Slave Narratives: A Folk History of Slavery in the United States from Interviews with Former Slaves, Volume I, Alabama Narratives
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Title: Slave Narratives: A Folk History of Slavery in the United States from Interviews with Former Slaves, Volume I, Alabama Narratives
Author: United States. Work Projects Administration
Release date: May 2, 2011 [eBook #36020]
Language: English
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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 I, ALABAMA NARRATIVES ***
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SLAVE NARRATIVES
_A Folk History of Slavery in the United States_
_From Interviews with Former Slaves_
TYPEWRITTEN RECORDS PREPARED BY
THE FEDERAL WRITERS' PROJECT
1936-1938
ASSEMBLED BY
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS PROJECT
WORK PROJECTS ADMINISTRATION
FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
SPONSORED BY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS
_Illustrated with Photographs_
WASHINGTON 1941
VOLUME I
ALABAMA NARRATIVES
Prepared by the Federal Writers' Project of
the Works Progress Administration
for the State of Alabama
[HW:] Handwritten note
[TR:] Transcriber's note
[Illustration: _A Slave Cabin in Barbour County near Eufaula_]
INFORMANTS
- Charlie Aarons
- Anthony Abercrombie
- Molly Ammond (Ammonds)
- Charity Anderson
- Gus Askew
- Tom Baker
- Henry Barnes
- Nathan Beauchamp
- Oliver Bell
- Nelson Birdsong
- Ank Bishop
- Siney Bonner
- Jennie Bowen
- Nannie Bradfield
- Martha Bradley
- Allen Brown
- Gus Brown
- Walter Calloway
- Esther King Casey
- Amy Chapman
- Emma Chapman
- Henry Cheatam
- Laura Clark
- Hattie Clayton
- Wadley "Shorty" Clemons
- William Colbert
- Tildy Collins
- Sara Colquitt
- Mandy McCullough Cosby
- Emma Crockett
- Cheney Cross
- Matilda Pugh Daniel
- Carrie Davis
- Clara Davis
- George Dillard
- Ella Dilliard
- Rufus Dirt
- Katherine Eppes
- Reuben Fitzpatrick
- Heywood Ford
- Bert Frederick
- Delia Garlic
- Angie Garrett
- Henry Garry
- Georgia
- Fannie Gibson
- Frank Gill
- Jim Gillard
- Mary Ella Grandberry
- Esther Green
- Jake Green
- Charity Grigsby
- Charles Hayes
- Lizzie Hill
- Gabe Hines
- Adeline Hodges
- Caroline Holland
- Jane Holloway
- Joseph Holmes
- Josh Horn
- Emma L. Howard
- Everett Ingram
- Hannah Irwin
- Martha Jackson
- Jane
- Hilliard Johnson
- Randolph Johnson
- Abraham Jones
- Emma Jones
- Hannah Jones
- Josephine
- Lucindy Lawrence Jurdon
- Lucy Kimball
- Ellen King
- Mandy Leslie
- Dellie Lewis
- Lightnin'
- Billy Abraham Longslaughter
- Louis
- Tom McAlpin
- Anne Maddox
- Mandy
- Frank Menefee
- Isaam Morgan
- Tony Morgan
- Mose
- Sally Murphy
- Hattie Anne Nettles
- W.E. Northcross
- Wade Owens
- Molly Parker
- Lindy Patton
- Simon Phillips
- Roxy Pitts
- Carrie Pollard
- Irene Poole
- Nicey Pugh
- Sally Reynolds
- Mary Rice
- Cornelia Robinson
- Gus Rogers
- Janie Scott
- Maugan Shepherd
- Allen Sims
- Frank Smith
- John Smith
- Annie Stanton
- Theodore Fontaine Stewart
- George Strickland
- Cull Taylor
- Daniel Taylor
- George Taylor
- Amanda Tellis
- Ellen Thomas
- Elizabeth Thomas
- Mollie Tillman
- Alonza Fantroy Toombs
- William Henry Towns
- Stepney Underwood
- Charlie Van Dyke
- Lilah Walker
- Simon Walker
- Lucindia Washington
- Eliza White
- Mingo White
- Abe Whitess
- Callie Williams
- Silvia Witherspoon
- George Young
*ILLUSTRATIONS*
A Slave Cabin in Barbour County near Eufaula
Molly Ammond (Ammonds)
Charity Anderson
Gus Askew
Nathan Beauchamp
Oliver Bell
Ank Bishop
Siney Bonner
Jennie Bowen
Martha Bradley
Allen Brown
Gus Brown
Walter Calloway
Esther King Casey
Amy Chapman
Henry Cheatam
Laura Clark
Laura Clark's House
Wadley (Shorty) Clemons
William Colbert
Sara Colquitt
Emma Crockett
Emma Crockett's House
Matilda Pugh Daniel
Carrie Davis
George Dillard
Bert Frederick
Delia Garlic
Angie Garrett
Henry Garry
Jake Green
Charity Grigsby
Charity Grigsby's House
Lizzie Hill
Gabe Hines
Jane Holloway
Emma L. Howard
Everett Ingram
Hannah Irwin
Martha Jackson
Abraham Jones
Abraham Jones' Back Yard
Abraham Jones' House
Lucindy Lawrence Jurdon
Tom McAlpin
Anne Maddox
Frank Menefee
Isaam Morgan
Hattie Anne Nettles
Rev. Wade Owens
Molly Parker
Lindy Patton
Simon Phillips
Carrie Pollard
Nicey Pugh
Mary Rice
Cornelia Robinson
Maugan Shepherd
Allen Sims
Frank Smith
Theodore Fontaine Stewart
George Strickland
Daniel Taylor
Ellen Thomas
Alonza Fantroy Toombs
William Henry Towns
Stepney Underwood
Simon Walker
Cindy Washington
Abe Whitess
George Young
Charlie Aarons
*Personal contact with Uncle Charlie Aarons*
*Oak Grove, Alabama*
--_Written by Mary A. Poole_
_HE LOVED YOUNG MARSTER JOHN_
Some friends driving to Oak Grove, Ala., gave the writer the opportunity
on August 4th to interview an old ex-slave, Charlie Aarons, who is quite
venerable in appearance, and who, when asked his age, replied:
"Madam I don't know but I sure been 'round here long time", and when
asked how old he was at the time of the Surrender he answered:
"I was a man able to do a man's work so I 'spects I was eighteen or
twenty years old."
