ferry
'cross de Brazos and Capt. Ross run it. He sho' fit dem Indians.
"Dem days everybody went hossback and de roads was jes' trails and
bridges was poles 'cross de creeks. One day us went to a weddin'. Dey
sot de dinner table out in de yard under a big tree and de table was a
big slab of a tree on legs. Dey had pewter plates and spoons and chiny
bowls and wooden dishes. Some de knives and forks was make out of bone.
Dey had beef and pork and turkey and some antelope.
"I knows 'bout ghostes. First, I tells you a funny story. A old man
named Josh, he purty old and notionate. Every evenin' he squat down
under a oak tree. Marse Smith, he slip up and hear Josh prayin, 'Oh,
Gawd, please take pore old Josh home with you.' Next day, Marse Smith
wrop heself in a sheet and git in de oak tree. Old Josh come 'long and
pray, 'Oh, Gawd, please come take pore old Josh home with you.' Marse
say from top de tree, 'Poor Josh, I's come to take you home with me.'
Old Josh, he riz up and seed dat white shape in de tree, and he yell,
'Oh, Lawd, not right now, I hasn't git forgive for all my sins.' Old
Josh, he jes' shakin' and he dusts out dere faster den a wink. Dat
broke up he prayin' under dat tree.
"I never studied cunjurin', but I knows dat scorripins and things dey
cunjures with am powerful medicine. Dey uses hair and fingernails and
tacks and dry insects and worms and bat wings and sech. Mammy allus tie
a leather string round de babies' necks when dey teethin', to make dem
have easy time. She used a dry frog or piece nutmeg, too.
"Mammy allus tell me to keep from bein' cunjure, I sing:
"'Keep 'way from me, hoodoo and witch,
Lend my path from de porehouse gate;
I pines for golden harps and sich,
Lawd, I'll jes' set down and wait.
Old Satan am a liar and cunjurer, too--
If you don't watch out, he'll cunjure you.'
"Dem cunjuremen sho' bad. Dey make you have pneumony and boils and bad
luck. I carries me a jack all de time. It em de charm wrop in red
flannel. Don't know what am in it. A bossman, he fix it for me.
"I sho' can find water for de well. I got a li'l tree limb what am like
a V. I driv de nail in de end of each branch and in de crotch. I takes
hold of each branch and iffen I walks over water in de ground, dat limb
gwine turn over in my hand till it points to de ground. Iffen money am
buried, you can find it de same way.
"Iffen you fills a shoe with salt and burns it, dat call luck to you. I
wears a dime on a string round de neck and one round de ankle. Dat to
keep any conjureman from sottin' de trick on ma. Dat dime be bright
iffen my friends am true. It sho' gwine git dark iffen dey does me
wrong.
"For to make a jack dat am sho' good, git snakeroot and sassafras and a
li'l lodestone and brimstone and asafoetida and resin and bluestone and
gum arabic and a pod or two red pepper. Put dis in de red flannel bag,
at midnight on de dark of de moon, and it sho' do de work.
"I knowed a ghost house, I sho' did. Everybody knowed it, a red brick
house in Waco, on Thirteenth and Washington St. Dey calls it de Bell
house. It sho' a fine, big house, but folks couldn't use it. De white
folks what owns it, dey gits one nigger and 'nother to stay round and
look after things. De white folks wants me to stay dere. I goes. Every
Friday night dere am a rustlin' sound, like murmur of treetops, all
through dat house. De shutters rattles--only dere ain't no shutters on
dem windows. Jes' plain as anything, I hears a chair, rockin', rockin'.
Footsteps, soft as de breath, you could hear dem plain. But I stays and
hunts and can't find nobody nor nothin' none of dem Friday nights.
"Den come de Friday night on de las' quarter de moon. Long 'bout
midnight, something lift me out de cot. I heared a li'l child sobbin',
and dat rocker git started, and de shutters dey rattle softlike, and dat
rustlin', mournin' sound all through dat house. I takes de lantern and
out in de hall I goes. Right by de foot de stairs I seed a woman, big as
life, but she was thin and I seed right through her. She jes' walk on
down dat hall and pay me no mind. She make de sound like de beatin' of
wings. I jes' froze. I couldn't move.
"Dat woman jes' melted out de window at de end of de hall, and I left
dat place!
420054
[Illustration: Anderson and Minerva Edwards]
ANDERSON AND MINERVA EDWARDS, a Negro Baptist preacher and his
wife, were slaves on adjoining plantations in Rusk County, Texas.
Anderson was born March 12, 1844, a slave of Major Matt Gaud, and
Minerva was born February 2, 1850, a slave of Major Flannigan. As a
boy Andrew would get a pass to visit his father, who belonged to
Major Flannigan, and there he met Minerva. They worked for their
masters until three years after the war, then moved to Harrison
County, married and reared sixteen children. Andrew and Minerva
live in a small but comfortable farmhouse two miles north of
Marshall. Minerva's memory is poor, and she added little to
Anderson's story.
"My father was Sandy Flannigan and he had run off from his first master
in Maryland, on the east shore, and come to Texas, and here a slave
buyer picked him up and sold chances on him. If they could find his
Maryland master he'd have to go back to him and if they couldn't the
chances was good. Wash Edwards in Panola County bought the chance on
him, but he run off from him, too, and come to Major Flannigan's in Rusk
County. Fin'ly Major Flannigan had to pay a good lot to get clear title
to him.
"My mammy was named Minerva and her master was Major Gaud, and I was
born there on his plantation in 1866. You can ask that tax man at
Marshall 'bout my age, 'cause he's fix my 'xemption papers since I'm
sixty. I had seven brothers and two sisters. There was Frank, Joe, Sandy
and Gene, Preston and William and Sarah and Delilah, and they all lived
to be old folks and the younges' jus' died last year. Folks was more
healthy when I growed up and I'm 93 now and ain't dead; fact is, I feels
right pert mos' the time.
"My missy named Mary and she and Massa Matt lived in a hewed log house
what am still standin' out there near Henderson. Our quarters was 'cross
the road and set all in a row. Massa own three fam'lies of slaves and
lots of hosses and sheep and cows and my father herded for him till he
was freed. The government run a big tan yard there on Major Gaud's place
and one my uncles was shoemaker. Jus' 'bout time of war, I was piddlin'
'round the tannery and a government man say to me, 'Boy, I'll give you
$1,000 for a drink of water,' and he did, but it was 'federate money
that got kilt, so it done me no good.
"Mammy was a weaver and made all the clothes and massa give us plenty to
eat; fact, he treated us kind-a like he own boys. Course he whipped us
when we had to have it, but not like I seed darkies whipped on other
place. The other niggers called us Major Gaud's free niggers and we
could hear 'em moanin' and cryin' round 'bout, when they was puttin' it
on 'em.
"I worked in the field from one year end to t'other and when we come in
at dusk we had to eat and be in bed by nine. Massa give us mos' anything
he had to eat, 'cept biscuits. That ash cake wasn't sich bad eatin' and
it was cooked by puttin' cornmeal batter in shucks and bakin' in the
ashes.
"We didn't work in the field Sunday but they have so much stock to tend
it kep' us busy. Missy was 'ligious and allus took us to church when she
could. When we prayed by ourse'ves we daren't let the white folks know
it and we turned a wash pot down to the ground to cotch the voice. We
prayed a lot to be free and the Lord done heered us. We didn't have no
song books and the Lord done give us our songs and when we sing them at
night it jus' whispering to nobody hear us. One went like this:
"'my knee bones am aching,
my body's rackin' with pain,
i 'lieve i'm a chile of god,
and this ain't my home,
'cause heaven's my aim.'
"Massa Gaud give big corn shuckin's and cotton pickin's and the women
cook up big dinners and massa give us some whiskey, and lots of times we
shucked all night. On Saturday nights we'd sing and dance and we made
our own instruments, which was gourd fiddles and quill flutes. Gen'rally
Christmas was like any other day, but I got Santa Claus twict in
slavery, 'cause massa give me a sack of molasses candy once and some
biscuits once and that was a whole lot to me then.
"The Vinsons and Frys what lived next to massa sold slaves and I seed
'em sold and chained together and druv off in herds by a white man on a
hoss. They'd sell babies 'way from the mammy and the Lord never did
'tend sich as that.
"I 'lieve in that hant business yet. I seed one when I was a boy, right
after mammy die. I woke up and seed it come in the door, and it had a
body and legs and tail and a face like a man and it walked to the
fireplace and lifted the lid off a skillet of 'taters what sot there and
came to my bed and raised up the cover and crawled in and I hollers so
loud it wakes everybody. I tell 'em I seed a ghost and they say I crazy,
but I guess I knows a hant when I sees one. Minerva there can tell you
'bout that haunted house we lived in near Marshall jus' after we's
married." (Minerva says, 'Deed, I can,' and here is her story:)
"The nex' year after Anderson and me marries we moves to a place that
had 'longed to white folks and the man was real mean and choked his
wife to death and he lef' the country and we moved in. We heered
peculiar noises by night and the niggers 'round there done told us it
was hanted but I didn't 'lieve 'em, but I do now. One night we seed the
woman what died come all 'round with a light in the hand and the
neighbors said that candle light the house all over and it look like it
on fire. She come ev'ry night and we left our crop and moved 'way from
there and ain't gone back yit to gather that crop. 'Fore we moved in
that place been empty since the woman die, 'cause nobody live there. One
night Charlie Williams, what lives in Marshall, and runs a store out by
the T. & P. Hospital git drunk and goes out there to sleep and while he
sleepin' that same woman come in and nigh choked him to death. Ain't
nobody ever live in that house since we is there."
Anderson then resumed his story: "I 'member when war starts and massa's
boy, George it was, saddles up ole Bob, his pony, and lef'. He stays six
months and when he rid up massa say, 'How's the war, George?' and massa
George say, 'It's Hell. Me and Bob has been runnin' Yankees ever since
us lef'.' 'Fore war massa didn't never say much 'bout slavery but when
he heered us free he cusses and say, 'Gawd never did 'tend to free
niggers,' and he cussed till he died. But he didn't tell us we's free
till a whole year after we was, but one day a bunch of Yankee soldiers
come ridin' up and massa and missy hid out. The soldiers walked into the
kitchen and mammy was churnin' and one of them kicks the churn over and
say, 'Git out, you's jus' as free as I is.' Then they ramsacked the
place and breaks out all the window lights and when they leaves it look
like a storm done hit that house. Massa come back from hidin' and that
when he starts on a cussin' spree what lasts as long as he lives.
"'bout four year after that war pappy took me to Harrison County and
I've lived here ever, since and Minerva's pappy moves from the Flannigan
place to a jinin' farm 'bout that time and sev'ral years later we was
married. It was at her house and she had a blue serge suit and I wore a
cutaway Prince Albert suit and they was 'bout 200 folks at our weddin'.
The nex' day they give us an infair and a big dinner. We raises sixteen
chillen to be growed and six of the boys is still livin' and workin' in
Marshall.
"I been preachin' the Gospel and farmin' since slavery time. I jined the
church mos' 83 year ago when I was Major Gaud's slave and they baptises
me in the spring branch clost to where I finds the Lord. When I starts
preachin' I couldn't read or write and had to preach what massa told me
and he say tell them niggers iffen they obeys the massa they goes to
Heaven but I knowed there's something better for them, but daren't tell
them 'cept on the sly. That I done lots. I tells 'em iffen they
keeps prayin' the Lord will set 'em free. But
since them days I's done studied some and I preached all over Panola and
Harrison County and I started the Edward's Chapel over there in Marshall
and pastored it till a few year ago. It's named for me.
"I don't preach much now, 'cause I can't hold out to walk far and I got
no other way to go. We has a $14.00 pension and lives on that and what
we can raise on the farm.
420219
[Illustration: Ann J. Edwards]
ANN J. EDWARDS, 81, was born a slave of John Cook, of Arlington
County, Virginia. He manumitted his slaves in 1857. Four years
later Ann was adopted by Richard H. Cain, a colored preacher. He
was elected to the 45th Congress in 1876, and remained in
Washington, D.C., until his death, in 1887. Ann married Jas. E.
Edwards, graduate of Howard College, a preacher. She now lives with
her granddaughter, Mary Foster, at 804 E. 4th St., Fort Worth,
Texas.
"I shall gladly relate the story of my life. I was born a slave on
January 27th, 1856, and my master's name was John J. Cook, who was a
resident of Arlington County, Virginia. He moved to Washington, D.C.,
when I was nearly two years old and immediately gave my parents their
freedom. They separated within a year after that, and my mother earned
our living, working as a hairdresser until her death in 1861. I was then
adopted by Richard H. Cain, a minister of the Gospel in the African
Methodist Church.
"I remember the beginning of the war well. The conditions made a deep
impression on my mind, and the atmosphere of Washington was charged with
excitement and expectations. There existed considerable need for
assistance to the Negroes who had escaped after the war began, and Rev.
Cain took a leading part in rendering aid to them. They came into the
city without clothes or money and no idea of how to secure employment. A
large number were placed on farms, some given employment as domestics
and still others mustered into the Federal Army.
"The city was one procession of men in blue and the air was full of
martial music. The fife and drum could be heard almost all the time, so
you may imagine what emotions a colored person of my age would
experience, especially as father's church was a center for congregating
the Negroes and advising them. That was a difficult task, because a
large majority were illiterate and ignorant.
"The year father was called to Charleston, South Carolina, to take
charge of a church, we became the center of considerable trouble. It was
right after the close of the war. In addition to his ministerial duties,
father managed a newspaper and became interested in politics. He was
elected a delegate to the Constitutional Convention of South Carolina in
1868. He was also elected a Republican member of the State Senate and
served from 1868 to 1872. Then he became the Republican candidate for
the United States Representative of the Charleston district, was elected
and served in the 45th Congress from March 4, 1877 to March 3, 1879.
"You can imagine the bitter conflict his candidacy brought on. A Negro
running for public office against a white person in a Southern state
that was strong for slavery does not seem the sensible thing for a man
to do, but he did and was, of course, successful. From the moment he
became delegate to the Constitutional Convention a guard was necessary
night and day to watch our home. He was compelled to have a bodyguard
wherever he went. We, his family, lived in constant fear at all times.
Many times mother pleaded with him to cease his activities, but her
pleadings were of no avail.
"In the beginning the resentment was not so pronounced. The white
people were shocked and dejected over the outcome of the war, but
gradually recovered. As they did, determination to establish order and
prosperity developed, and they resented the Negro taking part in public
affairs. On the other side of the cause was the excess and obstinate
actions of some ignorant Negroes, acting under ill advice. Father was
trying to prevent excesses being done by either side. He realized that
the slaves were unfit, at that time, to take their place as dependable
citizens, for the want of experience and wisdom, and that there would
have to be mental development and wisdom learned by his race, and that
such would only come by a gradual process.
"He entered the contest in the interest of his own race, primarily, but
as a whole, to do justice to all. No one could change his course. He
often stated, 'It is by the Divine will that I am in this battle.'
"The climax of the resentment against him took place when he was chosen
Republican candidate to the House of Representatives. He had to maintain
an armed guard at all times. Several times, despite these guards,
attempts were made to either burn the house or injure some member of the
family. If it had not been for the fact that the officials of the city
and county were afraid of the federal government, which gave aid in
protecting him, the mob would have succeeded in harming him.
"A day or two before election a mob gathered suddenly in front of the
house, and we all thought the end had come. Father sent us all upstairs,
and said he would, if necessary, give himself up to the mob and let them
satisfy their vengeance on him, to save the rest of us.
"While he was talking, mother noticed another body of men in the alley.
They were certainly sinister looking. Father told us to prepare for the
worst, saying, 'What they plan to do is for those in front to engage
the attention of ourselves and the guard, then those in the rear will
fire the place and force us out.' He was calm throughout it all, but
mother was greatly agitated and I was crying.
"The chief of the guard called father for a parley. The mob leader
demanded that father come out for a talk. Then the sheriff and deputies
appeared and he addressed the crowd of men, and told them if harm came
to us the city would be placed under martial law. The men then
dispersed, after some discussion among themselves.
"Father moved to Washington, took the oath of office and served until
March 4th, 1879. He then received the appointment of Bishop of the
African Methodist Church and served until his death in Washington, on
Jan. 18th, 1887.
"I began my schooling in Charleston and continued in Washington, where I
entered Howard College, but did not continue until graduation. I met
James E. Edwards, another student, who graduated in 1881, and my heart
overruled my desire for an education. We married and he entered the
ministry and was called to Dallas, Texas. He remained two years, then we
were called to Los Angeles. The Negroes there were privileged to enter
public eating establishments, but a cafe owner we patronized told us the
following:
"'After a time, I was compelled to refuse service to Negroes because
they abused the privilege. They came in in a boisterous manner and
crowded and shoved other patrons. It was due to a lack of wisdom and
education.'
"That was true. The white people tried to give the Negro his rights and
he abused the privilege because he was ignorant, a condition he could
not then help.
"My husband and I were called to Kansas City in 1896 and from there to
many other towns. Finally we came to Waco, and he had charge of a church
there when he died, in 1927. We had a pleasant married life and I tried
to do my duty as a pastor's wife and help elevate my race. We were
blessed with three children, and the only one now living is in Boston,
Massachusetts.
"I now reside with my granddaughter, Mary Foster, and this shack is the
best her husband can afford. In fact, we are living in destitute
circumstances. It is depressing to me, after having lived a life in a
comfortable home. It is the Lord's will and I must accept what is
provided. There is a purpose for all things. I shall soon go to meet my
Maker, with the satisfaction of having done my duty--first, to my race,
second, to mankind.
* * * * *
Note: The biography of Richard H. Cain is published in the
Biographical Directory of the American Congress.
420008
[Illustration: Mary Kincheon Edwards]
MARY KINCHEON EDWARDS says she was born on July 8, 1810, but she
has nothing to substantiate this claim. However, she is evidently
very old. Her memory is poor, but she knows she was reared by the
Kincheons, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and that she spoke French
when a child. The Kincheons gave her to Felix Vaughn, who brought
her to Texas before the Civil War. Mary lives with Beatrice
Watters, near Austin, Texas.
"When I's a li'l gal my name Mary Anne Kincheon and I's born on the
eighth of July, in 1810. I lives with de Kincheon family over in
Louisiana. Baton Rouge am de name of dat place. Dem Kincheons have
plenty chillen. O, dey have so many chillen!
"I don't 'member much 'bout dem days. I's done forgot so many things,
but I 'members how de stars fell and how scared us was. Dem stars got to
fallin' and was out 'fore dey hits de ground. I don't knew when dat was,
but I's good size den.
"I get give to Massa Felix Vaughn and he brung me to Texas. Dat long
'fore de war for freedom, but I don't know de year. De most work I done
for de Vaughns was wet nuss de baby son, what name Elijah. His mammy
jes' didn't have 'nough milk for him.
"Den I knit de socks and wash de clothes and sometimes I work in de
fields. I he'ped make de baskets for de cotton. De man git white-oak
wood and we lets it stay in de water for de night and de nex' mornin'
and it soft and us split it in strips for makin' of de baskets.
Everybody try see who could make de bes' basket.
"Us pick 'bout 100 pound cotton in one basket. I didn't mind pickin'
cotton, 'cause I never did have de backache. I pick two and three
hunnert pounds a day and one day I picked 400. Sometime de prize give by
massa to de slave what pick de most. De prize am a big cake or some
clothes. Pickin' cotton not so bad, 'cause us used to it and have de
fine time of it. I gits a dress one day and a pair shoes 'nother day for
pickin' most. I so fast I take two rows at de time.
"De women brung oil cloths to de fields, so dey make shady place for de
chillen to sleep, but dem what big 'nough has to pick. Sometime dey sing
"'O--ho, I's gwine home,
And cuss de old overseer.'
"Us have ash-hopper and uses drip-lye for make barrels soap and hominy.
De way us test de lye am drap de egg in it and if de egg float de lye
ready to put in de grease for makin' de soap. Us throwed greasy bones in
de lye and dat make de bes' soap. De lye eat de bones.
"Us boil wild sage and make tea and it smell good. It good for de fever
and chills. Us git slippery elm out de bottom and chew it. Some chew it
for bad feelin's and some jes' to be chewin'.
"Sometimes us go to dances and missy let me wear some her jewl'ry. I out
dances dem all and folks didn't know dat not my jewl'ry. After freedom I
stays with de Vaughns and marries, but I forgit he name. Dat 'fore
freedom. After freedom I marries Osburn Edwards and has five chillen.
Dey all dead now. I can still git 'round with dis old gnarly cane. Jes'
you git me good and scared and see how fast I can git 'round!"
420266
LUCINDA ELDER, 86, was born a slave of the Cardwell family, near
Concord Deport, Virginia. She came to Texas with Will Jones and his
wife, Miss Susie, in 1860, and was their nurse-girl until she
married Will Elder, in 1875. Lucinda lives at 1007 Edwards St.,
Houston, Texas.
"You chilluns all go 'way now, while I talks to dis gen'man. I 'clares
to goodness, chilluns nowadays ain't got no manners 'tall. 'Tain't like
when I was li'l, dey larnt you manners and you larnt to mind, too.
Nowadays you tell 'em to do somethin' and you is jes' wastin' you
breath, 'less you has a stick right handy. Dey is my great
grandchilluns, and dey sho' is spoilt. Maybe I ain't got no patience no
more, like I use to have, 'cause dey ain't so bad.
"Well, suh, you all wants me to tell you 'bout slave times, and I'll
tell you first dat I had mighty good white folks, and I hope dey is gone
up to Heaven. My mama 'long to Marse John Cardwell, what I hear was de
riches' man and had de bigges' plantation round Concord Depot. Dat am in
Campbell County, in Virginny. I don't 'member old missy's name, but she
mighty good to de slaves, jes' like Marse John was.
"Mama's name was Isabella and she was de cook and born right on de
plantation. Papa's name was Gibson, his first name was Jim, and he 'long
to Marse Gibson what had a plantation next to Marse John, and I knows
papa come to see mama on Wednesday and Sat'day nights.