Uncle Charlie, as he is known among his own color and the white people
who know him, told the writer he was born at Petersburg Va., and his
parents, Aaron and Louisa, were owned by a Mr. J.H. White, who had a
store in the city, but no plantation. His parents had three children,
two boys and one girl, and when Uncle Charlie was about ten years of
age, he was sold by Mr. White to a speculator named Jones who brought
him to Mobile. He recalled being placed on the block, at the slave mart
on Royal and State streets, and the anxiety of hearing the different
people bidding for him, and being finally sold to a Mr. Jason Harris,
who lived near Newton Station in Jasper County, Miss.
Uncle Charlie never saw or heard of his parents or brother and sister
again and never knew what became of them.
Uncle Charlie said Mr. Harris was a pretty rough master, and somewhat
close. All rations were weighed out and limited. He had a white overseer
and a negro driver, who was the meanest of all.
Mr. Jason Harris had about sixty slaves, and a large plantation of a
hundred acres, the men and women worked in the fields from six to six,
except on Saturday, when they had half day holiday to clean up
generally.
The home of the Harris family was a large two story house and the
quarters were the regular log cabins with clay chimneys. They cooked in
their cabins, but during the busy season in the fields their dinners
were sent out to them each slave having his own tin pail marked with his
name. Water would be sent out in a barrel mounted on an ox cart.
The old men and women looked after the children of the slaves while
their parents worked in the fields.
When the writer asked Uncle Charlie, if his master or mistress ever
taught him to read or write, he smiled and said:
"No, Madam, only to work".
When asked if they had any special festivities at Christmas or any other
holiday, he replied:
"No, we had no special jolifications".
Saturday nights they would sing and dance in the quarters and have
prayer meetings, then on some Sundays, they would hitch up the mules to
a big wagon and all go to the white folks church: and again there would
be camp meetings held and the slaves from all the surrounding
plantations would attend, going to same in these large wagons, sometimes
having four mules to a wagon. They then would have a jolly time along
the way, singing and calling to one another, and making friends.
Uncle Charlie, said, he drove many a load of cotton in the large mule
wagons from Newton Station to Enterprise, Mississippi.
When asked if that wasn't a chance to run away, he replied:
"Git away, why Madam, those nigger dogs would track you and all you got
was a beating."
Uncle Charlie seemed to look off in the distance and said: "You know,
Madam, I never saw a slave rebuked until I came to Mississippi," and I
just couldn't understand at first, but he grinned and said: "Lordy,
Madam, some of those niggers were onery, too, and a nigger driver was a
driver sure enough."
When the Master's son John Harris went to war, Charlie went with him as
his body guard, and when asked what his duties were, he replied:
"I looked after Marster John, tended the horses and the tents. I recalls
well, Madam, the siege of Vicksburg."
The writer then asked him if he wasn't afraid of the shot and shell all
around him.
"No, Madam," he replied, "I kept way in the back where the camp was, for
I didn't like to feel the earth trembling 'neath my feet, but you see,
Madam, I loved young Marster John, and he loved me, and I just had to
watch over that boy, and he came through all right."
Uncle Charlie said when they were told the Yankees were coming through
from their headquarters in Meridian, Mississippi, and warned of their
raids, they all made to the swamps and staid until they had passed on,
but that the Yankees did not disturb the Jason Harris plantation.
After the Surrender Charlie came to Mobile and worked at the Yankee
Camp, living in the quarters located in Holly's Garden. He drove their
wagons and was paid $14.00 a month and his keep. After his discharge he
worked on steamboats and followed different lines of work, being
employed for several years at Mr. M.L. Davis' saw mill, and is at
present living on the Davis place at Oak Grove, Ala., an old Southern
home, with quarters originally built for the employees of the mill and
still known as the "quarters", and like other ante-bellum homes they
have their private burying ground on the place.
Uncle Charlie was married four times, but now a widower. He had four
children, two boys who are dead, and two girls, one Carrie Johnson, a
widow, living in Kushla, Ala., and the other, Ella Aarons, a grass
widow, living in Mobile, Ala.
Uncle Charlie says he saw Jeff. Davis as an old man, after the war at
Mississippi City, Miss., and then his face lit up, and he said; "Wait a
minute, Madam, I saw another president, let me think,--Yes, Madam I saw
President Grant. He came through Mobile from New Orleans, and my! there
was a big parade that day."
When asked about Abraham Lincoln, Uncle Charlie thought awhile, and
answered:
"According to what was issued out in the Bible, there was a time for
slavery, people had to be punished for their sin, and then there was a
time for it not to be, and the Lord had opened a good view to Mr.
Lincoln, and he promoted a good idea."
When he was asked about Booker T. Washington he replied:
"It was traversed out to him until the white folks took part with him
and helped him carry on."
Uncle Charlie thinks the present day folks are bad and wicked, and dont
realize anything like the old folks.
Charlie is a Baptist, became one when he sought the Lord and thinks all
people should be religious.
Anthony Abercrombie
*Interview with Anthony Abercrombie*
--_Susie R. O'Brien, Uniontown, Alabama_
_OLD JOE CAN KEEP HIS TWO BITS_
Uncle Ant'ny sat dozing in the early morning sunshine on his rickety
front porch. He is a thin little old man with patches of white wool here
and there on his bald head, and an expression of kindness and gentleness
on his wrinkled old face.
As I went cautiously up the steps, which appeared none too safe, his
cane which had been leaning against his chair, fell to the floor with a
clatter. He awoke with a start and began fumbling around for it with his
trembling and bony hands.
"Uncle Ant'ny, you don't see so well, do you?" I asked as I recovered
the stick for him. "No ma'am, I sho' don't," he replied. "I ain't seed
none outen one of my eyes in near 'bout sixty years, and de doctor say I
got a catalac on de yuther one; but I knows you is white folks. I always
is been puny, but I reckon I does purty well considerin' I is a hundred
years old."
"How do you know you are that old?" I inquired of him. Without
hesitation he answered, "I knows I's dat old 'cause my mistis put it
down in de Bible. I was born on de fourth day and I was a full growed
man when de war come on in '61.
"Yassum, my mind kinder comes and goes, but I can always 'member 'bout
slave'y time. Hits de things what happen in dese days dat's so easy for
me to disremember. I b'longed to Marster Jim Abercrombie. His plantation
was 'bout sixteen miles north of Marion in Bibb county. When his son,
young Jim, ma'ied, old Marse Jim give me to him and he fetched me to
Perry county.
"No'm, old marster didn't go to war 'ca'se he was corrupted; he was deaf
in bofe ears and couldn't see good nuther. But he didn't care much 'bout
me 'caze I was puny like and warn't much 'count in de field.
"My mistis, Miss Lou, was raisin' me up to be a carriage driver, an' she
was jes' as good to me as she could be. She useta dose me up wid castor
oil, jimson root, and dogwood tea when I'd be feelin' po'ly, and she'd
always take up for me when Marse Jim get in behind me 'bout somep'n. I
reckon though I was a purty worrisome nigger in dem days; always gettin'
in some kind of mischief.
"O yassum, I useta go to meetin'. Us niggers didn't have no meetin'
house on de plantation, but Marse Jim 'lowed us to build a brush arbor.
Den two years atter de surrender I took consideration and j'ined up wid
de Lawd. Dat's how come I live so long. De Lawd done told me, 'Antn'y,
you got a hundred and twenty miles to trabel. Dat mean you gwine to live
a hundred and twenty years, if you stay on de straight an' narrow road.
But if you don't, you gotter go jes' de same as all de yuthers.'"
"Tell me something about your master's slaves and his overseers," I
asked of him.
"Well," he said, "Marse Jim had 'bout three hundred slaves, and he hed
one mighty bad overseer. But he got killed down on de bank of de creek
one night. Dey never did find out who killed him, but Marse Jim always
b'lieved de field han's done it. 'Fore dat us niggers useta go down to
de creek to wash ourselves, but atter de overseer got killed down dar,
us jes' leave off dat washin', 'cause some of 'em seed de overseer's
ha'nt down dar floatin' over de creek.
"Dar was another ha'nt on de plantation, too. Marse Jim had some trouble
wid a big double-j'inted nigger named Joe. One day he turn on Marse Jim
wid a fence rail, and Marse Jim had to pull his gun an' kill him. Well,
dat happen in a skirt of woods what I get my lightwood what I use to
start a fire. One day I went to dem same woods to get some 'simmons.
Another nigger went wid me, and he clumb de tree to shake de 'simmons
down whilst I be pickin' 'em up. 'Fore long I heared another tree
shakin' every time us shake our tree, dat other tree shake too, and down
came de 'simmons from it. I say to myself, 'Dat's Joe, 'cause he likes
'simmons too.' Den I grab up my basket and holler to de boy in de tree,
'nigger turn loose and drap down from dar, and ketch up wid me if you
can. I's leavin' here right now, 'cause Old Joe is over dar gettin'
'simmons too.'
"Den another time I was in de woods choppin' lightwood. It was 'bout
sundown, and every time my ax go 'whack' on de lightwood knot, I hear
another whack 'sides mine. I stops and lis'ens and don't hear nothin'.
Den I starts choppin' ag'in I hears de yuther whacks. By dat time my
houn' dog was crouchin' at my feets, wid de hair standin' up on his back
and I couldn't make him git up nor budge.
"Dis time I didn' stop for nothin'. I jes' drap my ax right dar, an' me
and dat houn' dog tore out for home lickety split. When us got dar Marse
Jim was settin' on de porch, an' he say: 'Nigger, you been up to somep'n
you got no business. You is all outen breath. Who you runnin' from?' Den
I say: 'Marse Jim, somebody 'sides me is choppin' in yo' woods, an' I
can't see him. And Marse Jim, he say: 'Ah, dat ain't nobody but Ole Joe.
Did he owe you anythin'?' An' I say: 'Yassah, he owe me two-bits for
helpin' him shuck corn.' 'Well,' Marse Jim say, 'don't pay him no mind:
it jes' Old Joe come back to pay you.'
"Anyhow, I didn' go back to dem woods no mo'. Old Joe can jes' have de
two-bits what he owe me, 'cause I don't want him follerin' 'roun' atter
me. When he do I can't keep my mind on my business."
Molly Ammond (Ammonds)
*Interview with Molly Ammond (Ammonds)*
--_Gertha Couric_
_JESUS HAS MY CHILLUN COUNTED_
I walked along a dusty road under the blazing sun. In the shade of a
willow tree a Negro man was seated with his legs drawn up and his arms
crossed upon his knees. His head rested face downward upon his arms, as
he had the aspect of one in deep slumber. Beside him munching on a few
straggly weeds, a cantankerous mule took little notice of his
surroundings.
"Can you tell me where Aunt Molly Ammonds lives?" I asked in a loud
voice. The Negro stirred slowly, finally raising his head, and
displaying three rabbit teeth, he accompanied his answer with a slight
gesture of his hand.
"Yassuh, dar her house raght across de road; de house wid de climbin'
roses on hit."
"Thank you," I said.
"Yassuh," was the drawled response, and the Negro quickly resumed his
former posture.
Aunt Molly Ammonds is as gentle as a little child. Her voice is soft and
each phrase measured to the slow functionings of her aged mind.