"Lemme see, now, dere was six of us chilluns. My mem'ry ain't so good no
more, but Charley was oldes', den come Dolly and Jennie and Susie and me
and Laura. Law me, I guess old Dr. Bass, what was doctor for Marse John,
use to be right busy with us 'bout once a year for quite a spell.
"Dem times dey don't marry by no license. Dey takes a slave man and
woman from de same plantation and puts 'em together, or sometime a man
from 'nother plantation, like my papa and mama. Mamma say Marse John
give 'em a big supper in de big house and read out de Bible 'bout
obeyin' and workin' and den dey am married. Course, de nigger jes' a
slave and have to do what de white folks say, so dat way of marryin'
'bout good as any.
"But Marse John sho' was de good marse and we had plenty to eat and wear
and no one ever got whipped. Marse John say iffen he have a nigger what
oughta be whipped, he'd git rid of him quick, 'cause a bad nigger jes'
like a rotten 'tater in a sack of good ones--it spoil de others.
"Back dere in Virginny it sho' git cold in winter, but come September de
wood gang git busy cuttin' wood and haulin' it to de yard. Dey makes two
piles, one for de big house and de bigges' pile for de slaves. When dey
git it all hauled it look like a big woodyard. While dey is haulin', de
women make quilts and dey is wool quilts. Course, dey ain't made out of
shearin' wool, but jes' as good. Marse John have lots of sheep and when
dey go through de briar patch de wool cotch on dem briars and in de fall
de women folks goes out and picks de wool off de briars jes' like you
picks cotton. Law me, I don't know nothin' 'bout makin' quilts out of
cotton till I comes to Texas.
"Course I never done no work, 'cause Marse John won't work no one till
dey is fifteen years old. Den dey works three hours a day and dat all.
Dey don't work full time till dey's eighteen. We was jes' same as free
niggers on our place. He gives each slave a piece of ground to make de
crop on and buys de stuff hisself. We growed snap beans and corn and
plant on a light moon, or turnips and onions we plant on de dark moon.
"When I gits old 'nough Marse John lets me take he daughter, Nancy Lee,
to school. It am twelve miles and de yard man hitches up old Bess to de
buggy and we gits in and no one in dat county no prouder dan what I was.
"Marse John lets us go visit other plantations and no pass, neither.
Iffen de patterroller stop us, we jes' say we 'long to Marse John and
dey don't bother us none. Iffen dey comes to our cabin from other
plantations, dey has to show de patterroller de pass, and iffen dey
slipped off and ain't got none, de patterroller sho' give a whippin'
den. But dey waits till dey off our place, 'cause Marse John won't 'low
no whippin' on our place by no one.
"Well, things was jes' 'bout de same all de time till jes' 'fore
freedom. Course, I hears some talk 'bout bluebellies, what dey call de
Yanks, fightin' our folks, but dey wasn't fightin' round us. Den one dey
mamma took sick and she had hear talk and call me to de bed and say,
'Lucinda, we all gwine be free soon and not work 'less we git paid for
it.' She sho' was right, 'cause Marse John calls all us to de cookhouse
and reads de freedom papers to us and tells us we is all free, but iffen
we wants to stay he'll give us land to make a crop and he'll feed us.
Now I tells you de truth, dey wasn't no one leaves, 'cause we all loves
Marse John.
"Den, jus' three weeks after freedom mama dies and dat how come me to
leave Marse John. You see, Marse Gibson what owns papa 'fore freedom,
was a good marse and when papa was sot free Marse Gibson gives him some
land to farm. 'Course, papa was gwine have us all with him, but when
mamma dies, Marse Gibson tell him Mr. Will Jones and Miss Susie, he
wife, want a nurse girl for de chilluns, so papa hires me out to 'em and
I want to say right now, dey jes' as good white folks as Marse John and
Old Missy, and sho' treated me good.
"Law me, I never won't forgit one day. Mr. Will say, 'Lucinda, we is
gwine drive you over to Appomatox and take de chilluns and you can come,
too.' Course, I was tickled mos' to pieces but he didn't tell what he
gwine for. You know what? To see a nigger hung. I gettin' long mighty
old now, but I won't never forgit dat. He had kilt a man, and I never
saw so many people 'fore, what dere to see him hang. I jes' shut my
eyes.
"Den Mr. Will he take me to de big tree what have all de bark strip off
it and de branches strip off, and say, 'Lucinda, dis de tree where Gen.
Lee surrendered.' I has put dese two hands right on dat tree, yes, suh,
I sho' has.
"Miss Susie say one day, 'Lucinda, how you like to go with us to Texas?'
Law me, I didn't know where Texas was at, or nothin', but I loved Mr.
Will and Miss Susie and de chilluns was all wrop up in me, so I say I'll
go. And dat how come I'm here, and I ain't never been back, and I ain't
see my own sisters and brother and papa since.
"We come to New Orleans on de train and takes de boat on de Gulf to
Galveston and den de train to Hempstead. Mr. Will farm at first and den
he and Miss Susie run de hotel, and I stays with dem till I gets married
to Will Elder in '75, and I lives with him till de good Lawd takes him
home.
"I has five chilluns but all dead now, 'ceptin' two. I done served de
Lawd now for 64 years and soon he's gwine call old Lucinda, but I'm
ready and I know I'll be better off when I die and go to Heaven, 'cause
I'm old and no 'count now.
420024
[Illustration: John Ellis]
JOHN ELLIS, was born June 26, 1852, a slave of the Ellis family in
Johnson County near Cleburne, Texas. He remained with his white
folks and was paid by the month for his labor for one year after
freedom, when his master died and his mistress returned to
Mississippi. He worked as a laborer for many years around Cleburne,
coming to San Angelo, Texas in 1928. He now lives alone and is very
active for his age.
John relates:
"My father and mother, John and Fannie Ellis, were sold in Springfield,
Missouri, to my marster, Parson Ellis, and taken away from all their
people and brought to Johnson County, Texas.
"My marster, he was a preacher and a good man. None of de slaves ever
have better white folks den we did.
"We had good beds and good food and dey teaches us to read and write
too. De buffalo and de antelope and de deer was mos' as thick as de
cattle now, and we was sent out after dem, so we would always have
plenty of fresh meat. We had hogs and cattle too. Any of dem what was
not marked was just as much ours as iffen we had raised dem, 'cause de
range was all free.
"Some of de fish we would catch out of dat Brazos River would be so big
dey would pull us in but finally we would manage to gits dem out. De
rabbits and de 'possum was plentiful too and wid de big garden what our
marster had for us all, we sho' had good to eat.
"I's done all kinds of work what it takes to run a fa'm. My boss he had
only fourteen slaves and what was called a small fa'm, compared wid de
big plantations. After our days work was done we would set up at night
and pick de seed out of de cotton so dey could spin it into thread. Den
we goes out and gits different kinds of bark and boils it to git dye for
de thread 'fore it was spinned into cloth. De chillun jes' have long
shirts and slips made out of dis home spun and we makes our shoes out of
rawhide, and Lawdy! Dey was so hard we would have to warm dem by de fire
and grease dem wid tallow to ever wear dem 'tall.
"We had good log huts and our boss had a bigger log house. We never did
work long into de night and long 'fore day like I hear tell some did. We
didn' have none of dem drivers and when we done anything very bad old
marster he whoop us a little but we never got hurt.
"I didn' see no slaves sold. Dat was done, I hear, but not so much in
Texas. I never did see no jails nor chains nor nothin' like dat either,
but I hears 'bout dem.
"We never worked Sat'days and de colored went to church wid de whites
and jine de church too, but dey never baptized dem so far as I knows.
"We had lots to eat and big times on Christmas, mos' as big as when de
white folks gits married. Umph, um! One of de gi'ls got married once and
she had such a long train on dat weddin' gown 'til me and my sister, we
have to walks along behind her and carry dat thing, all of us a-walkin'
on a strip of nice cloth from de carriage to de church. We sho' have de
cakes and all dem good eats at dem weddin' suppers.
"I nev'r hear tell of many colored weddin's. We jes' jumps over de broom
an' de bride she has to jump over it backwards and iffen she couldn'
jump it backwards she couldn't git married. Dat was sho' funny, seein'
dem colored gi'ls a tryin' to jump dat broom.
"Our boss, he tells us 'bout bein' free and he say he hire us by de
month and we stays dere a year and he dies, den ole miss she go back to
Mississippi and we jes' scatter 'round, some a workin' here and some a
workin' yonder, mos' times for our victuals and clothes. I couldn' tell
much difference myself 'cause I had good people to live wid and when it
was dat way de whites and de colored was better off de way I sees it
den dey is now, some of dem.
"I seem jes' punyin' away, de doctors don' know jes' what's wrong wid me
but I never was use to doctors anyway, jes' some red root tea or sage
weed and sheep waste tea for de measles am all de doctoring we gits when
we was slaves and dat done jes' as well.
"My wife she been dead all dese years an' I jes' lives here alone.
"Chillun? No mam, I never had no chillun 'fore I was married an' I only
had twelve after I was married; yes mam, jes' nine boys and three girls,
but I prefers to live here by myself, 'cause I gits along alright."
420945
[Illustration: Lorenza Ezell]
LORENZA EZELL, Beaumont, Texas, Negro, was born in 1850 on the
plantation of Ned Lipscomb, in Spartanburg County, South Carolina.
Lorenza is above the average in intelligence and remembers many
incidents of slavery and Reconstruction days. He came to Brenham,
Texas, in 1882, and several years later moved to Beaumont, where he
lives in a little shack almost hidden by vines and trees.
"Us plantation was jes' east from Pacolet Station on Thicketty Creek, in
Spartanburg County, in South Carolina. Dat near Little and Big Pacolet
Rivers on de route to Limestone Springs, and it jes' a ordinary
plantation with de main crops cotton and wheat.
"I 'long to de Lipscombs and my mama, Maria Ezell, she 'long to 'em,
too. Old Ned Lipscomb was 'mongst de oldest citizens of dat county. I's
born dere on July 29th, in 1850 and I be 87 year old dis year. Levi
Ezell, he my daddy, and he 'long to Landrum Ezell, a Baptist preacher.
Dat young massa and de old massa, John Ezell, was de first Baptist
preacher I ever heered of. He have three sons, Landrum and Judson and
Bryson. Bryson have gif' for business and was right smart of a orator.
"Dey's fourteen niggers on de Lipscomb place. Dey's seven of us chillen,
my mamma, three uncle and three aunt and one man what wasn't no kin to
us. I was oldest of de chillen, and dey called Sallie and Carrie and
Alice and Jabus and Coy and LaFate and Rufus and Nelson.
"Old Ned Lipscomb was one de best massa in de whole county. You know dem
old patterrollers, dey call us 'Old Ned's free niggers,' and sho' hate
us. Dey cruel to us, 'cause dey think us have too good a massa. One time
dey cotch my uncle and beat him most to death.
"Us go to work at daylight, but us wasn't 'bused. Other massas used to
blow de horn or ring de bell, but massa, he never use de horn or de
whip. All de man folks was 'lowed raise a garden patch with tobaccy or
cotton for to sell in de market. Wasn't many massas what 'lowed dere
niggers have patches and some didn't even feed 'em enough. Dat's why dey
have to git out and hustle at night to git food for dem to eat.
"De old massa, he 'sisted us go to church. De Baptist church have a shed
built behind de pulpit for cullud folks, with de dirt floor and split
log seat for de women folks, but most de men folks stands or kneels on
de floor. Dey used to call dat de coop. De white preacher back to us,
but iffen he want to he turn 'round and talk to us awhile. Us mess up
songs, 'cause us couldn't read or write. I 'member dis one:
'De rough, rocky road what Moses done travel,
I's bound to carry my soul to de Lawd;
It's a mighty rocky road but I mos' done travel,
And I's bound to carry my soul to de Lawd.'
"Us sing 'Sweet Chariot,' but us didn't sing it like dese days. Us sing:
'Swing low, sweet chariot,
Freely let me into rest,
I don't want to stay here no longer;
Swing low, sweet chariot,
When Gabriel make he las' alarm
I wants to be rollin' in Jesus arm,
'Cause I don't want to stay here no longer.'
Us sing 'nother song what de Yankees take dat tune and make a hymm out
of it. Sherman army sung it, too. We have it like dis:
'Our bodies bound to morter and decay,
Our bodies bound to morter and decay,
Our bodies bound to morter and decay,
But us souls go marchin' home.'
"Befo' de war I jes' big 'nough to drap corn and tote water. When de
little white chillen go to school 'bout half mile, I wait till noon and
run all de way up to de school to run base when dey play at noon. Dey
sev'ral young Lipscombs, dere Smith and Bill and John and Nathan, and de
oldest son, Elias.
"In dem days cullud people jes' like mules and hosses. Dey didn't have
no last name. My mamma call me after my daddy's massa, Ezell. Mamma was
de good woman and I 'member her more dan once rockin' de little cradle
and singin' to de baby. Dis what she sing:
"Milk in de dairy nine days old,
Sing-song Kitty, can't you ki-me-o?
Frogs and skeeters gittin' mighty bol!
Sing-song, Kitty, can't you ki-me-o?
(Chorus)
Keemo, kimo, darro, wharro,
With me hi, me ho;
In come Sally singin'
Sometime penny winkle,
Lingtum nip cat,
Sing-song, Kitty, can't you ki-me-o?
Dere a frog live in a pool,
Sing-song, Kitty, can't you ki-me-o?
Sure he was de bigges' fool,
Sing-song Kitty, can't you ki-me-o?
For he could dance and he could sing
Sing-song, Kitty, can't you ki-me-o?
And make de woods aroun' him ring
Sing-song, Kitty, can't you ki-me-o?'
"Old massa didn't hold with de way some mean massas treat dey niggers.
Dere a place on our plantation what us call 'De old meadow.' It was
common for runaway niggers to have place 'long de way to hide and res'
when dey run off from mean massa. Massa used to give 'em somethin' to
eat when dey hide dere. I saw dat place operated, though it wasn't
knowed by dat den, but long time after I finds out dey call it part of
de 'Underground railroad.' Dey was stops like dat all de way up to de
north.
"We have went down to Columbia when I 'bout 11 year old and dat where de
first gun fired. Us rush back home, but I could say I heered de first
guns of de war shot, at Fort Sumter.
"When Gen'ral Sherman come 'cross de Savannah River in South Carolina,
some of he sojers come right 'cross us plantation. All de neighbors have
brung dey cotton and stack it in de thicket on de Lipscomb place.
Sherman men find it and sot it on fire. Dat cotton stack was big as a
little courthouse and it took two months' burnin'.
"My old massa run off and stay in de woods a whole week when Sherman men
come through. He didn't need to worry, 'cause us took care of
everythin'. Dey a funny song us make up 'bout him runnin' off in de
woods. I know it was make up, 'cause my uncle have a hand in it. It went
like dis:
'White folks, have you seed old massa
Up de road, with he mustache on?
He pick up he hat and he leave real sudden
And I 'lieve he's up and gone.
(Chorus)
'Old massa run away
And us darkies stay at home.
It mus' be now dat Kingdom's comin'
And de year of Jubilee.
'He look up de river and he seed dat smoke
Where de Lincoln gunboats lay.
He big 'nuff and he old 'nuff and he orter know better,
But he gone and run away.
'Now dat overseer want to give trouble
And trot us 'round a spell,
But we lock him up in de smokehouse cellar,
With de key done throwed in de well.'
"Right after dat I start to be boy what run mail from camp to camp for
de sojers. One time I capture by a bunch of deserters what was hidin' in
de woods 'long Pacolet River. Dey didn't hurt me, though, but dey mos'
scare me to death. Dey parole me and turn me loose.
"All four my young massas go to de war, all but Elias. He too old.
Smith, he kilt at Manassas Junction. Nathan he git he finger shot at de
first round at Fort Sumter. But when Billy was wounded at Howard Gap in
North Carolina and dey brung him home with he jaw split open, I so mad I
could have kilt all de Yankees. I say I be happy iffen I could kill me
jes' one Yankee. I hated dem 'cause dey hurt my white people. Billy was
disfigure awful when he jaw split and he teeth all shine through he
cheek.
"After war was over, old massa call us up and told us we free but he
'vise not leave de place till de crop was through. Us all stay. Den us
select us homes and move to it. Us folks move to Sam Littlejohn's, north
of Thickettty Creek, where us stay two year. Den us move back to Billy
Lipscomb, de young massa, and stay dere two more year. I's right smart
good banjo picker in dem day. I kin 'member one dem songs jes' as good
today as when I pick it. Dat was:
'Early in de mornin'
Don't you hear de dogs a-barkin'?
Bow, wow, wow!
(Chorus)
'Hush, hush, boys
Don't make a noise,
Massa's fast a-sleepin'.
Run to de barnyard
Wake up de boys
Let's have banjo pickin.'.
'Early in de mornin'
Don't you hear dem roosters crowin'?
Cock-a-doodle-do.
"I come in contac' with de Klu Klux. Us lef' de plantation in '65 or '66
and by '68 us was havin' sich a awful time with de Klu Klux. First time
dey come to my mamma's house at midnight and claim dey sojers done come
back from de dead. Dey all dress up in sheets and make up like spirit.
Dey groan 'round and say dey been kilt wrongly and come back for
justice. One man, he look jus' like ordinary man, but he spring up 'bout
eighteen feet high all of a sudden. Another say he so thirsty he ain't
have no water since he been kilt at Manassas Junction. He ask for water
and he jes' kept pourin' it in. Us think he sho' must be a spirit to
drink dat much water. Course he not drinkin' it, he pourin' it in a bag
under he sheet. My mama never did take up no truck with spirits so she
knowed it jes' a man. Dey tell us what dey gwine do iffen we don't all
go back to us massas and us all 'grees and den dey all dis'pear.
"Den us move to New Prospect on de Pacolet River, on de Perry Clemmons'
place. Dat in de upper edge of de county and dat where de second swarm
of de Klu Klux come out. Dey claim dey gwine kill everybody what am
Repub'can. My daddy charge with bein' a leader 'mongst de niggers. He
make speech and 'struct de niggers how to vote for Grant's first
'lection. De Klu Klux want to whip him and he have to sleep in a holler
log every night.
"Dey's a old man name Uncle Bart what live 'bout half mile from us. De
Klu Klux come to us house one night, but my daddy done hid. Den I hear
dem say dey gwine go kill old man Bart. I jump out de window and cut
short cut through dem wood and warn him. He git out de house in time and
I save he life. De funny thing, I knowed all dem Klu Klux. Spite dey
sheets and things, I knowed dey voices and dey saddle hosses.
"Dey one white man name Irving Ramsey. Us play fiddle together lots of
time. When de white boys dance dey allus wants me to go to play for dey
party. One day I say to dat boy, 'I done knowed you last night.' He say,
'What you mean?' I say, 'You one dem Klu Klux.' He want to know how I
know. I say, 'Member when you go under de chestnut tree and say, "Whoa,
Sont, whoa, Sont, to your hoss?" He say, 'Yes,' and I laugh and say,
'Well, I's right up in dat tree.' Dey all knowed I knowed dem den, but I
never told on dem. When dey seed I ain't gwineter tell, dey never try
whip my daddy or kill Uncle Bart no more.
"I ain't never been to school but I jes' picked up readin'. With some my
first money I ever earn I buy me a old blue-back Webster. I carry dat
book wherever I goes. When I plows down a row I stop at de end to rest
and den I overlook de lesson. I 'member one de very first lessons was,
'Evil communications 'rupts good morals.' I knowed de words 'evil' and
'good' and a white man 'splain de others. I been done use dat lesson all
my life.
"After us left de Pacolet River us stay in Atlanta a little while and
den I go on to Louisiana. I done lef' Spartanburg completely in '76 but
I didn't git into Texas till 1882. I fin'lly git to Brenham, Texas and
marry Rachel Pinchbeck two year after. Us was marry in church and have
seven chillen. Den us sep'rate. I been batching 'bout 20 year and I done
los' track mos' dem chillen. My gal, Lula, live in Beaumont, and Will,
he in Chicago.
"Every time I tells dese niggers I's from South Carolina dey all say,
'O, he bound to make a heap.' I could be a conjure doctor and make
plenty money, but dat ain't good. In slavery time dey's men like dat
'garded as bein' dangerous. Dey make charms and put bad mouth on you. De
old folks wears de rabbit foot or coon foot and sometime a silver dime
on a fishin' string to keep off de witches. Some dem old conjure people
make lots of money for charm 'gainst ruin or cripplin' or dry up de
blood. But I don't take up no truck with things like dat.
420093
[Illustration: Betty Farrow]
BETTY FARROW, 90, now living with a son on a farm in Moser Valley,
a Negro settlement ten miles northeast of Fort Worth on Texas
Highway No. 15, was born a slave to Mr. Alex Clark, plantation
owner in Patrick Co., Virginia.
"I's glad to tell what I knows, but yous have to 'scuse me, 'cause my
'collection am bad. I jus' don' 'member much, but I's bo'n on Masta Alex
Clark's plantation in Patrick County, Virginny, on June 28th, 1847.
Dat's what my mammy tol' me. You see, we cullud folks have no schoolin'
dem days and I can't read or write. I has to depen' on what folks tells
me.
"Masta Clark has right smart plantation in ole Virginny and he owns
'bout twenty other slaves dat wo'ked de big place. He had three girls
and four boys and when I's a chile we'uns played togedder and we'uns
'tached to each other all our lives.
"In mammy's family dere was five boys and four girls. I don' 'member my
pappy. When I's 'bout ten, I's set to work, peddalin' 'round de house.
"'bout three years 'fore de war marster sol' his plantation for to go to
Texas. I 'members de day we'uns started in three covered wagons, all
loaded. 'Twas celebration day for us chillun. We travels from daylight
to dark, 'cept to feed and res' de mules at noon. I don' rec'lec' how
long we was on de way, but 'twas long time and 'twarn't no celebration
towards de las'. After while we comes to Sherman, in Texas, to our new
farm.