[Illustration: _Molly Ammond (Ammonds), Eufaula, Alabama_]
"Honey," she said, "you ain't gwineter believe dis, but I is de mammy of
thirty chilluns. Jesus got 'em counted an' so is me. I was born in a log
cabin dat had a loft, an' it was on Marse Lee Cato's plantation five
miles wes' of Eufaula. My pappy's name was Tobe Cato an' my mammy's was
Sophia. I had one sister, Marthy, an' two brothers, Bong and Toge. My
pappy made all de furniture dat went in our house an' it were might'
good furniture too. Us useta cook on de fiahplace. Us would cook ash
cakes. Dey was made outen meal, water and a little pinch of lard; on
Sundays dey was made outen flour, buttermilk an' lard. Mammy would rake
all de ashes out de fiahplace, den kivver de cake wid de hot ashes an'
let it cool till it was done.
"Yas Missy," she continued, "I recollects dat I was 'bout twelve or
fo'teen when de s'render come, kaze a little atter dat I ma'ied Pastor
Ammonds. We walked ober to Georgetown an' it was de fus' time I eber had
shoes, and I got dem fum ole Massa. I remembers dat I ma'ied in a
striped calico dress."
"Aunt Molly," I said, "you're getting a little ahead of your story, tell
me something about your plantation life before the war."
"Well, honey, Massa Lee's place was 'bout three miles long an' two miles
wide, and we raised cotton, cawn, 'taters and all sorts of vegetables.
We had a mean oberseer dat always wanted to whup us, but massa wouldn't
'llow no whuppin'. Sometimes de massa whould ride over de place on a
hoss, an' when he come up on de oberseer a-fussin' at a nigger, Massa
say, 'Don't talk rough to dat nigger when he doin' de bes' he can.'
"My pappy had a little garden of his own back of his cabin, an' he
raised some chickens for us to eat, an' we had aigs nearly ev'y mornin'.
"De only work I done on de plantation was to nuss some little niggers
when dere mammy an' pappy was in de fiel's. Twarn't hard.
"Nawsuh! I ain't never seed no slave in chains. Massa Lee was a good
man. He had a church built called de brush house, dat had a flo' and
some seats, an' a top made outen pine boughs, an' massa's pa, Mr. Cato,
would preach eve'y Sunday. We sung songs lak 'I Heered De Voice of Jesus
Say,' an' 'I'se Gwine to Die no Mo.' We was all babtized in de creek,
but none of us was taught to read or write.
"No-suh, I ain't never seed no slave run away. Us was treated fine. Our
folks was quality. We had plenty som'n t'eat, but dem slaves hadda work
powerful hard though. Atter dey come home fum de fiel's dey was so tired
dat dey go raght to sleep, except when de massa had barbecues. Christmas
was de big time; dere was several days to res' an' make merryin' an'
lots of dem no count niggers got drunk.
"When us slaves was sick, Massa Lee would send to Eufaula to fetch Dr.
Thornton to give us some medicine. We had de bes' treatment ever.
"Yassuh, white folks, dem days is long ago. All my chilluns done died or
wandered away an' my ole man been dead goin' on twenty years. I been
here a long time by myself."
"Aunt Molly," I interrupted. "There's one thing I've always been wanting
to ask one of you ex-slaves, and that is: what you thought of people
like Abraham Lincoln, Jefferson Davis and Booker T. Washington."
A puzzled expression came of the face of the old Negro. "White folks,"
she said after a moments deliberation, "I don't believes I is had de
pleasure of meetin' dem gent'mens."
Charity Anderson
*Interview with Charity Anderson*
--_Ila B. Prine_
Charity Anderson, who believes she is 101 years old, was born at Bell's
Landing on the Alabama River, where her owner, Leslie Johnson, operated
a wood-yard, which supplied fuel to the river steamers, and a tavern
where travelers whiled away the delays of a dubious riverboat schedule.
Rheumatic and weak, she no longer ventures from her house in
Toulminville, on the outskirts of Mobile, but sits, with her turbaned
head and bespectacled eyes, rocking the long hours away in a creaky old
chair and knitting or sewing, or just gazing into a past painted by the
crackling flames in the fireplace.
[Illustration: _Charity Anderson, Toulminville, Alabama_]
"I has so much trouble gittin' up and down de steps and ober de groun',
I jist makes myself happy heah, cause--thank de Lawd--I'se on Zion's
March," is her resigned comment.
"Missy, peoples don't live now; and niggers ain't got no manners, and
doan' know nothin' 'bout waitin' on folks. I kin remember de days w'en I
was one of de house servants. Dere was six of us in de ole Massa's
house--me, Sarai, Lou, Hester, Jerry and Joe. Us did'n' know nothin' but
good times den. My job was lookin' atter de corner table whar nothin'
but de desserts set. Joe and Jerry, dey was de table boys. Dey neber
tetched nothin' wid dere han's, but used de waiter to pass things wid.
"My ole Massa was a good man. He treated all his slaves kind, and took
good kere of 'em. But, honey, all de white folks wan't good to dere
slaves. I's seen po' niggers 'mos' tore up by dogs and whupped 'tell dey
bled w'en dey did'n' do lak de white folks say. But, thank de Lawd, I
had good white folks and dey sho' did trus' me, too. I had charge of all
de keys to de house, and I waited on de Missis' and de chillun. I laid
out all de clo'se on Sat'dy night, and den Sunday mawnin's I'd pick up
all de dirty things. Dey did'n' have a thing to do. Us house servants
had a hahd job keepin' de pickaninnies out'er de dinin' room whar ole
Massa et, cause w'en dey would slip in and stan' by his cheer, w'en he
finished eatin' he would fix a plate for 'em and let 'em set on the
hearth.
"No mam, Missy, I ain't neber worked in de fields. Ole Massa he neber
planted no cotton, and I ain't seen none planted 'tell after I was free.
But, honey, I could sho 'nuff wash, iron and knit and weave. Sometimes I
weaved six or seven yahds of cloth, and do my house work too. I lernt
the chillun how to weave, and wash, and iron, and knit too, and I's
waited on de fo'th generation of our fambly. I jes' wish I could tell
dese young chillun how to do. Iffen dey would only suffer me to talk to
dem, I'd tell dem to be more 'spectful to dere mammies and to dere white
folks and say 'yes mam' and 'no mam', instid of 'yes' and 'no' lek dey
do now.