"When we was dere 'bout a year, dere am heaps of trouble. Dere was a
neighbor, Shields, he's drivin' wood to town and goes n'cross masta's
yard and dey have arg'ments. One day we chillen playin' and masta
settin' on de front porch and Shields come up de road. Masta stops him
when he starts to cross de yard and de fust thing we knows, we hears
'bang' and dat Shields shoot de masta and we sees him fall. Dey sen's
young Alex for de doctor and he makes dat mule run like he never run
'fore. De doctor comes in de house and looks at de masta, and listens to
his heart and says, 'He am dead.' Dere was powerful sorrow in dat home.
"After dat, Masta Alex takes charge, and in 'bout one year, he says,
'We'uns goin' to Fort Worth.' So we goes, and if I rec'lec's right, dat
year de war started. After dat, dere was times dere wasn' enough to make
de clothes, but we'uns allus had plenty to eat, and we gives lots of
feed to de army mans.
"I don' 'member bein' tol' I's free. We'uns stayed right dere on de farm
'cause it was de only home we knew and no reason to go. I stays dere
till I's twenty-seven years ole, den I marries and my husban' rents
land. We'uns has ten chillun and sometimes we has to skimp, but we gets
on. When my husban' dies fifteen years ago, I comes here. I's allus been
too busy tendin' to my 'sponsibilities for to git in de debilmen' and
now I's happy, tendin' to my great gran'chile.
420147
JOHN FINNELY, 86, was born a slave to Martin Finnely, in Jackson
Co., Alabama. During the Civil War ten slaves escaped from the
Finnely plantation. Their success led John to escape. He joined the
Federal Army. John farmed from 1865 until 1917, then moved to Fort
Worth, Tex., and worked in packing plants until 1930. He now lives
at 2812 Cliff St., Fort Worth, his sole support a $17.00 monthly
pension.
"Alabama am de state where I's born and dat 86 year ago, in Jackson
County, on Massa Martin Finnely's plantation, and him owns 'bout 75
other slaves 'sides mammy and me. My pappy am on dat plantation but I
don't know him, 'cause mammy never talks 'bout him 'cept to say, 'He am
here.'
"Massa run de cotton plantation but raises stock and feed and corn and
cane and rations for de humans sich as us. It am diff'rent when I's a
young'un dan now. Den, it am needful for to raise everything yous need,
'cause dey couldn't 'pend on factory made goods. Dey could buy shoes and
clothes and sich, but we'uns could make dem so much cheaper.
"What we'uns make? 'Low me to 'collect a li'l. Let's see, we'uns make
shoes, and leather and clothes and cloth and grinds de meal. And we'uns
cures de meat, preserves de fruit and make 'lassas and brown sugar. All
de harness for de mules and de hosses is make and de carts for haulin'.
Am dat all? Oh, yes, massa make peach brandy and him have he own still.
"De work am 'vided 'twixt de cullud folks and us allus have certain
duties to do. I's am de field hand and befo' I's old 'nough for to do
dat, dey has me help with de chores and errands.
"Us have de cabins of logs with one room and one door and one window
hole and bunks for sleepin'. But no cookin' am done dere. It am done in
de cookhouse by de cooks for all us niggers and we'uns eats in de eatin'
shed. De rations am good, plain victuals and dere plenty of it and 'bout
twict a week dere somethin' for treat. Massa sho' am 'ticular 'bout
feedin', 'specially for de young'uns in de nursery. You see, dere am de
nursery for sich what needs care while dere mammies am a-workin'.
"Massa feed plenty and him 'mand plenty work. Dat cause heap of trouble
on dat plantation, 'cause whippin's am given and hard ones, too. Lots of
times at de end of de day I's so tired I's couldn't speak for to stop de
mule, I jus' have to lean back on de lines.
"Dis nigger never gits whupped 'cept for dis, befo' I's a field hand.
Massa use me for huntin' and use me for de gun rest. When him have de
long shot I bends over and puts de hands on de knees and massa puts his
gun on my back for to git de good aim. What him kills I runs and fotches
and carries de game for him. I turns de squirrels for him and dat
disaway: de squirrel allus go to udder side from de hunter and I walks
'round de tree and de squirrel see me and go to massa's side de tree and
he gits de shot.
"All dat not so bad, but when he shoots de duck in de water and I has to
fotch it out, dat give me de worryment. De fust time he tells me to go
in de pond I's skeert, powe'ful skeert. I takes off de shirt and pants
but there I stands. I steps in de water, den back 'gain, and 'gain.
Massa am gittin' mad. He say, 'Swim in dere and git dat duck.' 'Yes,
sar, massa,' I says, but I won't go in dat water till massa hit me some
licks. I couldn't never git use to bein' de water dog for de ducks.
"De worst whuppin' I seed was give to Clarinda. She hits massa with de
hoe 'cause he try 'fere with her and she try stop him. She am put on de
log and give 500 lashes. She am over dat log all day and when dey takes
her off, she am limp and act deadlike. For a week she am in de bunk. Dat
whuppin' cause plenty trouble and dere lots of arg'ments 'mong de white
folks 'round dere.
"We has some joyments on de plantation, no parties or dancin' but we has
de corn huskin' and de nigger fights. For de corn huskin' everybody come
to one place and dey gives de prize for findin' de red ear. On massa's
place de prize am brandy or you am 'lowed to kiss de gal you calls for.
While us huskin' us sing lots. No, no, I's not gwine sing any dem songs,
'cause I's forgit and my voice sound like de bray of de mule.
"De nigger fights am more for de white folks' joyment but de slaves am
'lowed to see it. De massas of plantations match dere niggers 'cording
to size and bet on dem. Massa Finnely have one nigger what weighs 'bout
150 pounds and him powerful good fighter and he like to fight. None
lasts long with him. Den a new niggers comes to fight him.
"Dat fight am held at night by de pine torch light. A ring am made by de
folks standin' 'round in de circle. Deys 'lowed to do anything with dey
hands and head and teeth. Nothin' barred 'cept de knife and de club. Dem
two niggers gits in de ring and Tom he starts quick, and dat new nigger
he starts jus' as quick. Dat 'sprise Tom and when dey comes togedder it
like two bulls--kersmash--it sounds like dat. Den it am hit and kick and
bite and butt anywhere and any place for to best de udder. De one on de
bottom bites knees or anything him can do. Dat's de way it go for half
de hour.
"Fin'ly dat new nigger gits Tom in de stomach with he knee and a lick
side de jaw at de same time and down go Tom and de udder nigger jumps on
him with both feets, den straddle him and hits with right, left, right,
left, right, side Tom's head. Dere Tom lay, makin' no 'sistance.
Everybody am saysin', 'Tom have met he match, him am done.' Both am
bleedin' and am awful sight. Well, dat new nigger 'laxes for to git he
wind and den Tom, quick like de flash, flips him off and jump to he feet
and befo' dat new nigger could git to he feet, Tom kicks him in de
stomach, 'gain and 'gain. Dat nigger's body start to quaver and he massa
say, 'Dat 'nough.' Dat de clostest Tom ever come to gittin' whupped what
I's know of.
"I becomes a runaway nigger short time after dat fight. De war am
started den for 'bout a year, or somethin' like dat, and de Fed'rals am
north of us. I hears de niggers talk 'bout it, and 'bout runnin' 'way to
freedom. I thinks and thinks 'bout gittin' freedom, and I's gwine run
off. Den I thinks of de patter rollers and what happen if dey cotches me
off de place without de pass. Den I thinks of some joyment sich as de
corn huskin' and de fights and de singin' and I don't know what to do. I
tells you one singin' but I can't sing it:
"'De moonlight, a shinin' star,
De big owl hootin' in de tree;
O, bye, my baby, ain't you gwineter sleep,
A-rockin' on my knee?
"'Bye, my honey baby,
A-rockin' on my knee,
Baby done gone to sleep,
Owl hush hootin' in de tree.
"'She gone to sleep, honey baby sleep,
A-rockin' on my, a-rockin' on my knee.'
"Now, back to de freedom. One night 'bout ten niggers run away. De next
day we'uns hears nothin', so I says to myself, 'De patters don't cotch
dem.' Den I makes up my mind to go and I leaves with de chunk of meat
and cornbread and am on my way, half skeert to death. I sho' has de eyes
open and de ears forward, watchin' for de patters. I steps off de road
in de night, at sight of anything, and in de day I takes to de woods. It
takes me two days to make dat trip and jus' once de patters pass me by.
I am in de thicket watchin' dem and I's sho' dey gwine search dat
thicket, 'cause dey stops and am a-talkin' and lookin' my way. Dey
stands dere for a li'l bit and den one comes my way. Lawd A-mighty! Dat
sho' look like de end, but dat man stop and den look and look. Den he
pick up somethin' and goes back. It am a bottle and dey all takes de
drink and rides on. I's sho' in de sweat and I don't tarry dere long.
"De Yanks am camped nere Bellfound and dere's where I gits to. 'Magine
my 'sprise when I finds all de ten runaway niggers am dere, too. Dat am
on a Sunday and on de Monday, de Yanks puts us on de freight train and
we goes to Stevenson, in Alabama. Dere, us put to work buildin'
breastworks. But after de few days, I gits sent to de headquarters at
Nashville, in Tennessee.
"I's water toter dere for de army and dere am no fightin' at first but
'fore long dey starts de battle. Dat battle am a 'sperience for me. De
noise am awful, jus' one steady roar of de guns and de cannons. De
window glass in Nashville am all shoke out from de shakement of de
cannons. Dere am dead mens all over de ground and lots of wounded and
some cussin' and some prayin'. Some am moanin' and dis and dat one cry
for de water and, God A-mighty, I don't want any sich 'gain. Dere am
men carryin' de dead off da field, but dey can't keep up with de
cannons. I helps bury de dead and den I gits sent to Murphysboro and
dere it am jus' de same.
"You knows when Abe Lincoln am shot? Well, I's in Nashville den and it
am near de end of de war and I am standin' on Broadway Street talkin'
with de sergeant when up walk a man and him shakes hands with me and
says, 'I's proud to meet a brave, young fellow like you.' Dat man am
Andrew Johnson and him come to be president after Abe's dead.
"I stays in Nashville when de war am over and I marries Tennessee House
in 1875 and she died July 10th, 1936. Dat make 61 year dat we'uns am
togedder. Her old missy am now livin' in Arlington Heights, right here
in Fort Worth and her name am Mallard and she come from Tennessee, too.
"I comes here from Tennessee 51 year ago and at fust I farms and den I
works for de packin' plants till dey lets me out, 'cause I's too old for
to do 'nough work for dem.
"I has eight boys and three girls, dat make eleven chillen, and dey
makin' scatterment all over de country so I's alone in my old age. I has
dat $17.00 de month pension what I gits from de State.
"Dat am de end of de road.
420031
[Illustration: Sarah Ford]
SARAH FORD, whose age is problematical, but who says, "I's been
here for a long time," lives in a small cottage at 3151 Clay St.,
Houston, Texas. Born on the Kit Patton plantation near West
Columbia, Texas, Aunt Sarah was probably about fifteen years old
when emancipated. She had eleven children, the first born during
the storm of 1875, at East Columbia, in which Sarah's mother and
father both perished.
"Law me, you wants me to talk 'bout slave times, and you is cotched me
'fore I's had my coffee dis mornin', but when you gits old as I is, talk
is 'bout all you can do, so 'scuse me whilst I puts de coffee pot on de
fire and tell you what I can.
"Now, what I tells you is de truth, 'cause I only told one little lie in
my whole life and I got cotched in it and got whipped both ways. Oh,
Lawd, I sho' never won't forget dat, mama sho' was mad. Mama sends me
over to Sally Ann, the cow woman, to get some milk and onions. I never
did like to borrow, so I comes back with the milk and tell mama Sally
Ann say she ain't got no onions for no Africans. Dat make mamma mad and
she goes tell dat Sally Ann Somethin'. She brung back de onions and say,
'You, Sarah, I'll larn you not to tell no lie.' She sho' give me a
hidin'.
"Now, I tells you 'bout de plantation what I's born on. You all knows
where West Columbia is at? Well, dat's right where I's born, on Massa
Kit Patton's Plantation, dey calls it de Hogg place now." (Owned by
children of Gov. Will Hogg.)
"Mamma and papa belongs to Massa Kit and mama born there, too. Folks
called her 'Little Jane,' 'cause she's no bigger'n nothing.
"Papa's name was Mike and he's a tanner and he come from Tennessee and
sold to Massa Kit by a nigger trader. He wasn't all black, he was part
Indian. I heared him say what tribe, but I can't 'lect now. When I's
growed mama tells me lots of things. She say de white folks don't let de
slaves what works in de field marry none, dey jus' puts a man and
breedin' woman together like mules. Iffen the women don't like the man
it don't make no diff'rence, she better go or dey gives her a hidin'.
"Massa Kit has two brothers, Massa Charles and Massa Matt, what lives at
West Columbia. Massa Kit on one side Varney's Creek and Massa Charles on
de other side. Massa Kit have a African woman from Kentucky for he wife,
and dat's de truth. I ain't sayin' iffen she a real wife or not, but all
de slaves has to call her 'Miss Rachel.' But iffen a bird fly up in de
sky it mus' come down sometime, and Rachel jus' like dat bird, 'cause
Massa Kit go crazy and die and Massa Charles take over de plantation and
he takes Rachel and puts her to work in de field. But she don't stay in
de field long, 'cause Massa Charles puts her in a house by herself and
she don't work no more.
"If us gits sick us call Mammy Judy. She de cook and iffen you puts a
sugar barrel 'long side her and puts a face on dat barrel, you sho'
can't tell it from her, she so round and fat. Iffen us git real sick dey
calls de doctor, but iffen it a misery in de stomach or jus' de flux,
Mammy Judy fix up some burr vine tea or horsemint tea. Dey de male burr
vine and de female burr vine and does a woman or gal git de misery, dey
gives 'em de female tea, and does a man, or boy chile git it, dey gives
him de male vine tea.
"Scuse me while I pours me some coffee. It sho' do fortify me. You know
what us drink for coffee in slave times? Parched meal, and it purty good
iffen you know's how.
"Us don't have much singin' on our place, 'cepting at church on Sunday.
Law me, de folks what works in de fields feels more like cryin' at
night. Us chillen used to sing dis:
"'Where you goin', buzzard,
Where you gwine to go?
I's goin' down to new ground,
For to hunt Jim Crow.'
"I guess Massa Charles, what taken us when Massa Kit die, was 'bout de
same as all white folks what owned slaves, some good and some bad. We
has plenty to eat--more'n I has now--and plenty clothes and shoes. But
de overseer was Uncle Big Jake, what's black like de rest of us, but he
so mean I 'spect de devil done make him overseer down below long time
ago. Dat de bad part of Massa Charles, 'cause he lets Uncle Jake whip de
slaves so much dat some like my papa what had spirit was all de time
runnin' 'way. And even does your stomach be full, and does you have
plenty clothes, dat bullwhip on your bare hide make you forgit de good
part, and dat's de truth.
"Uncle Big Jake sho' work de slaves from early mornin' till night. When
you is in de field you better not lag none. When its fallin' weather de
hands is put to work fixin' dis and dat. De woman what has li'l chillen
don't have to work so hard. Dey works 'round de sugar house and come 11
o'clock dey quits and cares for de babies till 1 o'clock, and den works
till 3 o'clock and quits.
"Massa Charles have a arbor and dat's where we has preachin'. One day
old Uncle Law preachin' and he say, 'De Lawd make everyone to come in
unity and on de level, both white and black.' When Massa Charles hears
'bout it, he don't like it none, and de next mornin' old Uncle Jake git
Uncle Law and put him out in de field with de rest.
"Massa Charles run dat plantation jus' like a factory. Uncle Cip was
sugar man, my papa tanner and Uncle John Austin, what have a wooden leg,
am shoemaker and make de shoes with de brass toes. Law me, dey heaps of
things go on in slave time what won't go on no more, 'cause de bright
light come and it ain't dark no more for us black folks. Iffen a nigger
run away and dey cotch him, or does he come back 'cause he hongry, I
seed Uncle Jake stretch him out on de ground and tie he hands and feet
to posts so he can't move none. Den he git de piece of iron what he call
de 'slut' and what is like a block of wood with little holes in it, and
fill de holes up with tallow and put dat iron in de fire till de grease
sizzlin' hot and hold it over de pore nigger's back and let dat hot
grease drap on he hide. Den he take de bullwhip and whip up and down,
and after all dat throw de pore nigger in de stockhouse and chain him up
a couple days with nothin' to eat. My papa carry de grease scars on he
back till he die.
"Massa Charles and Uncle Jake don't like papa, 'cause he ain't so black,
and he had spirit, 'cause he part Indian. Do somethin' go wrong and
Uncle Big Jake say he gwine to give papa de whippin', he runs off. One
time he gone a whole year and he sho' look like a monkey when he gits
back, with de hair standin' straight on he head and he face. Papa was
mighty good to mama and me and dat de only reason he ever come back
from runnin' 'way, to see us. He knowed he'd git a whippin' but he come
anyway. Dey never could cotch papa when he run 'way, 'cause he part
Indian. Massa Charles even gits old Nigger Kelly what lives over to
Sandy Point to track papa with he dogs, but papa wade in water and dey
can't track him.
"Dey knows papa is de best tanner 'round dat part de country, so dey
doesn't sell him off de place. I 'lect papa sayin' dere one place
special where he hide, some German folks, de name Ebbling, I think.
While he hides dere, he tans hides on de sly like and dey feeds him, and
lots of mornin's when us open de cabin door on a shelf jus' 'bove is
food for mama and me, and sometime store clothes. No one ain't see papa,
but dere it is. One time he brung us dresses, and Uncle Big Jake heered
'bout it and he sho' mad 'cause he can't cotch papa, and he say to mama
he gwine to whip her 'less she tell him where papa is. Mama say, 'Fore
God, Uncle Jake, I don't know, 'cause I ain't seed him since he run
'way,' and jus' den papa come 'round de corner of de house. He save mama
from de whippin' but papa got de hot grease drapped on him like I told
you Uncle Big Jake did, and got put in de stockhouse with shackles on
him, and kep' dere three days, and while he in dere mama has de goin'
down pains and my sister, Rachel, is born.
"When freedom come, I didn't know what dat was. I 'lect Uncle Charley
Burns what drive de buggy for Massa Charles, come runnin' out in de yard
and holler, 'Everybody free, everybody free,' and purty soon sojers
comes and de captain reads a 'mation. And, Law me, dat one time Massa
Charley can't open he mouth, 'cause de captain tell him to shut up, dat
he'd do de talkin'. Den de captain say, 'I come to tell you de slaves is
free and you don't have to call nobody master no more.' Well, us jus'
mill 'round like cattle do. Massa Charley say iffen us wants to stay
he'll pay us, all 'cepting my papa. He say, 'You can't stay here, 'cause
you is a bad 'fluence.'
"Papa left but come back with a wagon and mules what he borrows and
loads mama and my sister and me in and us go to East Columbia on de
Brazos river and settles down. Dey hires me out and us have our own
patch, too, and dat de fust time I ever seed any money. Papa builds a
cabin and a corn crib and us sho' happy, 'cause de bright light done
come and dey no more whippin's.
"One night us jus' finish eatin supper and someone holler 'Hello.' You
know who it was holler? Old Uncle Big Jake. De black folks all hated him
so dey wouldn't have no truck with him and he ask my papa could he stay.
Papa didn't like him none, 'cause he done treat papa so bad, but de old
devil jus' beg so hard papa takes him out to de corn crib and fix a
place for him and he stay most a month till he taken sick and died.
"I stays with papa and mama till I marries Wes Ford and I shows you how
de Lawd done give and take away. Wes and I has a cabin by ourselves near
papa's and I is jus' 'bout to have my first baby. De wind start blowin'
and it git harder and harder and right when its de worst de baby comes.
Dat in '75 and whilst I havin' my baby, de wind tear de cabin where mama
and papa is to pieces and kilt 'em. My sister Rachel was with me so she
wasn't kilt.
"Well, I can't complain, 'cause de Lawd sho' been good to me. Wes and
all 'cept four my chillen is dead now. I has six boys and five gals. But
de ones what is alive is pore like dey mammy. But I praises de Lawd
'cause de bright light am turned on.
420153
MILLIE FORWARD, about 95 years old, was born a slave of Jason
Forward, in Jasper, Texas. She has spent her entire life in that
vicinity, and now lives in Jasper with her son, Joe McRay. Millie
has been totally blind for fifteen years and is very deaf.
"Us used to live 'bout four mile east of Jasper, on de Newton Highway. I
reckon I's 'bout 95 year old and I thank de Lawd I's been spared dis
long. Some my old friends say I's 100, and maybe I is. I feels like it.
"I's born in Alabama and mammy have jus' got up when de white folks
brung us out west. Pappy's name Jim Forward and mammy name Mary. Dey
lef' pappy in Alabama, 'cause he 'long to 'nother massa.
"My massa name Jason Forward and he own a lot of slaves. I work as
housegirl and wait on de white women. Missus name am Sarah Ann Forward.
Massa Jason he own de fust drugstore in Jasper. I have de sister, Susan,
and de brudder, Tom. Massa and missus, dey treats us jes' like dey us
pappy and mammy.
"Us have more to eat den dan us do now. Us never was knowed to be
without meat, 'cause massa raise plenty pigs. Us have fish and possum
and coon and deer and everything. Us have biscuits and cake, too, but us
drink bran meal coffee. Massa and missus has no chillen and dey give us
feast and have biscuits and cake. Befo' Christmas massa go to town and
buy all kinds candy and toys and say, 'Millie, you go out on de gallery
and holler and tell Santy not forgit fill your stockin' tonight.' I
holler loud as I can and nex' mornin' my stockin' chock full.
"After freedom come, us stays right on with massa and missus. Massa
teach school for us at night. Us learn A B C and how spell cat and dog
and nigger. Den one day he git cross and scold us and us didn't go back
to school no more. Us didn't have sense 'nough to know he tryin' do us
good.
"Den missus git sick, but she dat good, dat when one cullud man git
drown in de 'river she sit up in bed and make he shroud and massa feed
de whole crowd de two days dey findin' de body. After him bury, missus
git worse and say, 'Jason, pull down de blind, de light am so bright it
hurt my eyes.' Den a big, white crane come light on de chimney and us
chillen throw rocks at him, but he jes' shake he head and ruffle he
feathers and still sit dere. I tells you dat de light of Heaven shinin'
on missus and iffen ever a woman went dere, she did. She de bes' white
woman I ever see. De day she die, I cry all day.
"When de sojers go to de war, every man take a slave to wait on him and
take care he camp and cook. After de end of war, when de sojers gwine
home, don't know how many Yankees pass through Jasper, but it sound like
de roar of a storm comin'. Every officer have he wife ridin' right by he
side. Dey wives come to go home with dem. Dey thousands bluecoats,
ridin' two abreas'.
"When I young lady, dey have tourn'ments at Adrian Ryall place west of
Jasper and de one what cotch de hoss bridle de most times, git crown
queen. I gits to be queen every time. I looks like a queen now, doesn't
I?
"After us git free a long time, me and Susan and Tom us work hard and
buy us de black land farm. But de deed git' burnt up and us didn't know
how to git 'nother deed, and a young nigger call McRay, he come foolin'
'round me and makin' love to me. He find out us don't have no deed no
more and he claim dat farm and take it 'way from us and leave me with
li'l baby boy what I names Joe Millie McRay. But never 'gain. I never
marries.
"Us done work in de cotton field and wash many a long day to pay for dat
farm. But dat boy growed to be a good man and I live with him and he
wife now. And he boy, Bob, am better still. He jes' work so hard and he
buy fine li'l home in Jasper and marry de bes' gal, mos' white. Dey have
nice fur'ture and gas and lights and everything.
"Dey treat us purty good in slavery days but I'd rather be free, but it
purty hard to be blind so long and most deaf, too, but I thank de Lawd
I's not sufferin'. I gits de pension of 'leven dollars a month. I's so
old I can't 'member much, only sometime, things comes to me I thought I
forgot long time ago. I's had it purty hard to pay for de farm and den
have it stoled from me when I's old and blind, but de good Lawd, he know
all 'bout it and we all got to stand 'fore de jedgment some day soon.
420051
[Illustration: Louis Fowler]
LOUIS FOWLER, 84, was born a slave to Robert Beaver, in Macon Co.,
Georgia. Fowler did not take his father's name, but that of his
stepfather, J. Fowler. After he was freed, Louis farmed for several
years, then worked in packing plants in Fort Worth, Tex. He lives
at 2706 Holland St., Fort Worth.
"Dis cullud person am 84 years old and I's born on de plantation of
Massa Robert Beaver, in old Georgia. He owned my mammy and 'bout 50
slaves. Now, 'bout my pappy, I lets you judge. Look at my hair. De color
am red, ain't it? My beard am red and my eyes is brown and my skin am
light yellow. Now, who does you think my pappy was? You don't know, of
course, but I knows, 'cause on dat plantation am a man dat am over six
feet tall and his hair as red as a brick.
"My mammy am married to a man named Fowler and he am owned by Massa Jack
Fowler, on de place next to ours. Our place am middlin' big and fixed
first class. He has first-class quarter for us cullud folks. De cabins
am two and some three rooms and dey all built of logs and chinked with a
piece of wood and daubed with dirt to fill de cracks. De way we'uns fix
dat dirt am take de clay or gumbo which am sticky when it am wet. Dat
dirt am soaked with water till it stick together and den hay or straw am
mixed with it. When sich mud am daubed in de cracks it stay and dem
cabins am sho' windproof and warm.
"De treatment am good and Massa Beaver have de choice name 'mong he
neighbors for bein' good to he niggers. No work on Sunday, no work on
Saturday evenin's. Dem times was for de cullud folks to do for
demselves. Massa Beaver have it fixed disaway, he 'low each family a
piece of groun' and dey can raise what dey likes.
"De rations am measure out and de massa allus 'low plenty of meat and we
has wheat flour. Mos' de niggers don't have wheat flour, but massa
raises de wheat and we gits it. We kin have 'lasses and brown sugar but
one thing we'uns has to watch am de waste, 'cause massa won't stand for
dat.
"De meat am cured with de hick'ry wood smoke and if you could git jus'
one taste dat ham and bacon you'd never eat none of this nowadays meat.
It sho' have a dif'rent taste.
"We makes de cloth and de wool and I could card and spin and weave 'fore
I's big 'nough to work in de field. My mammy larned me to help her. We
makes dye from de bark of walnut and de cherry and red oak trees, and
some from berries but what dey is I forgit. Iffen we'uns wants clay red,
we buries de cloth in red clay for a week and it takes on de color. Den
we soaks de cloth in cold salt water and it stays colored.
"Massa builded a log church house for we'uns cullud folks for to go to
God. Dat nigger named Allen Beaver am de preacherman and de leader in
all de parties, 'cause him can play de fiddle. No, Allen am not
educated, but can he preach a pow'ful sermon. O, Lawd! He am inspire
from de Lawd and he preached from his heartfelt.
"Dere am only one time dat a nigger gits whupped on dat plantation and
dat am not given by massa but by dem patterrollers. Massa don't
gin'rally 'low dem patterrollers whup on his place, and all de niggers
from round dere allus run from de patterrollers onto massa's land and
den dey safe. But in dis 'ticlar case, massa make de 'ception.
"'Twas nigger Jack what dey chases home and he gits under de cabin and
'fused to come out. Massa say, 'In dis case I gwine make 'ception,
'cause dat Jack he am too unreas'able. He allus chasin' after some
nigger wench and not satisfied with de pass I give. Give him 25 lashes
but don't draw de blood or leave de marks.'
"Well, sar, it am de great sight to see Jack git dat whuppin'. Him am
skeert, but dey ain't hurtin' him bad. Massa make him come out and dey
tie him to a post and he starts to bawl and beller befo' a lick am
struck. Say! Him beg like a good fellow. It am, 'Oh, massa, massa, Oh,
massa, have mercy, don't let 'em whup me. Massa, I won't go off any
more.' De patterrollers gives him a lick and Jack lets out a yell dat
sounds like a mule bray and twice as loud.
"Dere used to be a patterroller song what sent like dis:
"Up 'de hill and down de holler
White man cotch nigger by de collar
Dat nigger run and dat nigger flew,
Dat nigger tore he shirt in two.'
"Well, while dey's whuppin' dat nigger, Jack, he couldn't run and he
couldn't tear he shirt in two, but he holler till he tear he mouth in
two. Jack say he never go off without de pass 'gain and he kept he word,
too.
"De big doin's am on Christmas Day and de massa have present for each
cullud person. Dey am little things and I laughs when I thinks of them,
but de cullud folks sho' 'joy dem and it show massa's heart am right.
For de chillen it am candy and for de women, a pin or sich, and for de
men, a knife or sich. On dat day, preacherman Allen sho' have de full
heart, and he preach and preach.
"But de war starts and it not so happy on massa's place and 'fore long
he two sons goes to dat war. De massa show worryment 'cause dey fightin'
here and dere and den come de day when dey fight right nex' to de
massa's place. It am in de field next to we'uns and de two boys, young
Charley and he brother, Bob, am in de fight. It am for sev'ral days de
army am a-marchin' to de field and gittin' ready for de battle. Durin'
dat time, de two boys comes home for a spell every day. Early one
mornin' de shootin' starts and it am not much at first but it ain't long
till it am a steady thunder and it keep up all day.
"De missy am walkin' in de yard and den go in de house and out 'gain.
She am a-twistin' her hands and cryin'. She keeps sayin', 'Dey sho' gits
kilt, my poor babies.' De massa talk to her to quiet her. Dat help me,
too, 'cause I sho' skeert. Nobody do much work dat day, but stand round
with quiverments and when dey talk, dey voice quiver. Why, even de
buildin's quivered. Every once in de while, dere am an extry roar. Dat
de cannon and every time I heered it, I jumps. I's sent to git de eggs
and have 'bout five dozen in de basket, holdin' it in front of me with
my two hands. All a sudden, one of dem extry shoots comes and down dis
nigger kid go and my head hits into de basket. Dere I is, eggs oozin'
all round me and I so skeert and fussed up I jus' lays and kicks. I
wants to scream but I can't for de eggs in my mouth. To dis day I thinks
of dat battle every time I eats eggs.
"De nex' day after de battle am over, mos' us cullud folks goes to de
field. Some of 'em buries de dead, and I hears 'em tell how in de low
places de blood stand like water and de bodies all shoot to pieces.
"Massa's sons not kilt and am de missy glad! She have allus colored
folks come to de house and make us kneel down and she thank de Lawd for
savin' her sons. Dey even go to other places and fights, but dey comes
home after de war am over.
"Surrender come and massa tells us we can stay or go and if we stay he
pay us wages or we works on shares. Some go and some stay. Mammy and me
goes to de Fowler place with my stepfather and we share crops for three
year.
"I stays with dem till I's 18 and den I gits married. Dat in 1871 and my
wife died in 1928 and we'uns have four chillen. All dat time I's farmed
till 'bout 30 year ago when I works in de packin' plant here in Fort
Worth. I works dere 20 years and den dey say I's too old and since den I
works at de odd jobs till 'bout five years ago.
"Since I's quit work at de packin' plant it am hard for dis cullud
person. I soon uses up my savin's and den I's gone hongry plenty times.
My chillen am old and dey havin' de hard time, too. My friends helps me
a little and I gits de pension, but it am only $3.00 a month and,
course, dat ain't 'nough.
"After all dese years I's worked and 'haved, I never thinks I comes to
where I couldn't git 'nough to eat. I's am wishful for de Lawd to call
me to jedgment.
420307
CHRIS FRANKLIN, 82, was born a slave of Judge Robert J. Looney, in
Bossier Parish, Louisiana. Chris now lives in Beaumont, Texas, and
supports himself by gardening and yard work. He is thrifty and owns
his own home.
"Yes, suh, dis is Chris Franklin. I signs my name C.C. Franklin, dat for
Christopher Columbus Franklin. I's born in Bossier Parish, up in
Louisiana, jes' twenty-five miles de other side of Shreveport. I's born
dere in 1855, on Christmas Day, but I's raise up in Caddo Parish. Old
massa move over dere when I 'bout a year old.
"Old massa name Robert J. Looney and he a jedge and lawyer. He have a
boy name R.J., Jr., but I's talkin' 'bout de old head, de old 'riginal.
De missy, her name Lettie Looney. He weren't no farmer, jes' truck farm
to raise de livin' for he household and slaves. He didn't have over a
half dozen growed up slaves. Course, dey rears a lot of young'uns.
"My pappy's name Solomon Lawson. He 'long to Jedge Lawson, what live
near us. When freedom come, he done take de name Sol Franklin, what he
say am he pappy's name.
"Jedge Looney have de ord'nary frame house. Dey 'bout six, seven rooms
in it, all under one roof. De dinin' room and cook room wasn't built off
to deyself, like mos' big houses. It was a raise house, raise up on high
pillars and dey could drive a hoss and buggy under it. He live on de
Fairview Road.
"Us slaves all live in one big slave cabin, built out of plank. It built
sort-a like de 'partment house. Dey four rooms and each fam'ly have one
room. Dey have a lamp and a candle for our comfort. It jes' a li'l,
ord'nary brass lamp. Dey used to make 'em out of wax and tallow. Dey
raise dere own bees and when dey rob de bee gums dey strain de honey and
melt de wax with tallow to make it firmer. Dey tie one end de wick on
de stick 'cross de mold and put in de melted wax and tallow.
"Dey have a table and benches, too. But a chair de rare thing in a
cabin. Dey make some with de split hick'ry or rawhide bottom. Dey have
hay mattress. De tickin' am rice sacks. Us have mud chimney. Dey fix
sticks like de ladder and mix mud and moss and grass in what dey calls
'cats'. Dey have rock backs, and, man, us have a sho' 'nough fire in
'em. Put a stick long as me and big as a porch post in dat fireplace. In
cold weather dat last all day and all night.
"When de parents workin' in de field, somebody look after de chillen. De
nannies come in and nuss dem when time come. De white folks never put on
'strictions on de chillen till dey twelve, fourteen years old. Dey all
wear de straight-cut slip. Dey give de li'l gals de slip dress and li'l
panties. In wintertime dey give de boy's de li'l coat and pants and
shoes, but no drawers or unnerwear. Dey give dem hard russet shoes in
wintertime. Dey have brass toes. Dey plenty dur'ble. In summertime us
didn't see no shoe.
"Massa Looney jes' as fine de man as ever make tracks. Christmas time
come, he give 'em a few dollars and say go to the store and buy what us
want. He give all de li'l nigger chillen gif's, jes' like he own. He git
de jug of whiskey and plenty eggs and make de big eggnog for everybody.
He treat us cullud folks jes' like he treat he own fam'ly. He never take
no liquor 'cept at Christmas. He give us lots to eat at Christmas, too.
"Sometime old missy come out and call all de li'l niggers in de house to
play with her chillen. When us eat us have de tin plate and cup. Dey
give us plenty milk and butter and 'taters and sich. Us all set on de
floor and make 'way with dem rations.
"Dey had a li'l church house for de niggers and preachin' in de
afternoon, and on into de night lots of times. Dey have de cullud
preacher. He couldn't read. He jes' preach from nat'ral wit and what he
larn from white folks. De whole outfit profess to be Baptis'.
"De marryin' business go through by what massa say. De fellow git de
massa's consen'. Massa mos'ly say yes without waitin', 'cause marryin'
mean more niggers for him comin' on. He git de jedge or preacher to
marry dem. Iffen de man live on one plantation and de gal on 'nother, he
have to git de pass to go see her. Dat so de patterrollers not git him.
"De slaves used to have balls and frolics in dey cabins. But iffen dey
go to de frolic on 'nother plantation dey git de pass. Dat so dey can
cotch runaway niggers. I never heared of stealin' niggers, 'cept
dis-a-way. Sometime de runaway nigger git fifty or hundred miles away
and show up dere as de stray slave. Dat massa where he show up take care
of him so long, den lay claim to him. Dat call harborin' de nigger.
"Dey lots of places where de young massas has heirs by nigger gals. Dey
sell dem jes' like other slaves. Dat purty common. It seem like de white
women don't mind. Dey didn't 'ject, 'cause dat mean more slaves.
"Sometimes de white folks has de big deer drive. Dem and de niggers go
down in de bottoms to drive deers up. Dey rid big, fine hosses and start
de deers runnin'. Dey raise dere own dogs. Massa sho' careful 'bout he
hounds. He train dem good and treat dem good, too. He have somethin'
cook reg'lar for dem. Dey hunts foxes and wolves and plenty dem kinds
varmints.
"I seen sojers' by de thousands. When 'mancipation come out massa come
to de back door with de paper and say, 'Yous free.' He furnish dem with
all dey needs and give dem part de crop. He 'vide up de pig litters and
such 'mongst dem. He give dem de start. Den after two, three year he
commence takin' out for dere food and boots and clothes and sich.
"De night de pusson die dey has de wake and sing and pray all night
long. Dey all very 'ligious in dere profession. Dey knock off all work
so de slaves can go to de buryin'.
"De white folks 'low dem to have de frolic with de fiddle or banjo or
windjammer. Dey dances out on de grass, forty or fifty niggers, and dem
big gals nineteen year old git out dere barefoot as de goose. It jes' de
habit of de times, 'cause dey all have shoes. Sometimes dey call de jig
dance and some of dem sho' dance it, too. De prompter call, 'All git
ready.' Den he holler, 'All balance,' and den he sing out, 'Swing you
pardner,' and dey does it. Den he say, 'First man head off to de right,'
and dere dey goes. Or he say, 'All promenade,' and dey goes in de
circle. One thing dey calls, 'Bird in de Cage.' Three joins hands round
de gal in de middle, and dance round her, and den she git out and her
pardner git in de center and dey dance dat way awhile.
"After freedom dey have de log cabin schoolhouse. De first teacher was
de cullud women name Mary Chapman. I near wore out dat old blueblack
speller tryin' to larn A B C's.
"I leaves Caddo Parish in 1877 for Galveston, and leaves dere on de four
mast schooner for Leesburg and up de Calcasieu River. Den I goes to de
Cameron Parish and in 1879 I comes to Beaumont. I marries Mandy Watson
in 1882 and she died in 1932. Us never have no chillen but 'dopts two.
Us marry in de hotel dinin'-room, 'cause I's workin' for de hotel man,
J.B. Goodhue. De Rev. Elder Venable, what am da old cullud preacher,
marries us. I didn't git marry like in slavery time, I's got a great big
marriage certif'cate hangin' on de wall of my house.
"I 'longs to several lodges, de Knights of Labor and de Knights of Honor
and de Pilgrims. I never hold no office. I's jes' de bench member. I's a
member of de Live Lake Missionary Baptist Church.
"I's got de big house of my own, on de corner of Roberts Avenue and San
Antonio street. After my wife die, I gits de man to come and live dere
with me. Dat's all I knows.
420002
[Illustration: Orelia Alexie Franks]
ORELIA ALEXIE FRANKS was born on the plantation of Valerian Martin,
near Opelousas, Louisiana. She does not know her age, but thinks
she is near ninety. Her voice has the musical accent of the French
Negro. She has lived in Beaumont, Texas, many years.
"I's born on Mr. George Washington's birthday', the twenty-second of
February but I don't know what year. My old massa was Valerian Martin
and he come from foreign country. He come from Canada and he Canada
French. He wife name Malite Guidry. Old massa a good Catholic and he
taken all the li'l slave chillen to be christen. Oh, he's a Christian
massa and I used to be a Catholic but now I's a Apostolic, but I's
christen in St. Johns Catholic Church, what am close to Lafayette, where
I's born.
"My pa name Alexis Franks and he was American and Creole. My ma name
Fanire Martin and I's raise where everybody talk French. I talks
American but I talks French goodest.
"Old massa he big cane and cotton farmer and have big plantation and
raise everything, and us all well treat. Dey feed us right, too. Raise
big hawg in de pen and raise lots of beef. All jes' for to feed he
cullud folks.
"Us quarters out behind de big house and old massa come round through de
quarters every mornin' and see how us niggers is. If us sick he call
nuss. She old slavery woman. She come look at 'em. If dey bad sick dey
send for de doctor. Us house all log house. Dey all dab with dirt 'tween
de logs. Dey have dirt chimney make out of sticks and dab with mud. Dey
[Transcriber's note: unfinished sentence at end of page]
"Lots of time we eat coosh-coosh. Dat make out of meal and water. You
bile de water and salt it, den put in de cornmeal and stir it and bile
it. Den you puts milk or clabber or syrup on it and eat it.
"Old massa have de graveyard a purpose to bury de cullud folks in. Dey
have cullud preacher. Dey have funeral in de graveyard. Dat nigger
preacher he a Mef'dist.
"Old massa son-in-law, he overseer. He 'low nobody to beat de slaves. Us
li'l ones git spank when we bad. Dey put us 'cross de knee and spank us
where dey allus spank chillen.
"Christmas time dey give big dinner. Dey give all de old men whiskey.
Everybody have big time.
"Dey make lots of sugar. After dey finish cookin' de sugar dey draw off
what left from de pots and give it to us chillen. Us have candy pullin'.
"Dey weave dey own cloth. Us have good clothes. Dey weave de cloth for
make mattress and stuff 'em with moss. Massa sho' believe to serve he
niggers good. I see old massa when he die. Us see old folks cry and us
cry, too. Dey have de priest and burn de candles. Us sho' miss old
massa.
"I see lots of sojers. Dey so many like hair on your head. Dey Yankees.
Dey call 'em bluejackets. Dey a fight up near massa's house. Us climb in
tree for to see. Us hear bullets go 'zoom' through de air 'round dat
tree but us didn't know it was bullets. A man rid up on a hoss and tell
massa to git us pickaninnies out dat tree or dey git kilt. De Yankees
have dat battle and den sot us niggers free.
"Old massa, he de kind man what let de niggers have dey prayer-meetin'.
He give 'em a big cabin for dat. Shout? Yes, Lawd! Sing like dis:
"'Mourner, fare you well,
Gawd 'Mighty bless you,
Till we meets again.'
"Us sings 'nother song:
"'Sinner blind,
Johnnie, can't you ride no more?
Sinner blind.
Your feets may be slippin'
Your soul git lost.
Johnnie, can't you ride no more?
Yes, Lawd,
Day by day you can't see,
Johnnie, can't you ride no more?
Yes, Lawd.'"
420136
ROSANNA FRAZIER was born a slave on the Frazier plantation in
Mississippi. She does not remember her masters given name, nor does
she know her age, although from her memories of various events
during the Civil War, she believes she is close to ninety, at
least. Rosanna is blind and bedridden, and is cared for by friends
in a little house in Pear Orchard Negro Settlement, in Beaumont,
Texas.
"My mammy was a freeborn woman named Viny Frazier and she come from a
free country. She was on her way to school when dey stoled her, when she
de young gal. De spec'lator gang stoled her and brung her and sold her
in Red River, in Mississippi. Missy Mary, she buy her. Missy Mary
married den to one man named Pool and she have two boys call Josh and
Bill. After dat man die, she marry Marse Frazier.
"My daddy name Jerry Durden and after I's born they brings us all to
Texas, but my daddy belong to de Neylands, so we loses him. My white
folks moves to a big plantation close to Woodville, in Tyler County, and
Marse Frazier have de store and plenty of stock. He come first from
Georgia.
"All us little chillen, black and white, play togedder and Marse
Frazier, he raise us. His chillen call Sis and Texana and Robert and
John. Marse Frazier he treat us nice and de other white folks calls us
'free niggers', and wouldn't 'low us on dere places. Dey 'fraid dere
niggers git dissatisfy with dey own treatment. Sho's you born, iffen one
of us git round dem plantations, dey jus' cut us to pieces with de whip.