"All dis generation thinks of is 'musement. I neber had seen a show in
my whole life 'tell jes' dis pas' yeah when one of dem carnival things
wid de swings, and lights, and all de doin's dey have stop right in
front of our house heah.
"And I ain't neber been in no trouble in all my life--ain't been in no
lawsuits, and ain't been no witness eben. I allus treat ebrybody as good
as I kin, and I uses my manners as good as I knows how, and de Lawd sho'
has took good keer of me. Why, w'en my house burnt up, de white folks
helped me so dat in no time you couldn't tell I ebber los' a thing.
"But, honey, de good ole days is now gone foreber. De ole days was
railly de good times. How I wish I could go back to de days w'en we
lived at Johnson's landing on de riber, when de folks would come to
ketch de steamboats and we neber knowed how many to put on breakfas',
dinner or supper fo', cause de boats mought be behin' times. I ain't
neber had to pay a fare to ride a steamboat needer. I was a good lookin'
yaller gal in dem days and rid free wherever I wanted to go.
"But whut's de use dreamin' 'bout de ole times? Dey's gone, and de world
is gettin' wicked'er and wicked'er, sin grows bolder and bolder, and
'ligion colder and colder."
Gus Askew
*Interview with Gus Askew*
--_Gertha Couric_
"Dat was one time when de ban' was playin' and flags was flyin' dat us
lil' niggers didn't get no joy outen it." Gus Askew smiled at the
thought of the occasion as he sat on the sunny steps of his comfortable
house in Eufaula. Gus was telling about the investment of Eufaula during
the War between the States.
"Gen'l Grierson and his men marched right through town," Gus went on
with his story of his boyhood. "Mr. Lincoln done said we was free, but
us lil' niggers was too skeered to lissen to any ban' music, even iffen
the so'jers had come to set us free. 'Pears like us was allus gittin' in
somebody's way in dem days and gittin' skeered of somepin'. But we went
on away from the so'jers and had a good time 'mongst ourselves like we
always done when there wasn't any cotton pickin'. Cotton pickin' time
was when we didn't have any chance to do any playin'.
"After the surrender I didn't have to do any more cotton pickin' and I
went blacksmithin' for Joe Sturgis. He was the first blacksmith in dis
here town. I was the second. Now my son done took on de work. They ain't
so much sence all dese here automobiles done got so plentiful and might
'nigh ruint de business. But for seventy years I riz wid de sun and went
to dat blacksmith shop. I's enjoying a little misery now; so I's takin'
my rest."
[Illustration: _Gus Askew, Eufaula, Alabama_]
Gus Askew was born a slave of the Edwards family in Henry County in
1853. He was brought to Eufaula just before the close of the war and
stayed on as a blacksmith after he was freed. In his seventy years of
hard work he saved enough to buy his home and some property which
maintains him and his wife since age and infirmity forced him to turn
over the work to his son. He has been married 54 years, numbers his
white friends by the hundreds and is held in great respect by his own
race.
Tom Baker
*Interview with Tom Baker*
--_Susie R. O'Brien_
"Sho, I recollects about de slabery days," said uncle Tom as he whittled
shavings from a soft piece of white pine. "I lived on a plantation down
in Perry County an' I remembers a story bout somp'n dat happen to me a
way back dar.
"I was a water boy for fifty fiel' han's dat worked in de sun all day
long, an' I hadda carry many a bucket from de spring dat was one fiel'
ober from where most of dem was workin'. De spring run down between some
willow trees an' it was powerful cool down dere in de shade. I use' to
lie on de moss an' let my bare belly git cool an' put my face in de
outlet of de spring an' let de water trickle over my haid. Jus' about de
time I gits a little rest one of dem niggers would call: 'Water boy!
Bring dat bucket!' Den I grab up de bucket an' run back out in de hot
sun.
"One day, on my las' trip, I was mighty tired an' I flop down on dat
moss wid de sweat a-drippin' from my body, an' 'fo' I knowed it I done
fell slap to sleep. When I woke up, it was almos' dark, an' I couldn't
hear de slaves a-singing' in de fiel's, so I knowed dat dey had gone
home. I shake my haid, an' look about me, an' my eyes came to res' on a
little black bear cub a-drinkin' outen de spring. He so was a cute
little boogar an' I made up my mind right den to try an' kotch him. I
was jus' a little nigger 'bout ten year old an' didn't have no sense,
but I sho' wanted dat little bear. He ain't seed me a-settin' dere, so I
snuck up real cautious like, an' afore he knowed it I had dat little
debil a-squealin' in my han's. I was jus' about to start home wid him,
when I hears a rustlin' in de bushes an' afore I went ten feets, here
come a big, black bear a-lopin' along right outen dem willow trees. I
drop dat little critter 'caze I knowed dat was his mammy an' she was
ravin' mad. When I let de little feller fall it must have hurt him
somp'n awful caze he howl mo' dan eber, an' went a limpin' up to his
mammy. Well, suh, dat ole woman she got so mad she made fo' me lak two
bolts of lightnin', but dese here feets of mine begin a-doin' dere
stuff. I knowed she was a-gainin' on me so I lets out a whoop for help.
She chased me 'cross dat empty field an' 'bout dat time I seen big Jim
a-comin' through a row of cawn. 'Hurry Big Jim,' I calls, 'a bear is
atter me!' Big Jim was de biggest nigger on our place. He must have
weighed as much as half a bale of cotton. I was jus' 'bout gittin' to de
aidge of de cawn when dat bear ketched me. He give me a slap wid his paw
an' I goes down wid my mouf a-scoopin' up de dus'. My back felt like
somebody done put a hot iron on it. Dat bear was a mean one. I was
expectin' her to chaw me up an' I drawed my body up in a knot and
kivered my haid wid my hands an' waited. But dat bear neber touch me
agin'. I kinda snuck my eye aroun' an' I saw big Jim havin' it out wid
her. Jim, he had a long knife an' dey was a-tumblin' an' a-rollin' in de
dust, while I sot dere wid my eyes a-poppin' outen my haid an' my back
feelin' like it was broke. Jim he wrap his legs roun' dat bear an' 'fore
you knowed it he had done stuck dat ole critter a dozen times wid dat
knife.
"About fifteen minutes later me an' Jim was a-walkin' back through de
cawn fiel' an' I guess we looked a sight, 'caze I was all tore up an'
Jim he looked like he done mess up wid a fambly of wildcats. He was
bleedin' from haid to foot. When we walked into de big house to git some
treatments an' medicine for our hurts, Mistis was a-standin' dere, and
when she seed me an' Jim, she almost faint. She say: 'Whut done happen
to my niggers?'
"Atter me an' Jim got fixed up I was jus' as happy, kaze I done seed de
bes' fight dere eber was, an' I had me a little orphan bear cub."
Henry Barnes
*Interview with Henry Barnes*
--_Ila B. Prine, Mobile_
_HE MISSES DEM 'SET-DOWN HAWGS'_
In Prichard, a suburb of Mobile, lives an old, blind Negro, "Uncle
Henry" Barnes, who says he was born in 1858, near Suggsville, Clarke
County, Alabama.
"Cose I was borned a slave, but I don't 'member much 'bout hit, 'caze I
was li'l. Dere is one t'ing I does 'member, an' dat was when dey cut
watermelons at de oberseer's house an' dey want us li'l niggers run
races to git our piece. I jes wouldn't run an' my mammy she whup me
'caze I so stubborn an' when I git my piece o' melon, I fly down de lane
whar our log cabins was. Dem cabins was daubed wid clay, an' de
chimbleys was built outten clay an' stick. Our beds was homemade an' had
t'ree legs wid de yuther side nail to de wall. I 'member atter I got a
big boy, my mammy had a bed made outten lumber an' I slep' in dat bed
'twel I was growed an' ma'ed.
"I 'members us's Ole Mistis, Miss Dell. Miss Dell was a good Mistis an'
she useter hab Sunday School ebber' Sund'y mornin' at de Big House an'
all us li'l niggers went up dar for her to teach us 'bout de Bible an'
Jesus.
"Marse John was good to all he slaves an' he wouldn't stan' no rush er
meanness to his niggers. Iffen de o'seer got mean, Ole Marster would
turn him off. Ole Marster allus tuk good keer of he slaves, 'caze when
dey got sick, he hab de doctor, jes lak when de white folks got sick.
One o' Marse John's boys, Marse Bennie, was a doctor, an' he was a good
doctor, cep'n' he gin us bad med'cin', but he cyured you.
"Cose us hab our med'cin' sich lak elderbush tea. Hit was red 'mos' lak
whiskey an' us used hit for feber. Den dere was red sassafrac tea fer
spring feber, an' dey made Jerusalem oak candy full o' seeds an' gib to
de chilluns to eat so dey could git rid of worms. Den us had mullen an'
pine-top tea for colds an' feber. An' when us had a swellin' dey made a
poultice of mullen leabes to take de swellin' out.
"Sometimes I wishes dat I could be back to de ol' place, 'caze us did
hab plenty to eat, an' at hog-killin' time us had a mor'n a plenty. Ole
Marster kill eight or ten set-down hawgs at one time, an' de meat, an'
de lard an' de hawgjowl an' de chitt'lin's--m'm' I kin see 'em now.
"What a set-down hawg? Hit's a hawg what done et so much corn he got so
fat dat he feets can't hol' him up an' he jes set on he hin' quarters
an' grunts an' eats an' eats an' grunts, 'twell day knock him in de
head.
"Dem was sho' good times, 'caze us had all us could eat den, an' plenty
sugar cane to make 'lasses outten. An' dey made up biscuits in de big
wood trays. Dem trays was made outten tupelo gum an' dey was light as a
fedder. Us had plenty den, all de time, an' at Chris'mus an' when de
white folks get ma'ed, dey kill hawgs, turkeys, an' chickens an'
sometimes a yearlin'. En dey cook de hawgs whole, barbecue 'em an' fix
'em up wid a big apple in he mouf. When de big weddin' come off, de cook
in big pots, so's to hab 'nough for eber'body. Cose us didn't hab eaten'
lak dat all de time, 'caze de reg'lar rations was t'ree pound of meat
an' a peck of meal fer eber' han' from Sat'day twell Sat'day.
"De niggers was 'lowed to hab a li'l patch of dey own, dat dey could wuk
at night an' Sat'day ebenin'! What dey make on dis patch was dey'n, an'
Ole Marster pay 'em money for hit. Nobody didn't make de niggers wuk dey
patches--iffen dey want de grass to took 'em, dat's all right wid Ole
Marster. Ole Martser hab a big gyarden, 'mos' big as a fiel', whar dey
raise greens an' collards an' turnups fer de whole place.
"My granpappy was a carpenter an' Ole Marster contrac' him out to de
yuther plantations to build dey houses. De grown niggers had to be up
'fo' day. De oberseer blow he horn fust to git up by an' de nex' time he
blow dey hatter be ready to go to de fiel'.
"Dere was a ol' 'oman what kep' all de li'l niggers, whilst dey mammies
was in de fiel'. Dis ol' 'oman cooked fer de li'l uns an' fed 'em all
day, an' dey mammies tuk 'em at night.
"Us's clo's was made outten osnaburg cloth an' dyed wid cop'rus an'
sometime dey mix terbaccy an' peach tree leabes wid de dye. Us had a big
orchard wid apples an' peaches an' pears, more'n us an' de hawgs
togedder could eat up.
"When a nigger died, dey was buried in de graveyard lak dey do now, an'
dey shouted an' hollered an' sometime a 'oman she faint an' hab to be
tote home. De song dey sing mos' at de fun'ral was: Hark from de Toom'.
"Us sho' did hab plenty singin' o' hymns an' shoutin' at night in de
cabins. Iffen de men want to break a night res' he go possum huntin' or
rabbit huntin' jes' so he git pass from Ole Marster an' was at de fiel'
nex' mornin' on time wid de yuther han's.