Some of dem white folks sho' was mean, and dey work de niggers all day
in de sun and cut dem with de whip, and sho' done 'em up bad. Dat on
other places, not on ours.
"Marse Frazier, he didn't work us too hard and give Saturday and Sunday
off. He's all right and give good food. People sho' would rare off from
him, 'cause he too good. He was de Methodist preacher and furnish us
church. Sometimes he has camp meeting and dey cook out doors with de
skillicks. Sometimes he has corn shucking time and we has hawg meat and
meal bread and whiskey and eggnog and chicken.
"De books he brung us didn't do us no good, 'cause us wouldn't larn
nothin'. Us too busy playin' and huntin' good berries in de wood, de
huckleberry and grape and muscadine and chinquapins. All dis time de war
was fixin' and I seed two, three soldiers round spyin'. When peace
'clared missy's two boys come back from de war. We stays with Marse
Frazier two year and den I goes and gits married to de man call Baker.
"I done been blind like dis over 40 year. One Sunday I stay all night
with a man and he wife and I was workin' as woodchopper on de Santa Fe
route up Beaumont to Tyler County. After us git up and I starts 'way, I
ain't gone but 15, 16 yard when I hear somethin' say, 'Rose, you done
somethin' you ain't ought.' I say, 'No, Lawd, no.' Den de voice say,
'Somethin' gwine happen to you,' and de next mornin' I's blind as de bat
and I ain't never seed since.
"Some try tell me snow or sweat or smoke de reason. Dat ain't de reason.
Dey a old, old, slowfooted somethin' from Louisiana and dey say he de
conjure man, one dem old hoodoo niggers. He git mad at me de last
plum-ripenin' time and he make up powdered rattlesnake dust and pass dat
through my hair and I sho' ain't seed no more.
"Dat not de onliest thing dem old conjure men do. Dey powder up de
rattle offen de snake and tie it up in de little old rag bag and dey do
devilment with it. Day git old scorpion and make bad medicine. Dey git
dirt out de graveyard and dat dirt, after dey speak on it, would make
you go crazy.
"When dey wants conjure you, dey sneak round and git de hair combin' or
de finger or toenail, or anything natural 'bout your body, and works de
hoodoo on it.
"Dey make de straw man or de clay man and dey puts de pin in he leg and
you leg gwineter git hurt or sore jus' where dey puts de pin. Iffen dey
puts de pin through de heart you gwineter die and ain't nothin' kin save
you.
"Dey make de charm to wear round de neck or de ankle and dey make de
love powder, too, out de love vine, what grow in de woods. Dey biles de
leaves and powders 'em. Dey sho' works, I done try 'em.
420097
[Illustration: Priscilla Gibson]
PRISCILLA GIBSON is not sure of her age, but thinks she was born
about 1856, in Smith County, Mississippi, to Mary Puckett and her
Indian husband. They belonged to Jesse Puckett, who owned a
plantation on the Strong River. Priscilla now lives in Jasper,
Texas.
"Priscilla Gibson is my name, and I's bo'n in Smith County, way over in
Mis'ippi, sometime befo' de War. I figger it was 'bout 1856, 'cause I's
old enough to climb de fence and watch dem musterin' in de troops when
de war began. Dey tol' me I's nine year ole when de War close, but dey
ain' sure of dat, even. My neighbor, Uncle Bud Adams, he 83, and I's
clippin' close at he heels.
"Mammy's name was Mary Puckett, but I never seed my father as I knows
of. Don' know if he was a whole Injun or part white man. Never seed but
one brother and his name was Jake. Dey took him to de War with de white
boys, to cook and min' de camp and he took pneumony and die.
"Massa's name was Jesse Puckett, and Missus' name Mis' Katie. Dey hab
big fam'ly and dey live in a big wooden-beam house with a big up-stair'.
De house was right on de highway from Raleigh to Brandon, with de Strong
River jis' below us. Dey took in and 'commadated travelers 'cause dey
warn' hotels den.
"Massa have hunner's of acres. You could walk all day and you never git
offen his lan'. An' he have gran' furniture and other things in de
house. I kin remember dem, 'cause I use' to he'p 'round de house, run
errands and fan Mis' Katie and sich. I 'members chairs with silk
coverin's on 'em and dere was de gran' lights, big lamps with de roses
on de shades. And eve'ywhere de floors with rugs and de rugs was pretty,
dey wasn' like dese thin rugs you sees nowadays. No, ma'am, dey has big
flowers on 'em and de feets sinks in 'em. I useter lie down on one of
dem rugs in Mis' Katie's room when she's asleep and I kin stop fannin.'
"Massa Puckett was tol'able good to de slaves. We has clothes made of
homespun what de nigger women weaved, and de little boys wo' long-tail
shirts, with no pants till they's grown. Massa raised sheep and dey make
us wool clothes for winter, but we has no shoes.
"De white folks didn' larn us read and write but dey was good to us
'cep' when some niggers try to run away and den dey whips 'em hard. We
has plenty to eat and has prayer meetin's with singin' and shoutin', and
we chilluns played marbles and jump de rope.
"After freedom come all lef' but me 'cause Missus say she have me boun'
to her till I git my age. But I's res'less one night and my sister,
Georgy Ann, come see me, and I run off with her, but dey never comes
after me. I was scart dey would, 'cause I 'membered 'bout our neighbor,
ole Means, and his slave, Sylvia, and she run away and was in de woods,
and he'd git on de hoss, take de dogs and set 'em on her, and let dem
bite her and tear her clothes.
420303
GABRIEL GILBERT was born in slavery on the plantation of Belizare
Brassard, in New Iberia Parish, Louisiana. He does not know his
age, but appears to be about eighty. He has lived in Beaumont,
Texas, for sixteen years.
"My old massa was Belizare Broussard. He was my mom's massa. He had a
big log house what he live in. De places 'tween de logs was fill with
dirt. De quarters de slaves live in was make out of dirt. Dey put up
posties in de ground and bore holes in de posts and put in pickets
'cross from one post to the other. Den dey build up de sides with mud.
De floor and everything was dirt. Dey had a schoolhouse built for de
white chillen de same way. De cullud chillen didn't have no school.
"Dem was warm healthy houses us grew up in. Dey used to raise better men
den in dem houses dan now. My pa name was Joseph Gilbert. He old massa
was Belleau Prince.
"I didn't know what a store was when I was growin' up. Us didn't have
store things like now. Us had wooden pan and spoon dem times. I never
see no iron plow dem days. Nothin' was iron on de plow 'cept de share. I
tell dese youngsters, 'You in hebben now from de time I come up.' When a
man die dem days, dey use de ox cart to carry de corpse.
"Massa have 'bout four hundred acres and lots of slaves. He raise sugar
cane. He have a mill and make brown sugar. He raise cotton and corn,
too. He have plenty stock on de place. He give us plenty to eat. He was
a nice man. He wasn't brutish. He treat he slaves like hisself. I never
'member see him whip nobody. He didn't 'low no ill treatment. All de
folks round he place say he niggers ruint and spoiled.
"De li'l white folks and nigger folks jus' play round like brudder and
sister and us all eat at de white table. I slep' in de white folks
house, too. My godfather and godmother was rich white folks. I still
Cath'lic.
"I seed sojers but I too li'l to know nothin' 'bout dem. Dey didn't
worry me a-tall. I didn't git close to de battle.
"My mammy weave cloth out cotton and wool. I 'member de loom. It go
'boom-boom-boom.' Dat de shuttle goin' cross. My daddy, he de smart man.
I'll never be like him long as I live in dis world. He make shoes. He
build house. He do anything. He and my mammy neither one ever been
brutalize'.
"De first work I done was raisin' cotton and sugar cane and sweet and
Irish 'taters. I used to cook sugar.
"I marry on twenty-second of February. My wife was Medora Labor. She
been dead thirty-five year now. I never marry no second woman. I love my
wife so much I never want nobody else. Us had six chillen. Two am
livin'.
"Goin' back when I a slave, massa have a store. When de priest come dey
hold church in dat store. Old massa have sev'ral boys. Dey went after
some de slave gals. Dey have chillen by dem. Dem gals have dere cabins
and dere chillen, what am half white.
"After while dem boys marry. But dey allus treat dey chillen by de slave
womens good. Dey white wife treat dem good, too, most like dey dere own
chillen.
"Old massa have plenty money. Land am only two bits de acre. Some places
it cost nothing. Dey did haulin' in ox-carts. A man what had mules had
something extra.
"Us have plenty wild game, wild geese and ducks. Fishin' am mighty good.
Dey was 'gaters, too. I seed dem bite a man's arm off.
"If a slave feelin' bad dey wouldn't make him work. My uncle and my
mammy dey never work nothing to speak of. Dey allus have some kind
complaint. Ain't no tellin' what it gwine be, but you could 'low
something ailin' dem!
"I 'member dey a white man. He had a gif'. I don't care what kind of
animal, a dog or a hoss, dat man he work on it and it never leave you or
you house. If anybody have toothache or earache he take a brand new nail
what ain't never work befo' and work dat round you tooth or ear. Dat
break up de toothache or earache right away. He have li'l prayer he say.
I don't know what it was.
"I's seed ghosties. I talk with dem, too. Sometimes dey like people.
Sometimes dey like animal, maybe white dog. I allus feel chilly when dey
come round me. I talk with my wife after she dead. She tell me, 'Don't
you forgit to pray.' She say dis world corrupt and you got to fight it
out."
420230
MATTIE GILMORE lives in a little cabin on E. Fifth Avenue, in
Corsicana, Texas. A smile came to her lips, as she recalled days
when she was a slave in Mobile, Alabama. She has no idea how old
she is. Her master, Thomas Barrow, brought his slaves to Athens,
Texas, during the Civil War, and Mattie had two children at that
time, so she is probably about ninety.
"I's born in Mobile, Alabama, and I don't have no idea when. My white
folks never did tell me how old I was. My own dear mammy died 'fore I
can remember and my stepma didn't take no time to tell me nothin'. Her
name was Mary Barrow and papa's name was Allison Barrow, and I had
sisters, Rachel and Lou and Charity, and a brother, Allison.
"My master sold Rachel when she was jus' a girl. I sho' did cry. They
put her on a block and sold her off. I heared they got a thousand
dollars for her, but I never seed her no more till after freedom. A man
named Dick Burdon, from Kaufman County, bought her. After freedom I
heared she's sick and brung her home, but she was too far gone.
"We lived in a log house with dirt floors, warm in winter but sho' hot
in summer, no screens or nothin', jus' homemade doors. We had homemade
beds out of planks they picked up around. Mattresses nothin', we had
shuck beds. But, anyway, you takes it, we was better off den dan now.
"I worked in the fields till Rachel was sold, den tooken her place,
doin' kitchen work and fannin' flies off de table with a great, long
limb. I liked dat. I got plenty to eat and not so hot. We had jus' food
to make you stand up and work. It wasn't none the good foolish things we
has now. We had cornbread and blackeyed peas and beans and sorghum
'lasses. Old master give us our rations and iffen dat didn't fill us up,
we jus' went lank. Sometimes we had possum and rabbits and fish, iffen
we cotched dem on Sunday. I seed Old Missy parch coffee in a skittle,
and it good coffee, too. We couldn't go to the store and buy things,
'cause they warn't no stores hardly.
"When dey's hoein' cotton or corn, everybody has to keep up with de
driver, not hurry so fast, but workin' steady. Some de women what had
suckin' babies left dem in de shade while dey worked, and one time a
big, bald eagle flew down by one dem babies and picked it up and flew
away with it. De mama couldn't git it and we never heared of dat baby
'gain.
"I 'member when we come from Mobile to Texas. By time we heared de
Yankees was comin' dey got all dere gold together and Miss Jane called
me and give me a whole sack of pure gold and silver, and say bury it in
de orchard. I sho' was scart, but I done what she said. Dey was more
gold in a big desk, and de Yanks pulled de top of dat desk and got de
gold. Miss Jane had a purty gold ring on her finger and de captain
yanked it off. I said, 'Miss Jane, is dey gwine give you ring back?' All
she said was, 'Shet you mouth,' and dat's what I did.
"Dat night dey digs up de buried gold and we left out. We jus' traveled
at night and rested in daytime. We was scart to make a fire. Dat was
awful times. All on de way to de Mississip', we seed dead men layin'
everywhere, black and white.
"While we's waitin' to go cross de Mississip' a white man come up and
asks Marse Barrow how many niggers he has, and counts us all. While we's
waitin' de guns 'gins to go boom, boom, and you could hear all dat
noise, it so close. When we gits on de boat it flops dis way and dat
scart me. I sho' don't want to see no more days like dat one, with war
and boats.
"We fixes up a purty good house and quarters and gits settled up round
Athens. And it ain't so long 'fore a paper come make us free. Some de
slaves laughin' and some cryin' and it a funny place to be. Marse Barrow
asks my stepma to stay cook and he'd pay her some money for it. We
stayed four or five years. Marse Barrow give each he slaves somethin'
when dey's freed. Lots of master put dem out without a thing. But de
trouble with most niggers, dey never done no managin' and didn't know
how. De niggers suffered from de war, iffen dey did git freedom from it.
"I's already married de slave way in Mobile and had three chillen. My
husband died 'fore war am over and I marries Las Gilmore and never has
no more chillen. I has no livin' kinfolks I knows of. When we come here
Las done any work he could git and bought this li'l house, but I can't
pay taxes on it, but, sho', de white folks won't put me out. I done git
my leg cut off in a train wreck, so I can't work, and I's too old,
noways. I don't has no idea how old I is.
420245
[Illustration: Andrew Goodman]
ANDREW GOODMAN, 97, was born a slave of the Goodman family, near
Birmingham, Alabama. His master moved to Smith County, Texas, when
Andrew was three years old. Andrew is a frail, kindly old man, who
lives in his memories. He lives at 2607 Canton St., Dallas, Texas.
"I was born in slavery and I think them days was better for the niggers
than the days we see now. One thing was, I never was cold and hongry
when my old master lived, and I has been plenty hongry and cold a lot of
times since he is gone. But sometimes I think Marse Goodman was the
bestes' man Gawd made in a long time.
"My mother, Martha Goodman, 'longed to Marse Bob Goodman when she was
born, but my paw come from Tennessee and Marse Bob heired him from some
of his kinfolks what died over there. The Goodmans must have been fine
folks all-a-way round, 'cause my paw said them that raised him was good
to they niggers.
"Old Marse never 'lowed none of his nigger families separated. He 'lowed
he thought it right and fittin' that folks stay together, though I heard
tell of some that didn't think so.
"My Missus was just as good as Marse Bob. My maw was a puny little woman
that wasn't able to do work in the fields, and she puttered round the
house for the Missus, doin' little odd jobs. I played round with little
Miss Sallie and little Mr. Bob, and I ate with them and slept with them.
I used to sweep off the steps and do things, and she'd brag on me and
many is the time I'd git to noddin' and go to sleep, and she'd pick me
up and put me in bed with her chillun.
"Marse Bob didn't put his little niggers in the fields till they's big
'nough to work, and the mammies was give time off from the fields to
come back to the nursin' home to suck the babies. He didn't never put
the niggers out in bad weather. He give us something to do, in out of
the weather, like shellin' corn and the women could spin and knit. They
made us plenty of good clothes. In summer we wore long shirts, split up
the sides, made out of lowerings--that's same as cotton sacks was made
out of. In winter we had good jeans and knitted sweaters and knitted
socks.
"My paw was a shoemaker. He'd take a calfhide and make shoes with the
hairy sides turned in, and they was warm and kept your feet dry. My maw
spent a lot of time cardin' and spinnin' wool, and I allus had plenty
things.
"Life was purty fine with Marse Bob. He was a man of plenty. He had a
lot of land and he built him a big log house when he come to Texas. He
had sev'ral hundred head of cattle and more than that many hawgs. We
raised cotton and grain and chickens and vegetables, and most anything
anybody could ask for. Some places the masters give out a peck of meal
and so many pounds of meat to a family for them a week's rations, and if
they et it up that was all they got. But Marse Bob allus give out
plenty, and said, 'If you need more you can have it, 'cause ain't any
going to suffer on my place.'
"He built us a church, and a old man, Kenneth Lyons, who was a slave of
the Lyon's family nearby, used to git a pass every Sunday mornin' and
come preach to us. He was a man of good learnin' and the best preacher I
ever heard. He baptised in a little old mudhole down back of our place.
Nearly all the boys and gals gits converted when they's 'bout twelve or
fifteen year old. Then on Sunday afternoon, Marse Bob larned us to read
and write. He told us we oughta git all the learnin' we could.
"Once a week the slaves could have any night they want for a dance or
frolic. Mance McQueen was a slave 'longing on the Dewberry place, what
could play a fiddle, and his master give him a pass to come play for us.
Marse Bob give us chickens or kilt a fresh beef or let us make 'lasses
candy. We could choose any night, 'cept in the fall of the year. Then we
worked awful hard and didn't have the time. We had a gin run by
horsepower and after sundown, when we left the fields, we used to gin a
bale of cotton every night. Marse allus give us from Christmas Eve
through New Year's Day off, to make up for the hard work in the fall.
"Christmas time everybody got a present and Marse Bob give a big hawg to
every four families. We had money to buy whiskey with. In spare time
we'd make cornshuck horse collars and all kinds of baskets, and Marse
bought them off us. What he couldn't use, he sold for us. We'd take post
oak and split it thin with drawin' knives and let it git tough in the
sun, and then weave it into cotton baskets and fish baskets and little
fancy baskets. The men spent they money on whiskey, 'cause everything
else was furnished. We raised our own tobacco and hung it in the barn to
season, and a'body could go git it when they wanted it.
"We allus got Saturday afternoons off to fish and hunt. We used to have
fish fries and plenty game in them days.
"Course, we used to hear 'bout other places where they had nigger
drivers and beat the slaves. But I never did see or hear tell of one of
master's slaves gittin' a beatin'. We had a overseer, but didn't know
what a nigger driver was. Marse Bob had some nigger dogs like other
places, and used to train them for fun. He'd git some the boys to run
for a hour or so and then put the dogs on the trail. He'd say, 'If you
hear them gittin' near, take to a tree.' But Marse Bob never had no
niggers to run off.
"Old man Briscoll, who had a place next to ours, was vicious cruel. He
was mean to his own blood, beatin' his chillen. His slaves was afeared
all the time and hated him. Old Charlie, a good, old man who 'longed to
him, run away and stayed six months in the woods 'fore Briscoll cotched
him. The niggers used to help feed him, but one day a nigger 'trayed
him, and Briscoe put the dogs on him and cotched him. He made to Charlie
like he wasn't goin' to hurt him none, and got him to come peaceful.
When he took him home, he tied him and beat him for a turrible long
time. Then he took a big, pine torch and let burnin' pitch drop in spots
all over him. Old Charlie was sick 'bout four months and then he died.
"Marse Bob knowed me better'n most the slaves, 'cause I was round the
house more. One day he called all the slaves to the yard. He only had
sixty-six then, 'cause he had 'vided with his son and daughter when they
married. He made a little speech. He said, 'I'm going to a war, but I
don't think I'll be gone long, and I'm turnin' the overseer off and
leavin' Andrew in charge of the place, and I wants everything to go on,
just like I was here. Now, you all mind what Andrew says, 'cause if you
don't, I'll make it rough on you when I come back home.' He was jokin',
though, 'cause he wouldn't have done nothing to them.
"Then he said to me, 'Andrew, you is old 'nough to be a man and look
after things. Take care of Missus and see that none the niggers wants,
and try to keep the place going.'
"We didn't know what the war was 'bout, but master was gone four years.
When Old Missus heard from him, she'd call all the slaves and tell us
the news and read us his letters. Little parts of it she wouldn't read.
We never heard of him gittin' hurt none, but if he had, Old Missus
wouldn't tell us, 'cause the niggers used to cry and pray over him all
the time. We never heard tell what the war was 'bout.
"When Marse Bob come home, he sent for all the slaves. He was sittin' in
a yard chair, all tuckered out, and shuck hands all round, and said he's
glad to see us. Then he said, 'I got something to tell you. You is jus'
as free as I is. You don't 'long to nobody but you'selves. We went to
the war and fought, but the Yankees done whup us, and they say the
niggers is free. You can go where you wants to go, or you can stay here,
jus' as you likes.' He couldn't help but cry.
"The niggers cry and don't know much what Marse Bob means. They is sorry
'bout the freedom, 'cause they don't know where to go, and they's allus
'pend on Old Marse to look after them. Three families went to get farms
for theyselves, but the rest just stay on for hands on the old place.
"The Federals has been comin' by, even 'fore Old Marse come home. They
all come by, carryin' they little budgets, and if they was walkin'
they'd look in the stables for a horse or mule, and they jus' took what
they wanted of corn or livestock. They done the same after Marse Bob
come home. He jus' said, 'Let them go they way, 'cause that's what
they're going to do, anyway.' We was scareder of them than we was of the
debbil. But they spoke right kindly to us cullud folks. They said, 'If
you got a good master and want to stay, well, you can do that, but now
you can go where you want to, 'cause ain't nobody going to stop you.'
"The niggers can't hardly git used to the idea. When they wants to leave
the place, they still go up to the big house for a pass. They jus' can't
understand 'bout the freedom. Old Marse or Missus say, 'You don't need
no pass. All you got to do is jus' take you foot in you hand and go.'
"It seem like the war jus' plumb broke Old Marse up. It wasn't long till
he moved into Tyler and left my paw runnin' the farm on a halfance with
him and the niggers workers. He didn't live long, but I forgits jus' how
long. But when Mr. Bob heired the old place, he 'lowed we'd jus' go
'long the way his paw has made the trade with my paw.