"I knowed Ole Marster went to de war, 'caze I heerd de folks talkin'
bout hit an' wonder iffen Ole Marster gwine git kilt. Den I heerd 'em
say de niggers was free, but us didn't leave Ole Marster for 'bout a
year atter de s'render. Den us went to lib on de young mistis' place at
Barlow Bend, atter she ma'ed Mr. Bob Flynn. Right dar I stayed twell I
was grown and ma'ed. Den de fust move to town, us come up de Alabama
Ribber to James' Landin'. I members all de big boats on de ribber. Dey
sho' was fine 'uns.
"Den, I 'members atter I growed up dey tell 'bout how de Yankees comin'
here an' how dey pester de white folks an' de niggers, too. Broke in dey
smoke-houses, burn 'em up an' t'row t'ings away an' lef' nobody nottin'
to eat. I don't 'member dat 'caze I was too li'l.
"Lady, you ax me iffen us knowed anyt'ng 'bout hoodoo? Yes, ma'am dere
sho' was folkses what could put spells on you. I sho' was skeered o' dem
kin' too. Atter I was nearly growed, dere was a gal name Penny what been
down sick a long time an' dere was a cunjer doctor wukkin' on her tryin'
cyure her, but her wan't 'greeable, so he let her die. Den a boy, name
Ed, he had a mis'ry in he foot, an' hit went up he leg an' he cripple.
Dere was a hoodoo doctor in de forks o' 'Bigbee Ribber come tend on him,
an' he tol' ebber'body git outten de house 'cep'n' him an' Ed an' de
Debil. He cyured Ed smack well.
"My mammy said I was borned wid a 'zernin' eye to see sperits, an' I
seed sump'n lak a cow wid no haid. So mammy made me stir de fresh lard
when dey was rendin' hit, 'caze dat cyures you of seein' de sperits.
Atter I stirred de lard, I didn't see 'em no mo'.
"One time I was splittin' rails wid a nigger what could do anythin', but
he was a bad man an' I was 'feered of him. I tol' him, iffen I had a
pain or anything hurt me, I sho' would kill him wid my ax. I wudda split
dat nigger wide open, jes' lak I split dem rails, iffen he try dat
hoodoo on me.
"Talkin' 'bout fishin', I 'members when us would be plowin' down by de
ribber, when hit come dinner-time an' whilst de mules eatin', us go down
to de ribber an' fish. Den eb'ry Sat'day ebenin's us'd fish. Us kotch
trout, gyar, jack an' carp. May was when de carp bite. Dey was so fat
den dat you could cook em by deyse'f widout no grease. Den us ketch
turkeys in pole pens baited wid corn.
"Lor' what's de use me talkin' 'bout dem times. Dey all pas' an' gone.
Sometimes I gits to studyin' 'bout all de folks mos' is dead, an' I is
here yit, libin' an' blin'; but I 'spec's hit won't be long twell I is
ober de ribber wid de bles'."
Nathan Beauchamp
*Interview with Nathan Beauchamp*
--_Gertha Couric, Eufaula, Alabama_
_HALF BREED_
I walked up a little path bordered with small stones, an atmosphere of
solitude surrounding me. In the sky, large, white cumulous clouds like
great bolls of cotton, floated leisurely northward. Far down the road a
ramshackle buckboard disappeared over a slight hill; directly in front
the path ran at twenty yards into the dilapidated steps of a Negro
cabin, while an old colored man in a vegetable garden to the left to the
cabin broke the stillness with the intermittent metallic sounds of his
spade digging into thirsty soil. I knew at a glance that this was Nathan
Beauchamp.
"Hello, Uncle Nathan," I called.
[Illustration: _Nathan Beauchamp, Eufaula, Alabama_]
"Mornin', white folks," he answered, as he discontinued his spading and
raised his hand in a friendly gesture.
I walked over to where Uncle Nathan was standing and stopped in the
little furrows of brown earth. Already a thick coat of dust had formed
on my shoes.
"Uncle Nathan," I said, "I'd like to have a brief chat with you about
slavery days, if you can spare a few minutes from your garden here?"
"Yassuh, boss," he said, punctuating his reply with a spat of tobacco
that was soon nothing but a dark mark in the parched ground, "glad to be
of any 'sistance."
We moved to the shade of a large oak where we sat down together on a
sturdy, home-made bench.
"Well, white folks," he went on after taking a long turn at the dipper
hanging on the tree which shades a well. "I'll tell you a story of my
mammy an' pappy. Nathan Beauchamp, my pappy, belonged to Massa Green
Beauchamp at White Oak Springs, near Eufaula.
Massa Green was a member of de legislature when de capital was at
Tuscaloosy. He had many a acre of land an' hund'eds of slaves. Pappy use
to dribe de wagon in to Eufaula to git supplies an' on de way he would
meet up wid an Injun gal a-carryin' big baskets dat she was a goin' to
sell dere. He would ask her iffen she wanted to ride, an' she always say
yes. So one day pappy came to de massa and tell him dat dere was an
Injun gal on de St. Francis Indian Village dat he wanted fo' a wife, an'
de boss say all right so pappy married de Indian gal. Her name was Mimi.
So I is half nigger an half Injun. My mammy died 'bout five year after
freedom, but I can remembers dat she had long black hair, and I
remembers de way de sun sparkle on her teeth when she smile. Atter she
married pappy, she still carried her pretty baskets to Eufaula to sell.
Sometime she walk all de way dere and back, twenty fo' miles. I been
libin' here in Eufaula fifty year or mo', white fo'ks, an' I owns my
little cabin an' de lan' around it. T'ain't much, but its enough to keep
me a-goin', dis wid de little sto' I owns."
Oliver Bell
*Interview with Oliver Bell*
--_Ruby Pickens Tartt, Livingston_
_DE BES' FRIEND A NIGGER EVER HAD_
Oliver Bell says the first thing he remembers was seeing his mother
whipped. He was born in slavery, but most of his knowledge of the evils,
as well as the joys of ante-bellum days, is by hearsay only.