"Young Mr. Bob 'parently done the first rascality I ever heard of a
Goodman doin'. The first year we worked for him we raised lots of grain
and other things and fifty-seven bales of cotton. Cotton was fifty-two
cents a pound and he shipped it all away, but all he ever gave us was a
box of candy and a sack of store tobacco and a sack of sugar. He said
the 'signment done got lost. Paw said to let it go, 'cause we had allus
lived by what the Goodman had said.
"I got married and lived on the old place till I was in my late fifties.
I had seven chillun, but if I got any livin' now, I don't know where
they is now. My paw and maw got to own a little piece of land not far
from the old place, and paw lived to be 102 and maw 106. I'm the last
one of any of my folks.
"For twenty years my health ain't been so good, and I can't work even
now, though my health is better'n in the past. I had hemorraghes. All my
folks died on me, and it's purty rough on a old man like me. My white
folks is all dead or I wouldn't be 'lowed to go hongry and cold like I
do, or have to pay rent.
420060
[Illustration: Austin Grant (A)]
[Illustration: Austin Grant (B)]
AUSTIN GRANT came to Texas from Mississippi with his grandfather,
father, mother and brother. George Harper owned the family. He
raised cotton on Peach Creek, near Gonzales. Austin was hired out
by his master and after the war his father hired him out to the
Riley Ranch on Seco Creek, above D'hanis. He then bought a farm in
the slave settlement north of Hondo. He is 89 or 90 years old.
"I'm mixed up on my age, I'm 'fraid, for the Bible got burned up that
the master's wife had our ages in. She told me my age, which would make
me 89, but I believe I come nearer bein' 91, accordin' to the way my
mother figured it out.
"I belonged to George Harper, he was Judge Harper. The' was my father,
mother and two boys. He brought us from Mississippi, but I don' 'member
what part they come from. We settled down here at Gonzeles, on Peach
Creek, and he farmed one year there. Then he moved out here to Medina
County, right here on Hondo Creek. I dont 'member how many acres he had,
but he had a big farm. He had at least eight whole slave families. He
sold 'em when he wanted money.
"My mother's name was Mary Harper and my father's name was Ike Harper,
and they belonged to the Harpers, too. You know, after they was turned
loose they had to name themselves. My father named himself Grant and his
brother named himself Glover, and my grandfather was Filmore. They had
some kin' of law you had to git away from your boss' name so they named
themselves.
"Our house we had to live in, I tell you we had a tough affair, a picket
concern, you might say no house a-tall. The beds was one of your own
make; if you knowed how to make one, you had one, but of course the
chillen slept on the floor, patched up some way.
"We went barefooted in the summer and winter, too. You had to prepare
that for yourself, and if you didn' have head enough to prepare for
yourself, you went without. I don' see how they done as well as they
done, 'cause some winters was awful cold, but I always said the Lawd was
with 'em.
[Handwritten Note: 'used']
"We didn' have no little garden, we never had no time to work no garden.
When you could see to work, you was workin' for him. Ho! You didn' know
what money was. He never paid you anything, you never got to see none.
Some of the Germans would give the old ones a little piece of money, but
the chillen, pshaw! They never got to see nothin.'
"He was a pretty good boss. You didn' have to work Sunday and part of
Saturday and in the evenin', you had that. He fed us good. Sometimes, if
you was crowded, you had to work all day Saturday. But usually he give
you that, so you could wash and weave cloth or such. He had cullud women
there he kep' all the time to weave and spin. They kep' cloth made.
"On Saturday nights, we jes' knocked 'round the place. Christmas? I don'
know as I was ever home Christmas. My boss kep' me hired out. The slaves
never had no Christmas presents I know of. And big dinners, I never was
at nary one. They didn' give us nothin, I tell you, but a grubbin' hoe
and axe and the whip. They had co'n shuckin's in them days and co'n
shellin's, too. We would shuck so many days and so many days to shell it
up.
"We would shoot marbles when we was little. It was all the game the
niggers ever knowed, was shootin' marbles.
"After work at nights there wasn't much settin' 'round; you'd fall into
bed and go to sleep. On Saturday night they didn' git together, they
would jes' sing at their own houses. Oh, yes'm, I 'member 'em singin'
'Run, nigger, run,' but it's too far back for me to 'member those other
songs. They would raise up a song when they was pickin' cotton, but I
don' 'member much about those songs.
"My old boss, I'm boun' to give him praise, he treated his niggers
right. He made 'em work, though, and he whipped 'em, too. But he fed
good, too. We had rabbits and possums once in awhile. Hardly ever any
game, but you might git a deer sometimes.
"Let 'em ketch you with a gun or a piece of paper with writin' on it and
he'd whip you like everything. Some of the slaves, if they ever did git
a piece of paper, they would keep it and learn a few words. But they
didn' want you to know nothin', that's what, nothin' but work. You would
think they was goin' to kill you, he would whip you so if he caught you
with a piece of paper. You couldn' have nothin' but a pick and axe and
grubbin' hoe.
"We never got to play none. Our boss hired us out lots of times. I don'
know what he got for us. We farmed, cut wood, grubbed, anything. I
herded sheep and I picked cotton.
"We got up early, you betcha. You would be out there by time you could
see and you quit when it was dark. They tasked us. They would give us
200 or 300 pounds of cotton to bring in and you would git it, and if you
didn' git it, you better, or you would git it tomorrow, or your back
would git it. Or you'd git it from someone else, maybe steal it from
their sacks.
"My grandfather, he would tell us things, to keep the whip off our
backs. He would say, 'Chillen, work, work and work hard. You know how
you hate to be whipped, so work hard!' And of course we chillen tried,
but of course we would git careless sometimes.
"The master had a 'black snake'--some called it a 'bull whip,' and he
knew how to use it. He whipped, but I don' 'member now whether he
brought any blood on me, but he cut the blood outta the grown ones. He
didn' tie 'em, he always had a whippin' block or log to make 'em lay
down on. They called 500 licks a 'light breshin,' and right on your
naked back, too. They said your clothes wouldn' grow but your hide
would. From what I heered say, if you run away, then was when they give
you a whippin,' prob'bly 1500 or 2000 licks. They'd shore tie you down
then, 'cause you couldn' stan' it. Then you'd have to work on top of all
that, with your shirt stickin' to your back.
"The overseer woke us up. Sometimes he had a kin' of horn to blow, and
when you heered that horn, you'd better git up. He would give you a good
whippin' iffen he had to come and wake you up. He was the meanest one on
the place, worse'n the boss man.
"The boss man had a nice rock house, and the women didn' work at all.
"I never did see any slaves auctioned off, but I heered of it. My boss
he would take 'em there and sell 'em.
"They had a church this side of New Fountain and the boss man 'lowed us
to go on Sunday. If any of the slaves did join, they didn' baptize them,
as I know of.
"When one of the slaves would die, they would bury 'em on the land
there. Reg'lar little cemetery there. Oh, yes, they would have doctors
for 'em. If anybody died, they would tell some of the other slaves to
dig the grave and take 'em out there and bury 'em. They jes' put 'em in
a box, no preachin' or nothin.' But, of course, if it was Sunday the
slaves would follow out there and sing. No, if they didn' die on Sunday,
you couldn' go; you went to that field.
"If you wanted to go to any other plantation you had to git a pass to go
over there, and if you didn' and got caught, you got one of the worst
whippins'. If things happened and they wanted to tell 'em on other
plantations, they would slip out at night and tell 'em.
"We never heered much about the fightin' or how it was goin.' When the
war finally was over, our old boss called us all up and had us to stand
in abreast, and he stood on the gallery and he read the verdict to 'em,
and said, 'Now, you can jes' work on if you want to, and I'll treat you
jes' like I always did.' I guess when he said that they knew what he
meant. The' wasn't but one family left with 'im. They stayed about two
years. But the rest was just like birds, they jes' flew.
"I went with my father and he hired me out for two years, to a man named
Riley, over on the Seco. I did most everythin', worked the field and was
house rustler, too. But I had a good time there. After I left 'im, I
came to D'Hanis. I worked on a church house they was buildin'. Then I
went back to my father and worked for him a long time, freightin' cotton
to Eagle Pass. I used horses and mules and hauled cotton and flour and
whiskey and things like that.
"I met my wife down on Black Creek, and I freighted two years after we
was married. We got married so long ago, but in them days anything would
do. You see, these days they are so proud, but we was glad to have
anything. I had a black suit to be married in, and a pretty long shirt,
and I wore boots. She wore a white dress, but in them days they didn'
have black shoes. Yes'm, they had a dance, down here on Black Creek.
Danced half the night at her house and two men played the fiddle. Eat?
We had everythin' to eat, a barbecued calf and a hog, too, and all kinds
of cakes and pies. Drink? Why, the men had whiskey to drink and the
women drank coffee. We married about 7 or 8 in the evenin' at her house.
My wife's name was Sarah Ann Brackins.
"Did I see a ghost? Well, over yonder on the creek was a ghost. It was a
moonlight night and it passed right by me and it never had no head on it
a-tall. It almost breshed me. It kep' walkin' right by side of me. I
shore saw it and I run like a good fellow. Lots of 'em could see
wonnurful sights then and I heered lots of noises, but that's the only
ghost I ever seen.
"No, I never knowed nothing 'bout charms. I've seen 'em have a rabbit
heel or coon heel for good luck. I seen a woman one time that was
tricked, or what I'd call poisoned. A place on her let, it was jes' the
shape of these little old striped lizards. It was somethin' they called
'trickin it,' and a person that knowed to trick you would put it there
to make you suffer the balance of your days. It would go 'round your leg
clear to the hip and be between the skin and the flesh. They called it
the devil's work."
420118
[Illustration: James Green]
JAMES GREEN is half American Indian and half Negro. He was born a
slave to John Williams, of Petersburg, Va., became a "free boy",
then was kidnapped and sold in a Virginia slave market to a Texas
ranchman. He now lives at 323 N. Olive St., San Antonio, Texas.
"I never knowed my age till after de war, when I's set free de second
time, and then marster gits out a big book and it shows I's 25 year old.
It shows I's 12 when I is bought and $800 is paid for me. That $800 was
stolen money, 'cause I was kidnapped and dis is how it come:
"My mammy was owned by John Williams in Petersburg, in Virginia, and I
come born to her on dat plantation. Den my father set 'bout to git me
free, 'cause he a full-blooded Indian and done some big favor for a big
man high up in de courts, and he gits me set free, and den Marster
Williams laughs and calls me 'free boy.'
"Then, one day along come a Friday and that a unlucky star day and I
playin' round de house and Marster Williams come up and say, 'Delia,
will you 'low Jim walk down de street with me?' My mammy say, 'All
right, Jim, you be a good boy,' and dat de las' time I ever heared her
speak, or ever see her. We walks down whar de houses grows close
together and pretty soon comes to de slave market. I ain't seed it
'fore, but when Marster Williams says, 'Git up on de block,' I got a
funny feelin', and I knows what has happened. I's sold to Marster John
Pinchback and he had de St. Vitus dance and he likes to make he niggers
suffer to make up for his squirmin' and twistin' and he the bigges'
debbil on earth.
"We leaves right away for Texas and goes to marster's ranch in Columbus.
It was owned by him and a man call Wright, and when we gits there I's
put to work without nothin' to eat. Dat night I makes up my mind to run
away but de nex' day dey takes me and de other niggers to look at de
dogs and chooses me to train de dogs with. I's told I had to play I
runnin' away and to run five mile in any way and then climb a tree. One
of de niggers tells me kind of nice to climb as high in dat tree as I
could if I didn't want my body tore off my legs. So I runs a good five
miles and climbs up in de tree whar de branches is gettin' small.
"I sits dere a long time and den sees de dogs comin'. When dey gits
under de tree dey sees me and starts barkin'. After dat I never got
thinkin' of runnin' away.
"Time goes on and de war come along, but everything goes on like it did.
Some niggers dies, but more was born, 'cause old Pinchback sees to dat.
He breeds niggers as quick as he can, 'cause dat money for him. No one
had no say who he have for wife. But de nigger husbands wasn't de only
ones dat keeps up havin' chillen, 'cause de marsters and de drivers
takes all de nigger gals dey wants. Den de chillen was brown and I seed
one clear white one, but dey slaves jus' de same.
"De end of dat war comes and old Pinchback says, 'You niggers all come
to de big house in de mornin'. He tells us we is free and he opens his
book and gives us all a name and tells us whar we comes from and how old
we is, and says he pay us 40 cents a day to stay with him. I stays 'bout
a year and dere's no big change. De same houses and some got whipped but
nobody got nailed to a tree by de ears, like dey used to. Finally old
Pinchback dies and when he buried de lightnin' come and split de grave
and de coffin wide open.
"Well, time goes on some more and den Lizzie and me, we gits together
and we marries reg'lar with a real weddin'. We's been together a long
time and we is happy.
"I 'members a old song like dis:
"'Old marster eats beef and sucks on de bone,
And give us de gristle--
To make, to make, to make, to make,
To make de nigger whistle.'
"Dat all de song I 'member from dose old days, 'ceptin' one more:
"'I goes to church in early morn,
De birds just a-sittin' on de tree--
Sometimes my clothes gits very much worn--
'Cause I wears 'em out at de knee.
"'I sings and shouts with all my might,
To drive away de cold--
And de bells keep ringin' in gospel light,
Till de story of de Lamb am told.'"
420064
[Illustration: O.W. Green and Granddaughter]
O.W. Green, son of Frank and of Mary Ann Marks, was born in slavery
at Bradly Co., Arkansas, June 26, 1859. His owners, the Mobley
family, owned a large plantation and two or three thousand slaves.
Jack Mobley, Green's young master, was killed in the Civil War, and
Green became one of the "orphan chillen." When the Ku Klux Klan
became active, the "orphan chillen" were taken to Little Rock, Ark.
Later on, Green moved to Del Rio, Texas, where he now lives.
"I was bo'ned in Arkansas. Frank Marks was my father and Mary Ann Marks
my mother. She was bo'n on the plantation. I had two brothers.
"I don' 'member de quarters, but dey mus' of had plenty, 'cause dey was
two, three thousand slaves on de plantation. All my kin people belonged
to Massa Mobley. My grandfather was a millman and dey had one de bigges'
grist mills in de country.
"Our Massa was good and we had plenty for to eat. Dere was no jail for
slaves on our place but not far from dere was a jail.
"De Ku Klux Klan made everything pretty squally, so dey taken de orphan
chillen to Little Rock and kep' 'em two, three years. Dere was lots of
slaves in dat country 'round Rob Roy and Free Nigger Bend. Old
Churchill, who used to be governor, had a plantation in dere.
"When I was nine years ol' dey had de Bruce and Baxter revolution. 'Twas
more runnin' dan fightin'. Bruce was 'lected for governor but Baxter
said he'd be governor if he had to run Brooks into de sea.
"My young Massa, Jack Mobley, was killed in de war, is how I come to be
one of de orphan chillen.
"While us orphan chillen was at Little Rock dere come a terrible
soreness of de eyes. I heard tell 'twas caused from de cholera. Every
little child had to take turns about sittin' by de babies or totin'
them. I was so blind, my eyes was so sore, I couldn't see. The doctor's
wife was working with us. She was tryin' to figure up a cure for our
sore eyes, first using one remedy and den another. An old herb doctor
told her about a herb he had used on de plantations to cure de slaves'
sore eyes. Dey boiled de herb and put hit on our eyes, on a white cloth.
De doctor's wife had a little boy about my age. He would play with me,
and thought I was about hit. He would lead me around, then he would run
off and leave me and see if I could see. One day between 'leven and
twelve o'clock--I never will fergit hit--he taken me down to de mess
room. De lady was not quite ready to dress my eyes. She told me to go on
and come back in a little while. When I got outside I tore dat old rag
off of my eyes and throwed hit down. I told the little boy, 'O, I can
see you!' He grabbed me by de arm and ran yellin' to his mammy, 'Mama,
he can see! Mama, Owen can see!' I neva will fo'git dat word. Dey were
all in so a rejoicin', excitable way. I was de first one had his eyes
cured. Dey sent de lady to New York and she made plenty of money from
her remedy.
"Things sure was turrible durin' de war. Dey just driv us in front of de
soldiers. Dere was lots of cholera. We was just bedded together lak
hogs. The Ku Klux Klan come behind de soldiers, killin' and robbin'.
"After two or three years in de camp with de orphans, my kin found me
and took me home.
"My grandfather and uncle was in de fightin'. My grandfather was a wagon
man. De las' trip he made, he come home bringin' a load of dead soldiers
to be buried. My grandfather told de people all about de war. He said
hit sure was terrible.
"When de war was over de people jus' shouted for joy. De men and women
jus' shouted for joy. 'Twas only because of de prayers of de cullud
people, dey was freed, and de Lawd worked through Lincoln.
"My old masta was a doctor and a surgeon. He trained my grandmother; she
worked under him thirty-seven years as a nurse. When old masta wanted
grandmother to go on a special case he would whip her so she wouldn't
tell none of his secrets. Grandmother used herbs fo' medicine--black
snake root, sasparilla, blackberry briar roots--and nearly all de
young'uns she fooled with she save from diarrhea.
"My old masta was good, but when he found you shoutin' he burnt your
hand. My grandmother said he burnt her hand several times. Masta
wouldn't let de cullud folks have meetin', but dey would go out in de
woods in secret to pray and preach and shout.
"I jist picked up enough readin' to read my bible and scratch my name. I
went to school one mo'ning and didn't git along wid de teacher so I
didn't go no mo'.
"I 'member my folks had big times come Christmas. Dey never did work on
Sundays, jist set around and rest. Dey never worked in bad weather. Dey
never did go to de field till seven o'clock.
"I married in 1919. I have two step-daughters and one step-son. My
step-son lives in San Antonio. I have six step-grandchillen. I was a
member of de Baptist church befo' you was bo'n, lady.
420394
Dibble, Fred
Beaumont, Jefferson Co. Dist. #3
ROSA GREEN, 85 years old, was born at Ketchi, Louisiana, but as
soon as she was old enough became a housegirl on the plantation of
Major "Bob" Hollingsworth at Mansfield, Louisiana. To the best of
her knowledge, she was about 13 when the "freedom papers" were
read. She had had 13 children by her two husbands, both deceased,
and lives with her youngest daughter in Beaumont. Their one-room,
unpainted house is one of a dozen unprepossessing structures
bordering an alleyway leading off Pine Street. Rosa, a spry little
figure, crowned with short, snow-white pigtails extending in
various directions, spends most of her time tending her small
flowerbeds and vegetable garden. She is talkative and her memory
seems quite active.
"When de w'ite folks read de freedom paper I was 13 year old. I jes'
lean up agin de porch, 'cause I didn' know den what it was all about. I
war'nt bo'n in Texas, I was bo'n in Ketchi, but I was rais' in Manfiel'.
Law, yes, I 'member de fight at Manfiel'. My ol' marster tuk all he
niggers and lef' at night. Lef' us little ones; say de Yankees could git
us effen day wan' to, 'cause we no good no way, and I wouldn' care if
dey did git us. Dey put us in a sugar hogshead and give us a spoon to
scrape out de sugar. 'Bout de ol' plantation, I work a little w'ile in
de fiel'. I didn' know den like I see now. Dese chillen bo'n wid mo'
sense now dan we was den. Dey was 'bout ten cullud folks on de place. My
ol' marster name Bob Hollingsworth, but dey call 'im Major, 'cause he
was a major in de war, not de las' one, but de one way back yonder. Ol'
missus work de little ones roun' de house and under de house and kep'
ev'yt'ing clean as yo' han'. The ol' marster I thought was de meanes'
man de Lawd ever made. Look like he cuss ev'y time he open he mouth. De
neighbor w'ite folks, some good, some bad. My work was cleanin' up 'roun
de house and nussin' de chillen. Only times I went to church when day
tuk us long to min' de chillen. When de battle of Manfiel' was, we didn'
git out much. When de Yankees was comin' to Gran' Cane, my w'ite folks
dig a big pit and put der meat and flour and all in it and cover it over
wid dirt and put wagon loads of pine straw over it. It was 'bout five or
six mile to Manfield and 'bout 49 or 50 mile to Shreveport. My ol'
marster tuk all he niggers and went off somweres, dey called it Texas,
but I didn' know where. De ol'er ones farm. Dey rais' ev'yt'ing dey
could put in de groun', dey did. My pa was kirrige(carriage) driver for
my ol' missus. He was boss nigger fo' de cullud men when marster wan't
right dere. My father jis' stay dere. See, dey free our people in July.
Dat leave de whole crop stanin' dere in de fiel'. Dey had to stay dere
and take care of de crop. After dat dey commence makin' contraks and
bargins. I was 22 years ol' when I marry de fus' time. Both my husban's
dead. I had 13 chillen in all.
"De fus' time I went to church, missus tuk me and another gal to min' de
chillen. I never heared a preacher befo'. I 'member how de preacher word
de hymn:
'Come, ye sinners, po' and needy.
Weak and wounded, sick and so'.'
"I couldn' understan' it, but now when I look down on it I sees it now.
I bleeve us been here goin' on fo' year' right yere in dis house."
420078
[Illustration: William Green, (Rev. Bill) (A)]
[Illustration: William Green, (Rev. Bill) (B)]
WILLIAM GREEN, or "Reverend Bill", as he is call by the other
Negroes, was brought to Texas from Mississippi in 1862. His master
was Major John Montgomery. William is 87 years old. He has lived in
San Antonio, Texas, for 50 years.
"I is Reverend Bill, all right, but I is 'fraid dat compliment don't
belong to me no more, 'cause I quit preachin' in favor of de young men.
"I kin tell you my 'speriences in savin'--mis'ry dat was, is peace dat
is. I tells you dis 'spite of bein' alone in de world with no chillun.
"I is raised a slave and 'mancipated in June, but I 'members de old
plantation whar I is born. Massa John Montgomery, he owned me, and he
went to de war and git kilt. I knowed 'bout de war, though us slaves
wasn't sposed to know nothin' 'bout it. I was livin' in Texas then,
'cause Massa John moved over here from Mis'sippi. In dat place niggers
was allus wrong, no matter what, but it was better in dis place. We used
to think we was lucky to git over here to Texas, and we used to sing a
song 'bout it:
"'Over yonder is de wild-goose nation,
Whar old missus has sugar plantation--
Sugar grows sweet but de plantation's sour,
'cause de nigger jump and run every hour.
"'I has you all to know, you all to know,
Dare's light on de shore,
Says little Bill to big Bill,
There's a li'l nigger to write and cipher.'
"I don't know what de song meant but we thought we'd git free here in
Texas, and we'd git eddicated, and dat's de meanin' of de talk about
writin' and cipherin'.
"Well, when I is free I isn't free, 'cause de boss wants me and another
boy to stay till we's 21 year old. But old Judge Longworth, he come down
dere and dere was pretty near a fight, and he 'splains to us we was
free.
"'bout five year after dat I takes up preachin' and I preaches for a
long time, and I works on a farm, half and half with de owner. I has a
good life, but now I's too old to preach.
420041
[Illustration: Pauline Grice]
PAULINE GRICE, 81, was born a slave of John Blackshier, who owned
her mother, about 150 slaves, 50 slave children, and a large
plantation near Atlanta, Georgia. Pauline married Navasota Grice in
1875 and they moved to Texas in 1917. Since her husband's death in
1928 Pauline has depended on the charity of friends, with whom she
lives at 2504 Ross Ave., North Fort Worth, Texas.
"White man, dis old cullud woman am not strong. 'Bout all my substance
am gone now. De way you sees me layin' on dis bed am what I has to do
mos' de time. My mem'randum not so good like 'twas.
"De place I am borned am right near Atlanta, in Georgia, and on dat
plantation of Massa John Blackshier. A big place, with 'bout 150 growed
slaves and 'bout 50 pickininnies. I doesn't work till near de surrender,
'cause I's too small. But us don't leave Massa John, us go right on
workin' for him like 'fore.
"Massa John am de kind massa and don't have whuppin's. He tell de
overseer, 'If you can't make dem niggers work without de whup, den you
not de man I wants.' Mos' de niggers 'have theyselves and when dey don't
massa put dem in de li'l house what he call de jail, with nothin' to eat
till deys ready to do what he say. Onct or twict he sell de nigger what
won't do right and do de work.
"Us have de cabin what am made from logs but us only sleeps dere. All us
cookin' done in de big kitchen. Dere am three women what do dat, and
give us de meals in de long shed with de long tables.
"To de bes' of dis nigger's mem'randum, de feed am good. Plenty of
everything and corn am de mostest us have. Dere am cornbread and
cornmeal mush and corn hominy and corn grits and parched corn for drink,
'stead of tea or coffee. Us have milk and 'lasses and brown sugar, and
some meat. Dat all raise on de place. Stuff for to eat and wear, dat am
made by us cullud folks and dat place am what dey calls se'f-s'portin'.
De shoemaker make all de shoes and fix de leather, too.
"After breakfas' in de mornin' de niggers am gwine here, dere and
everywhere, jus' like de big factory. Every one to he job, some
a-whistlin', some a-singin'. Dey sings diff'rent songs and dis am one
when deys gwine to work:
"'Old cotton, old corn, see you every morn,
Old cotton, old corn, see you since I's born.
Old cotton, old corn, hoe you till dawn,
Old cotton, old corn, what for you born?'
"Yes, suh, everybody happy on massa's place till war begin. He have two
sons and Willie am 'bout 18 and Dave am 'bout 17. Dey jines de army and
after 'bout a year, massa jine too, and, course, dat make de missy awful
sad. She have to 'pend on de overseer and it warn't like massa keep
things runnin'.
"In de old days, if de niggers wants de party, massa am de big toad in
de puddle. And Christmas, it am de day for de big time. A tree am fix,
and some present for everyone. De white preacher talk 'bout Christ. Us
have singin' and 'joyment all day. Den at night, de big fire builded and
all us sot 'round it. Dere am 'bout hundred hawg bladders save from hawg
killin'. So, on Christmas night, de chillen takes dem and puts dem on de
stick. Fust dey is all blowed full of air and tied tight and dry. Den
de chillen holds de bladder in de fire and purty soon, 'B A N G,'
dey goes. Dat am de fireworks.
"Dat all changed after massa go to war. Fust de 'federate sojers come
and takes some mules and hosses, den some more come for de corn. After
while, de Yankee sojers comes and takes some more. When dey gits
through, dey ain't much more tookin' to be done. De year 'fore
surrender, us am short of rations and sometime us hongry. Us sees no
battlin' but de cannon bang all day. Once, dey bang two whole days
'thout hardly stoppin'. Dat am when missy go tech in de head, 'cause
massa and de boys in dat battle. She jus' walk 'round de yard and twist
de hands and say, 'Dey sho' git kilt. Dey sho' dead.' Den when extra
loud noise come from de cannon, she scream. Den word come Willie am
kilt. She gits over it, but she am de diff'rent woman. For her, it am
trouble, trouble and more trouble.
"She can't sell de cotton. Dey done took all de rations and us couldn't
eat de cotton. One day she tell us, 'De war am on us. De sojers done
took de rations. I can't sell de cotton, 'cause of de blockade.' I don't
know what am dat blockade, but she say it. 'Now,' she say, 'All you
cullud folks born and raise here and us allus been good to you. I can't
holp it 'cause rations am short and I'll do all I can for you. Will yous
be patient with me?' All us stay dere and holp missy all us could.
"Den massa come home and say, 'Yous gwine be free. Far as I cares, you
is free now, and can stay here and tough it through or go where you
wants. I thanks yous for all de way yous done while I's gone, and I'll
holp you all I can.' Us all stay and it sho' am tough times. Us have
most nothin' to eat and den de Ku Klux come 'round dere. Massa say not
mix with dat crowd what lose de head, jus' stay to home and work. Some
dem niggers on other plantations ain't keep de head and dey gits whupped
and some gits kilt, but us does what massa say and has no trouble with
dem Klux.
"It 'bout two year after freedom mammy gits marry and us goes and works
on shares. I stays with dem till 1875 and den marries Navasota Robert
Grice and us live by farmin' till he die, nine year since. 'Bout 20 year
since us come here from Georgia and works de truck farm. I has two
chillen but dey dead. De way I feels now, 'twon't be long 'fore I goes,
too. My friends is good to me and lets me stay with dem.
420107
[Illustration: Mandy Hadnot]
MANDY HADNOT, small and forlorn looking, as she lies in a huge,
old-fashioned wooden bed, appears very black in contrast to the
clean white sheets and a thick mop of snowy wool on her head. She
does not know her age, but from her appearance and the details she
remembers of her years as slave in the Slade home, near Cold
Springs, Texas, she must be very old. She lives in Woodville,
Texas, with her husband, Josh, to whom she has been married 13
years.
"I's too small to 'member my father, 'cause he die when I jus' a baby.
Dey was my mudder and me and de ole mistus and marster on de plantation.
It were mo' jus' a farm, but dey raise us all we need to eat and feed de
cows and hosses.
"De earlies' 'membrance I hab is when de ole marster drive into de town
for supplies every two weeks. Us place was right near Col' Springs. He
was a good man. He treat dis lil' darky jus' like he own chile, 'cause
he never hab any chillen of his own. I know 'bout de time he comin' home
when he go to town and I wait down by de big gate. Purty soon I see de
big ox comin' and see de smoke from de road dust flyin'. Den I know he
almos' home and I holler and wave my han' and he holler and wave he han'
right back. He allus brung me somethin', jus' like I he own little gal.
Sometime he brung me a whistle or some candy or doll or somethin'.
"One Easter he brung me de purties' lil' hat I ever did see. My ole
mistus took me to Sunday school with her and I spruce up in dat hat.
"Every Christmas 'fore ole marster die he fix me up a tree out de woods.
Dey put popco'n on it to trim it and dey give me sometime a purty dress
or shoes and plenty candy and maybe a big, red apple. Dey hab a big san'
pile for me to play in, but I never play with any other chillen. My
mammy, Emily Budle, she cook and clean up mistus log house cabin. After
de ole marster die dey both work in de fiel' and raise plenty vegetables
to can and eat. My task was to shell peas and watch and stir de big
cookin' pots on de fireplace.
"My mistus hav lots of company. When she come in and say, 'Mandy, shine
up de knife and fork and put de polish on de pianny, I allus happy,
'cause I lub to see folks come. Us hab chicken and all kinds of good
things. De preacher, he was big, jolly man, he come to de house 'bout
one Sunday in every month. Sometime dey brung lil' white chillen to
dinner. Den us play
'Rabbit, rabbit.
Jump fru' de crack.'
and
'Kitty, kitty,
In de corner,
Meow, meow,
Run, kitty, run.'
"De ole marster pick me out a lil', gentle hoss named Julie and dat was
my very own hoss. It was jus' a common lil' hoss. I uster sneak sugar
out de barrel to feed Julie. Dey had a big smokehouse on de farm where
dey kep' all kin's of good things like sugar and sich. Dey had fruits of
all kin's put up.
"Every mornin' de ole mistus took out de big Bible and hab prayer
meetin' for jus' us three. Us never learn read much, tho' she try teach
me some. When I's 'bout nine year ole she buy me a purty white dress
and took me to jine de church. She was a little, white-hair' woman, what
never los' her temper 'bout nothin'. She use' to let me bump on her
pianny and didn' say nothin'. She couldn' play de pianny but she kinder
hope maybe I could, but I never did learn how.
"When freedom come my mudder and me pay no 'tention to it. Us stay right
on de place. Purty soon my mudder die and I jus' took up her shoes. One
day I's makin' a bonfire in de yard and ketch my dress on fire. De whol
side of my lef' leg mos' bu'n off. Mistus was so lil' she couldn' lif'
me but she fin'ly git me to bed. Dere I stay for long, long time, and
she wait on me han' and feet. She make linseed poultice and kep' de bu'n
grease good. Mos' time she leave all de wo'k stan' in de middle of de
floor and read de Bible and pray for me to git heal up and not suffer.
She cry right 'long with me when I cry, 'cause I hurt so.
"When I's 16 year ole I want to hab courtin'. Mistus 'low me to hab de
boy come right to de big house to see me. He come two mile every Sunday
and us go to Lugene Baptist church. Den she hav nice Sunday dinner for
both us. She let me go to ice cream supper, too. Dey didn' hab no
freezer den, jus' a big pan in some ice. De boys and girls took tu'ns
stirrin' de cream. It never git real ha'd but stay kinder slushy. Dey
serve cake. Us hav pie supper, too. Whoever git de girl's pie eat it
with her.
"My ole mistus she pay me money right 'long after freedom but I too
close to spen' any. Den when I 'cide to marry Bob Thomas, she he'p me
fix a hope ches'. I buys goods for sheets and table kivers and one nice
Sunday set dishes.
"Us marry right in de parlor of de mistus house. De white man preacher
marry us and mistus she give me 'way. Ole mistus he'p me make my weddin'
dress outta white lawn. I hab purty long, black hair and a veil with a
ribbon 'round de fron'. De weddin' feas' was strawberry ice cream and
yaller cake. Ole mistus giv me my bedstead, one of her purtiest ones,
and de set dishes and glasses us eat de weddin' dinner outta. My husban'
gib me de trabblin' dress, but I never use dat dress for three weeks,
though, 'cause ole mistus cry so when I hafter leave dat I stay for
three weeks after I marry.
"She all 'lone in de big house and I think it break her heart. I ain'
been gone to de sawmill town very long when she sen' for me. I go to see
her and took a peach pie, 'cause I lub her and I know dat's what she
like better'n anything. She was sick and she say, 'Mandy, dis de las'
time us gwineter see each other, 'cause I ain' gwineter git well. You be
a good girl and try to git through de worl' dat way.' Den she make me
say de Lord Prayer for her jus' like she allus make me say it for a
night prayer when I lil' gal. I never see her no mo'.
"Me and Bob Thomas and dis husban', Josh, what I marry thirteen year
ago, hab 'bout 10 chillen all togedder. Us been lib here many a year. I
don' care so much 'bout leavin' dis yearthly home, 'cause I knows I
gwineter see de ole mistus up dere and I tell her I allus 'member what
she tell me and try lib dat way all time.
420237
[Illustration: William Hamilton]
WILLIAM HAMILTON belonged to a slave trader, who left him on the
Buford plantation, near Village Creek, Texas. The trader did not
return, so the Buford family raised the child with their slaves.
William now lives at 910 E. Weatherford St., Ft. Worth, Texas.
"Who I is, how old I is and where I is born, I don't know. But Massa
Buford told me how durin' de war a slave trader name William Hamilton,
come to Village Creek, where Massa Buford live. Dat trader was on his
way south with my folks and a lot of other slaves, takin' 'em
somewheres, to sell. He camped by Massa Buford's plantation and asks
him, 'Can I leave dis li'l nigger here till I comes back?' Massa Buford
say, 'Yes,' and de trader say he'll be back in 'bout three weeks, soon
as he sells all the slaves. He mus' still be sellin' 'em, 'cause he
never comes back so far and there I am and my folks am took on, and I is
too li'l to 'member 'em, so I never knows my pappy and mammy. Massa
Buford says de trader comes from Missouri, but if I is born dere I don't
know.
"De only thing I 'members 'bout all dat, am dere am lots of cryin' when
dey tooks me 'way from my mammy. Dat something I never forgits.
"I only 'members after de war, and most de cullud folks stays with Massa
Buford after surrender and works de land on shares. Dey have good times
on dat place, and don't want to leave. Day has dances and fun till de Ku
Klux org'nizes and den it am lots of trouble. De Klux comes to de dance
and picks out a nigger and whups him, jus' to keep de niggers scart, and
it git so bad dey don't have no more dances or parties.
"I 'members seein' Faith Baldwin and Jeb Johnson and Dan Hester gittin'
whupped by de Klux. Dey wasn't so bad after women. It am allus after
dark when dey comes to de house and catches de man and whups him for
nothin'. Dey has de power, and it am done for to show dey has de power.
It gits so bad round dere, dat de menfolks allus eats supper befo' dark
and takes a blanket and goes to de woods for to sleep. Alex Buford don't
sleep in de house for one whole summer.
"No one knowed when de Klux comin'. All a-sudden up dey gallops on
hosses, all covered with hoods, and bust right into de house. Jus'
latches 'stead of locks was used dem days. Dey comes sev'ral times to
Alex' house but never cotches him. I'd hear dem comin' when dey hit de
lane and I'd holler, 'De Klux am comin'.' It was my job, after dark,
listenin' for dem Klux, den I gits under de bed.
"Why dey comes so many times round dere, am 'cause de second time dey
comes, Jane Bensom am dere. Jane am lots of woman, wide as de door and
tall, and weighs 'bout three hunder pounds. I calls, 'Here comes de
Klux,' and makes for under de bed. There am embers in de fireplace and
she fills a pail with dem and when de Klux busts in de door she lets dem
have de embers in de face, and den out de back door she goes. Two of dem
am burnt purty bad. De nex' night back dey comes and asks where Jane am.
She 'longs to Massa John Ditto and am so big everybody knows her, but de
niggers won't tell on her. She leaves de country fin'ly, but dey comes
lookin' for her every night for two months.
"Right over on Massa Ditto's place, am a killin' of a baby by dem Klux.
De baby am in de mammy's arms and a bunch of Klux ridin' by takes a
shot at de mammy, and it hits de baby and kills it.
"Right after de baby killin', sojers with blue coats comes dere and
camps front of Massa Buford's place and pertects de cullud folks. I goes
over to dey camp every day and dey gives me lots of good eats.
"De cullud folks has lots of trouble after de war, 'cause dey am ir'rant
niggers and gits foolishment in de head. They gits de idea de white
folks should give dem land and mules and sich. Over in de valley, Massa
Moses owns lots of land and fifty nigger families, and he gives each
family a deed to 'bout fifty acres. Some dem cullud folks grandchillen
still on dat land, too, de Parkers and Farrows and Nelsons and some
others. Den all de other niggers thinks dey should git land, too, but
dey don't, and it make dem git foolishment and git in trouble.
"In 1897 I marries Effie Coleman and has no chillens, so I is alone in
de world now. I can't do much and lives on de $10.00 de month pension.
De white folks lets me live in dis shack for mowin' de lawn, but I
worries 'bout when I can't do no more work. It am de awful way to spend
you last days.
420163
PIERCE HARPER, 86, was born on the Subbs plantation near Snow Hill,
North Carolina. When eight years old he was sold for $1,150
[Handwritten Note: '?'] to the Harper family, who lived in Snow
Hill. After the Civil War, Pierce farmed a small place near Snow
Hill and saw many raids of the Klu Klux Klan. He came to Galveston,
Texas, in 1877. Pierce attended a Negro school after he was grown,
learned to read and write, and is interested in the betterment of
his race.
"When you ask me is I Pierce Harper, you kind of 'sprised me. I reckoned
everybody know old Pierce Harper. Sister Johnson say to me outside of
services last Sunday night, 'Brother Harper, you is de beatines' man I
ever seen. You know everybody and everybody know you.' And I said,
'Sister Johnson, dat's 'cause I keep faith with de Lawd. I love de Lawd
and my neighbors and de Lawd and my neighbors love me.' Dat's what my
old mother told me 'way back in slavery, before I was ever sold. But
here I is talking 'bout myself when you want to hear me talk 'bout
slavery. Let's see, now.
"I was born way back in 1851 in North Carolina, on Mr. Subbs'
plantation, clost to Snow Hill, which was the county seat. My daddy was
a field hand and my mother worked in the fields, too, right 'longside my
daddy, so she could keep him lined up. The master said that Calisy, that
my mother, was the best fieldhand he had, and Calvin, that my daddy, was
the laziest. My mother used to say he was chilesome.
"Then when I was eight years old they sold me. The market place was in
Snow Hill on the public square near the jailhouse. It was jus' a little
stand built out in the open with no top on it, that the slaves stood on
to get sold while the white folks auctioned 'em off. I was too little to
get on the stand, so they had to hold me up and Mr. Harper bought me for
$1,100. [Handwritten Note: '?'] That was cheap for a boy.
"He lived in a brick house in town and had two-three slaves 'sides me. I
run errands and kept the yard clean, things a little boy could do. They
didn't have no school for slaves and I never learned to read and write
till after freedom. After I was sold, they let me go visit my mother
once a year, on Sunday morning, and took me back at night.
"The masters couldn't whip the slaves there. The law said in black and
white no master couldn't whip no slave, no matter what he done. When a
slave got bad they took him to the county seat and had him whipped. One
day I seen my old daddy get whipped by the county and state 'cause he
wouldn't work. They had a post in the public square what they tied 'em
to and a man what worked for the county whipped 'em.
"After he was whipped my daddy run away to the north. Daddy come by when
I was cleanin' the yard and said, 'Pierce, go 'round side the house,
where nobody can't see us.' I went and he told me goodbye, 'cause he was
goin' to run away in a few days. He had to stay in the woods and travel
at night and eat what he could find, berries and roots and things. They
never caught him and after he crossed the Mason-Dixon line he was safe.
"There used to be a man who raised bloodhounds to hunt slaves with. I
seen the dogs on the trail a whole day and still not catch 'em.
Sometimes the slave made friends with the dogs and they wouldn't let on
if they found him. Three dogs followed one slave the whole way up north
and he sold them up there.
"I heered 'em talk about some slaves what run barefooted in cold weather
and you could trail 'em by blood in the snow and ice where they hurt
their feet.
"Most of the time the master gave us castor oil when we were sick. Some
old folks went in the woods for herbs and made medicine. They made tea
out of 'lion's tongue' for the stomach and snake root is good for pains
in the stomach, too. Horse mint breaks the fever. They had a vermifuge
weed.
"I seed a lot of Southern soldiers and they'd go to the big house for
something to eat. Late in '63 they had a fight at a place called
Kingston, only 12 miles from our place, takin' how the jacks go. We
could hear the guns go off when they was fightin'. The Yankees beat and
settled down there and the cullud folks flocked down on them and when
they got to the Yankee lines they was safe. They went in droves of 25 or
50 to the Yankees and they put 'em to work fightin' for freedom. They
fit till the war was over and a lot of 'em got kilt. My mother and
sister run away to the Yankees and they paid 'em big money to wash for
'em.
"When peace come they read the 'mancipation law to the cullud people and
they stayed up half the night at Mr. Harper's, singing and shouting.
They spent that night singin' and shoutin'. They wasn't slaves no more.
The master had to give 'em a half or third of what he made. Our master
parceled out some land to 'em and told 'em to work it their selves and
some done real well. They got hosses that the soldiers had turned loose
to die, and fed them and took good care of 'em and they got good stock
that way. Cotton was twenty and thirty cents a pound then.
"After us cullud folks was 'sidered free and turned loose, the Klu Klux
broke out. Some cullud people started to farmin', like I told you, and
gathered the old stock. If they got so they made good money, and had a
good farm, the Klu Klux would come and murder 'em. The gov'ment builded
school houses and the Klu Klux went to work and burned 'em down. They'd
go to the jails and take the cullud men out and knock their brains out
and break their necks and throw 'em in the river.
"There was a cullud man they taken, his name was Jim Freeman. They taken
him and destroyed his stuff and him, 'cause he was making some money.
Hung him on a tree in his front yard, right in front of his cabin.
"There was some cullud young men went to the schools they'd opened by
the gov'ment. Some white woman said someone had stole something of hers
so they put them young men in jail. The Klu Klux went to the jail and
took 'em out and killed 'em. That happened the second year after the
War.
"After the Klu Kluxes got so strong the cullud men got together and made
the complaint before the law. The Gov'nor told the law to give 'em the
old guns in the com'sary, what the Southern soldiers had used, so they
issued the cullud men old muskets and said protect themselves. They got
together and organized the militia and had leaders like reg'lar
soldiers. They didn't meet 'cept when they heered the Klu Kluxes was
coming to get some cullud folks. Then they was ready for 'em. They'd
hide in the cabins and then's when they found out who a lot of them Klu
Kluxes was, 'cause a lot of 'em was kilt. They wore long sheets and
covered the hosses with sheets so you couldn't rec'nize 'em. Men you
thought was your friend was Klu Kluxes and you'd deal with 'em in stores
in the daytime and at night they'd come out to your house and kill you.
I never took part in none of the fights, but I heered the others talk
'bout them, but not where them Klu Klux could hear 'em.
"One time they had 12 men in jail, 'cused of robbin' white folks. All
was white in jail but one, and he was cullud. The Klu Kluxes went to the
jailor's house and got the jail key and got them men out and carried 'em
to the River Bridge, in the middle. Then they knocked their brains out
and threw 'em in the river.
"We was 'fraid of them Klu Kluxes and come to town, to Snow Hill. We
rented a little house and my mother took in washing and ironing. I went
to school and learned to read and write, then worked on farms, and
fin'ly went to Columbia, in South Carolina, and worked in the turpentine
country. I stayed there a while and got married.
"I come to Texas in 1877 and Galveston was a little pen then, a little
mess. I worked for some white people and then went to Houston and it
wasn't nothing but a mudhole. So I messed 'round in South Carolina again
a while and then come back to Galveston.
"The Lawd called me then and I answered and I answered and was preacher
here at the Union Baptist Church, on 11th and K, 'bout 25 years.
"I knowed Wright Cuney well and he held the biggest place a cullud man
ever helt in Galveston. He was congressman and the white people looked
up to him just like he was white.
"Durin' the Spanish-American War I went to Washington, D.C., to see my
sister and got in the soldier business. The gov'ment give me $30.00 a
month for drivin' a four-mule wagon for the army. I druv all through
Pennsylvania and Virginia and South Carolina for the gov'ment. I was
a----what do they call a laborer in the army?
"When war was over I come back here and now I'm too old to work and the
state gives me a pension and me and my granddaughter live on that. The
young folks is makin' their mark now. One thing about 'em, they get
educated, but there's not much for them to do when they get finished
with school but walk the streets now. I been always trying to help my
people to rise 'bove their station and they are rising all the time, and
some day they'll be free."
420298
MOLLY HARRELL was born a slave on the Swanson plantation, near
Palestine, Texas. She was a housegirl, but must have been too small
to do much work. She does not know her age, but thinks she was
about seven when she was freed. Molly lives at 3218 Ave H.,
Galveston, Texas.
"Don't you tell nobody dat I use to be a slave. I 'most forgot it myself
till you got round me jes' den. Course, I ain't blamin' you for it, but
what you done say 'bout all de plantations havin' schools was wrong, so
I jes' had to tell you I been a slave myself. It jes' slip out.
"Like I jes' say, I knows what I's talkin' 'bout, 'cause I use to be a
slave myself and I don't know how to read and write. Dat why I say I
can't see so good. It don't do to let folks know dey's smarter'n you,
'cause den dey got you right where dey wants you. Now, Will, dat de man
I's marry to, am younger'n me but he don't know it. When you git marry,
you don't tell de man how old you is. He wouldn't have you if you did.
'Course, Will ain't so young heself, but he's born after de war and I's
born durin' slavery, so dat make me older.
"Mr. Swanson use to own de big plantation in Palestine. Everybody in dat
part de country knowed him. He use to live in a plain, wood house on de
Palestine road. My mother use to cook and wait on tables. John was my
father.
"Dey use to have de little whip dey use on de women. Course de field
hands got it worse, but den, dey was men. Mr. Swanson was good and he
was mean. He was nice one day and mean as Hades de next. You never
knowed what he gwine to do. But he never punish nobody 'cept dey done
somethin'. My father was a field hand, and Mr. Swanson work de fire out
dem. Work, work--dat all dey know from time dey git up in de mornin'
till dey went to bed at night. But he wasn't hard on dem like some
masters was. If dey sick, dey didn't habe to work and he give dem de
med'cine hisself. If he cotch dem tryin' play off sick, den he lay into
dem, or if he cotch dem loafin'. Course, I don't blame him for dat,
'cause dere ain't anythin' lazier dan a lazy nigger. Will am 'bout de
laziest one in de bunch. You ain't never find a lazier nigger dan Will.
"I was purty little den, but I done my share. I holp my mother dust and
clean up de house and peel 'tatoes. Dere some old men dat too old to
work so dey sot in de sun all day and holp with de light work. Dey carry
grub and water to de field hands.
"Somebody run 'way all de time and hide in de woods till dere gut pinch
dem and den dey have to come back and git somethin' to eat. Course, dey
got beat, but dat didn't worry dem none, and it not long till dey gone
'gain.
"My mother sold into slavery in Georgia, or round dere. She tell me
funny things 'bout how dey use to do up dere. A old white man think so
much of he old nigger when he die he free dat nigger in he will, and
lef' him a little money. He open de blacksmith shop and buy some slaves.
Mother allus say dose free niggers make de hardes' masters. One in
Palestine marry a nigger slave and buy her from her master. Den he tell
everybody he own a slave.
"Everybody talk 'bout freedom and hope to git free 'fore dey die. I
'member de first time de Yankees pass by, my mother lift me up on de
fence. Dey use to pass by with bags on de mules and fill dem with stuff
from de houses. Dey go in de barn and holp deyself. Dey go in de stables
and turn out de white folks' hosses and run off what dey don't take for
deyself.
"Den one night I 'member jes' as well, me and my mother was settin' in
de cabin gettin' ready to go to bed, when us hear somebody call my
mother. We listen and de overseer whisper under de door and told my
mother dat she free but not to tell nobody. I don't know why he done it.
He allus like my mother, so I guess he do it for her. The master reads
us de paper right after dat and say us free.
"Me and my mother lef' right off and go to Palestine. Most everybody
else go with us. We all walk down de road singin' and shoutin' to beat
de band. My father come nex' day and jine us. My sister born dere. Den
us go to Houston and Louisiana for a spell and I hires out to cook. I
works till us come to Galveston 'bout ten year ago.
420316
Dibble, Fred, P.W., Beehler, Rheba, P.W.,
Beaumont, Jefferson, Dist. #3.
ANN HAWTHORNE, Beaumont, Tex., was clad in a white dress which was
protected by a faded blue checked apron. On her feet she wore men's
bedroom slippers much too large for her, and to prevent their
falling off, were tied around the ankle by rag strings. She wore
silk hose with the heels completely worn out of them. Her figure is
generous in proportions, and her hair snow white, fixed in little
pig tails and wrapped in black string. Ann related her story in a
deep voice and a jovial manner. Although born and raised in Jasper
county, she speaks boastfully about having been to Houston.
"If you's lookin' for Ann Hawthorne, dis is me. I was bo'n in slavery,
and I was a right sizeable gal when freedom come. I was 'bout 10 or 12
year' ol' when freedom riz up."
"I was bo'n up here in Jasper. Ol' marster Woodruff Norsworthy and Miss
Ca'lina, dey was my ol' marster and mistus. Miss Ca'lina she name' me."
"My pa was Len Norsworthy. My ma was name Ca'line after ol' mistus. Dat
how come I 'member ol' mistus name so good. I got fo' brudders livin',
but nary a sister. My brudders is Newton and Silas and Willie and Frank.
I say dey's livin'. I mean dat de las' time I heard of 'em dey was
livin'."
"Yas, I 'member de house I was raise in. It was jis' a one-room log
house. Dey was a ol' Geo'gia hoss bed in it. It was up pretty high and
us chillun had to git on a box to git in dat bed. De mattress was mek
outer straw. Sometime dey mek 'em in co'n sacks and sometime dey put 'em
in a tick what dey weave on de loom. I had a aunt what was de weaver.
She weave all de time for ol' marster. She uster weave all us clo's."
"My ma she was jis' a fiel' han' but my gramma and my aunt dey hab dem
for wuk 'roun' de house. I didn' do nuthin' but chu'n (churn) and clean
de yard, and sweep 'roun' and go to de spring and tote de water. I l'arn
how to hoe, too."
"Dat was a big plantation. Fur as I kin 'member I t'ink dey was 'bout 25
or 30 slaves on de place. You see I done git ol' and childish and I
can't 'member like what I uster could. I 'member though, dat my pa uster
drive a team for ol' marster. Sometime he fiel' han' on de plantation,
too."
"Ol' marster he was good to his slaves. I heerd of slaves bein' whip'
but I ain't never see any git whip. Dey was a overseer on de place and
iffen dey was any whippin' to be did, he done it."
"Me? I never did git no lickin's when I was a li'l slave. No mam. I
allus did obey jis' like I was teached to do and dey didn' hafter whip
me. I 'members dat."
"We done our playin' 'roun' dat big house, but dat front gate, we
dassen' go outside dat. We uster jump de rope and play ring plays and
sich. You know how dey yoke dey han's togedder? Dat de way us uster do
and go 'roun' and 'roun' singin' our li'l jumped up songs. Den us jis'
play 'roun' lots of times anyt'ing what happen to come up in our min's."
"Dey feed us good back in slavery. Give us plenty of meat and bread and
greens and t'ings. Ye, dey feed us good and us had plenty. Dey give us
plenty of co'nbread. Dat's de reason I's a co'nbread eater now. I ain't
no flour-bread eater. I lubs my co'nbread. Us all eat outer one big pan.
Dey give each li'l nigger a big iron spoon and us sho' go to it. Dey
give us milk in a sep'rate vessel, and dey give eb'ryone a slice of meat
in our greens. And dey never dassent tek de other feller's piece of
meat. Eb'ryt'ing better go 'long smoove wid us chillun. We better eat
and shut our mouf. We dassent raise no squall."
"I tell dese chillun here dey ain't know nuffin'. Dey got dey glass. We
had our li'l go'ds (gourds) pretty and clean and white. I wish I had
one of dem ol' time go'ds now to drink my milk outer."
"In good wedder dey feed us under a big tree out in de yard. And us
better leave eb'ryt'ing clean and no litter 'roun'. In de winter time
dey fed us in de kitchen."
"Us gals wo' plain, long waisted dress. Dey was cut straight and wid
long waist and dey button down de back."
"Dey was a cullud man what mek shoes for de slaves to wear in de winter
time. He mek 'em outer rough red russet ledder. Dat ledder was hard and
lots of times it mek blister on us feet. I uster be glad when summer
time come so's I could go barefoot."
"Dey had cabins for de slaves to live in. Dere was jis' one room and one
family to de cabin. Some of 'em was bigger dan others and dey put a big
family in a big cabin and a li'l family in a li'l cabin."
"I never see no slaves bought and sol'. I heerd my gramma and ma say dey
ol' marster wouldn' sell none of his slaves."
"I heerd 'bout dem broom-stick marriages, but I ain't never seed none.
Dat was dey law in dem days."
"Dey didn' know nuffin' 'bout preachin' and Sunday School in dem times.
De fus' preachin' I heerd was atter dat. I hear a white preacher
preach. He uster preach to de white folks in de mornin' and de cullud
folks in de afternoons. But de slaves some of 'em uster had family
prayer meetings to deyselfs."
"De ol' marster he didn' work he han's on Sunday and he give 'em half de
day off on Sadday, too. But he never give 'em a patch to work for
deyself. Dat half a day off on Sadday was for de slaves to wash and
clean up deyselfs."
"I never git marry 'till way atter freedom come. Dat was up in Jasper
county where I's bred and bo'n. I marry Hyman Hawthorne. Near as you kin
guess, dat was 'bout 50 year' ago. Den he die and lef' me wid eight
chillun. My baby gal she ain't never see no daddy."
"Atter he dead I wash and iron and cook out and raise my chillun. I was
raise up in de fiel' all my life. When I git disable' to wuk in de time
of de 'pressure (depression) I git on my walkin' stick. I wag up town
and I didn' fail to ax de white folks 'cause I wo' myself out wukkin'
for 'em. Dey load up my sack and sometime dey bring me stuff in a car
right dere to dat gate. But I's had two strokes and I ain't able to go
to town no mo'."
"I tell you I never hear nuthin' 'bout chu'ch 'till way atter freedom.
Sometime den us go to chu'ch. Dey was one Mef'dis' Chu'ch and one
Baptis' Chu'ch in Jasper. Dere moughta been a Cabilic (Catholic) Chu'ch
dere too, but I dunno 'bout dat."
"I don' 'member seein' no sojers. I t'ink some of ol' marster's boys
went to de war but de ol' man didn' go. I dunno 'bout wedder dey come
back or not 'cep'n' I 'member dat Crab Norsworthy he come back."
"When any of de slaves git sick ol' mistus and my gramma dey doctor 'em.
De ol' mistus she a pretty good doctor. When us chillun git sick dey git
yarbs or dey give us castor oil and turpentine. Iffen it git to be a
ser'ous ailment dey sen' for de reg'lar doctor. Dey uster hang
asafoetida 'roun' us neck in a li'l bag to keep us from ketch' de
whoopin' cough and de measles."
"Dey was a gin and cotton press on de place. Ol' marster gin' and bale'
he own cotton. Dat ol' press had dem long arms a-stickin' down what dey
hitch hosses to and mek 'em go 'roun' and 'roun' and press de bale."
"Dey raise dey own t'bacco on de place. I didn' use snuff nor chew 'till
after I growed up and marry. Back in slavery you couldn' let 'em ketch
you wid a chew of t'bacco or snuff in your mouf. Iffen you did dey
wouldn' let you forgit it."
"I uster like to go and play 'roun' de calfs, jis' go up and pet 'em and
rub 'em. But we dassent git on 'em to ride 'em."
"Marster uster sit 'roun' and watch us chillun play. He enjoy dat. He
call me his Annie 'cause I name' after my mistus. Sometime he hab a
wagon load of watermilion haul' up from de fiel' and cut 'em. Eb'ry
chile hab a side of watermilion. And us hab all de sugar cane and sweet
'taters us want."
"Dey had a big smokehouse. Dey hab big hog killin' time, and dey dry and
salt de meat in a big long trough. Dey git oak and ash and hick'ry wood
and mek a fire under it and smoke it. My gramma toted de key to dat
smokehouse and ol' mistus she'd tell her what to go and git for de white
folks and de cullud folks."
"When Crismus come 'roun' dey give us big eatin'. Us hab chicken and
turkey and cake. I don' 'member dat dey give us no presents."
"My gramma and my ma and ol' man Norsworthy dey come from Alabama. I
never hear of him breakin' up a family. But when dey was livin' in
Geo'gy, my ma marry a man name' Hawthorne in Geo'gy. He wouldn' sell him
to Marse Norsworthy when he come to Texas. Atter freedom marster go to
Geo'gy to git him and bring him to Texas, but he done raisin' up anudder
family dere and won't come. Li'l befo' she die her husban' come. When he
'bout wo' out and ready to die, den he come. Some of de ol'es' chillun
'member dey daddy and dey crazy for him to come and dey mek up de money
for him. When he git here dey tek care of him 'till he die right dere at
Olive. Ma tell 'em to write him he neenter (need not) come. She say he
ain't no service to her. But he come and de daughter tek care of her ma
and pa bofe."
"I's got 8 gran'chillun and 5 great-gran'chillun. I 'vides (divide) my
time 'tween my daughter here and de one in Houston."
"You wants to tek my picture? Daughter, I don' want dat hat you got
dere. Dat one of de chillun' hats. Git dat li'l bonnet. Dat becomes me
better. I can't stan' much sun. Dey say I's got high blood pressue."
420186
JAMES HAYES, 101, was born a slave to a plantation owner whose name
he does not now recall, in Shelby Co., two miles from Marshall,
Texas. Mr. John Henderson bought the place, six slaves and James
and his mother. James, known as Uncle Jim, seems happy, still
stands erect, and is very active for his age. He lives on a green
slope overlooking the Trinity river, in Moser Valley, a Negro
settlement ten miles northeast of Fort Worth.
"Dis nigger have lived a long time, yas, suh! I's 101 years ole, 'cause
I's bo'n Dec. 28, 1835. Dat makes me 102 come nex' December. I can'
'member my fust marster's name, 'cause when I's 'bout two years ole, me
and my sis, 'bout five, and our mammy was sol' to Marster John
Henderson. I don' 'member anything 'bout my pappy, but I 'member Marster
Henderson jus' like 'twas las' week. I's settin' hear a thinkin' of dem
ole days when I's a li'l nigger a cuttin' up on ole marster's
plantation. How I did play roun' with de chilluns till I's big enough
for to wo'k. After I's 'bout 13, I jus' peddles roun' de house for 'bout
a year, den 'twarn't long till I hoes co'n and potatoes. Dere's six
slaves on dat place and I coul' beat dem all a-hoein'.
"De marster takes good care of us and sometimes give us money, 'bout
25¢, and lets us go to town. Dat's when we was happy and celebrates.
We'uns spent all de money on candy and sweet drinks. Marster never
crowded us 'bout de wo'k, and never give any of us whuppin's. I's
sev'ral times needed a whuppin', but de marster never gives dis nigger
more'n a good scoldin'. De nearest I comes to gittin whupped, 'twas
once when I stole a plate of biscuits offen de table. I warn't in need
of 'em, but de devil in me caused me to do it. Marster and all de folks
comes in and sets down, and he asks for de biscuits, and I's under de
house and could hear 'em talk. De cook says, 'I's put de biscuits on de
table.' Marster says, 'If you did, de houn' got 'em.' Cook says, 'If a
houn' got 'em, 'twas a two-legged one, 'cause de plate am gone, too.'
I's made de mistake of takin' de plate. Marster give me de wors'
scoldin' I ever has and dat larned me a lesson.
"Not long after dat, Marster sol' my mammy to his brudder who lived in
Fort Worth. When dey took her away, I's powerful grieved. 'Bout dat time
de War started. De marster and his boy, Marster Ben, jined de army. De
marster was a sergeant. De women folks was proud of dere men folks, but
dey was powerful grieved. All de time de men's away, I could tell Missy
Elline and her mamma was worried. Dey allus sen's me for de mail, and
when I fotches it, dey run to meet me, anxious like, to open de letter,
and was skeert to do it. One day I fotches a letter and I could feel it
in my bones, dere was trouble in dat letter. Sure 'nough, dere was
trouble, heaps of it. It tells dat Marster Ben am kilt and dat dey was a
shippin' him home. All de ole folks, cullud and white, was cryin'. Missy
Elline, she fainted. When de body comes home, dere's a powerful big
funeral and after dat, dere's powerful weepin's and sadness on dat
place. De women folks don' talk much and no laughin' like 'fore. I
'members once de missy asks me to make a 'lasses cake. I says, 'I's got
no 'lasses.' Missy says, 'Don' say 'lasses, say molasses.' I says, 'Why
say molasses when I's got no 'lasses.' Dat was de fus' time Missy laugh
after de funeral.
"Durin' de War, things was 'bout de same, like always, 'cept some
vittles was scarce. But we'uns had plenty to eat and us slaves didn'
know what de War was 'bout. I guess we was too ign'rant. De white folks
didn' talk 'bout it 'fore us. When it's over, de Marster comes home and
dey holds a big celebration. I's workin' in de kitchen and dey tol' me
to cook heaps of ham, chicken, pies, cakes, sweet 'taters and lots of
vegetables. Lots of white folks comes and dey eats and drinks wine, dey
sings and dances. We'uns cullud folks jined in and was singin' out in de
back, 'Massa's in de Col', Har' Groun'. Marster asks us to come in and
sing dat for de white folks, so we'uns goes in de house and sings dat
for de white folks and dey jines in de chorus.
"Three days after de celebration, de marster calls all de slaves in de
house and says, 'Yous is all free, free as I am.' He tol' us we'uns
could go if we'uns wanted to. None of us knows what to do, dere warn't
no place to go and why would we'uns wan' to go and leave good folks like
de marster? His place was our home. So we'uns asked him if we could stay
and he says, 'Yous kin stay as long as yous want to and I can keep
yous.' We'uns all stayed till he died, 'bout a year after dat.
"When he was a-dyin', marster calls me to his bed and says, 'My dyin'
reques' is dat yous be taken to your mama.' He calls his son, Zeke, in
and tells him dat I should be fotched to my mamma. And 'bout in a year,
Marster Zeke fotches me to my mamma, in Johnson Station, south of
Arlington. She's wo'kin' for Jack Ditto and I's pleased to see her.
I's pleased to see my mammy, but after a few days I wants to go back to
Marshall with Marster Zeke. Dat was my home, so I kep' pesterin' marster
to fetch me back, but he slips off and leaves me. I has to stay and I's
been here ever since.
"I gits my fust job with Carter Cannon, on a farm, and stays seven
years. Den I goes to Fort Worth and takes a job cookin' in de Gran'
Hotel for three years. Den I goes to Dallas and cooks for private
families, and wo'ks for Marster James Ellison for 30 years. I stops four
years ago and comes out here to wait till de good Lawd calls me home.
"Bout gittin' married, after I quits de Gran' Hotel I marries and we'uns
has two chillen. My wife died three years later.
"You knows, I believes I's mo' contented as a slave. I's treated kind
all de time and had no frettin' 'bout how I gwine git on. Since I's been
free, I sometimes have heaps of frettin'. Course, I don' want to go back
into slavery, but I's paid for my freedom.
"I's never been sick abed, but I's had mo' misery dis las' year dan all
my life. It's my heart. If I live till December, I'll be 102 years old,
and dis ole heart have been pumpin' and pumpin' all dem years and have
missed nary a beat till dis las' year. I knows 'twon't be long till de
good Lawd calls dis ole nigger to cross de Ribber Jordan and I's ready
for de Lawd when he calls.
420082
[Illustration: Felix Haywood (A)]
[Illustration: Felix Haywood (B)]
FELIX HAYWOOD is a temperamental and whimsical old Negro of San
Antonio, Texas, who still sees the sunny side of his 92 years, in
spite of his total blindness. He was born and bred a slave in St.
Hedwig, Bexar Co., Texas, the son of slave parents bought in
Mississippi by his master, William Gudlow. Before and during the
Civil War he was a sheep herder and cowpuncher. His autob
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