"I was borned on de De Graffenreid Place," he said, "nine miles west of
Livingston-Boyd Road. My mother was Luella De Graffenreid an' my pappy
was Edmund De Graffenreid. Den dey changed my name to Bell. I had one
brother, Nat, an' two sisters, Jestina an' Clara. I has 'bout sixteen
chilluns, all born on de same place an' most of dem is livin' dere yit.
My chillun by my firs' wife are Ed, Jack, Holly, Buck, Clarence, Sally,
Liza, Mag an' Luella. Dey ma was Mandy Powell, frum York. Den my second
wife, Bettie Brown, gived me de res' of my chilluns. Le's see, dey is
Jimmy, J.W. Alfonso Wallace, Henry, Edna an' ----" He hesitated,
explained, "Dat's as many as I kin' 'member jest now.
[Illustration: _Oliver Bell, Livingston, Alabama_]
"My gran'ma's name was Cely De Graffenreid an' my gran'pa's name was
Peter. He was a shoemaker fur de place an' made plows, too. He was a
worker an' he learnt me how to pull fodder an' chop corn an' cotton when
I was jest a little scamp jes' a little black nigger.
"Us all b'longed to Mr. Tresvan De Graffenreid an' Mistus Rebecca; an'
dey was all good to us. Ol' Mistus read de Bible to us an' got us
baptized in de river at Horn's bridge, but dat was atter de surrender.
In slavery times dey didn't like for us to sing an play loud in de
quarters. Honey, I 'members when us had de big prayer meetin's. Dey
would shut de door so de voice won't git out, an' dey would turn de
washpot down de door. Dat was to keep de voice inside, dey tol' me."
Oliver mused a moment, recalling the old times.
"Us chilluns useta have a good time singin' an' a-playin'," he said. "I
'members one of our little verses run somethin' lak dis:
Shoo, shoo, shoo gander
Th'ow yo' feathers 'way yander.
"Us had ol' corn hollers, too, but I fergits um now. I does remember
though you could hear dem niggers holler a whole mile.
"No'm, it warn't so bad wid us. De white folks was good to us niggers.
Us had 'nough to eat, lak greens, frum de big house. Us had our rations
weighted out; peck o' meal, three pounds of meat, half gallon of
'lasses, made at home in wodden mills; an' dat was for a week. An'
sometimes, on a Sunday us had a little sugar, coffee an' flour. No'm, us
didn't know what rice was.
"What I seed of slavery was a bad idea, I reckon, but ev'ybody thought
dey marster was de bes' in de lan'. Us didn't know no better. A man was
growed plum' green 'fo he knew de whole worl' didn't belong to his ol'
marster.
"Us didn't have no bought medicine in dem days; jes' whut us got outta
de woods lak slippery ellum fer fever an' poke salad root; dey he'p a
lot. An' May-apple root would he'p you same as castor oil.
"Didn't nobody he'p us learn nothin' much, but mos' of my chilluns went
to Booker T's school. Dey say he's a mighty smart man, an' my chilluns
thinks so, too. It's all right; I wish I could read an' write; den I'd
tell you things you'd lak to know."
His face clouded for the briefest moment.
"I tell you de fust thing I 'members, an' I don't know whut started it.
One day my mammy done sumpin' an' ol' marster made her pull her dress
down 'roun' her waist an' made her lay down 'crost de door. Den he taken
a leather strop an' whooped her. I 'members dat I started cryin' an'
Mistus Beckie said, 'Go git dat boy a biskit.'
"I reckerlecks my mammy was a plow han' an' she'd go to work soon an'
put me under de shade of a big ol' post-oak tree. Dere I sat all day,
an' dat tree was my nurse. It still standin' dere yit, an' I won't let
nobody cut it down.
"Mammy say I never did learn to walk; jes' one day she sot me down under
de oak, an' fust thing she knowed she look up an' dere I was walkin'
down de middle of a cotton row.
"'Nother thing I 'members when I was a little boy; dat dey was 'vidin'
de corn atter de s'render. Dr. DeGraffenreid measured de corn out to all
of 'em whut was share han's. He'd take a bushel an' give 'em a bushel.
When he mos' through he'd throw a ear of corn to dis one, an' give
himse'f a ear; den he break a ear in two, an' he take part an' give dem
part. Dat was close measurin', I tell you.
"Us lived in de third house frum de big house in de quarter, an' when I
was a boy it was my job to set out shade trees. An' one day de Ku Klux
come ridin' by an' dey leader was Mister Steve Renfroe. (Alabama bandit
of Reconstruction days). He wore long hair an' he call my pappy out an'
ax him a heap of questions. While he sittin' dere his horse pull up nigh
'bout all de trees I done sot out.
"Atter talkin' to my pappy, he rode on 'cross Horn's bridge, 'bout two
miles souf of here, an' dere he met Ol' Man Enoch Sledge an' Frank
Sledge. Dey was darkies whut b'longed to Marsa Simmy Sledge's father,
Ol' Doctor Sledge. Slaves on dat plantation was 'lowed pretty good
privilege atter de s'rrender an' was workin' on halvens. Uncle Enoch an'
Frank was in town tradin' some, an' Mr. Renfroe didn't want 'em to have
anything. When dey lef' town, dey pass de Ku Kluxes raght on de slough
bridge. Mister Renfroe ax Enoch to give him a piece of string to fix his
saddle wid; den shot him. Frank run to de river, but de Ku Kluxes
cotched him an' shot him, too.
"De niggers went down to de river dat night an' got de bodies an' buried
'em in de ol' Travis graveyard. My mammy an' daddy is buried dere, too.
"Didn' nobody do nothin' 'bout Mister Renfroe 'till he went on an' got
to messin' wid Marsa Simmy Sledge's things; stole a pair of mules an' de
white folks rambled atter him 'till dey foun' him in Linden. Dey got so
hot atter him dat he went to his camp in de flat woods down on Bear
Creek. Dem was skeery times, 'case dat man never had no mercy for
nobody.
"Dey's a cave down by de burial grounds whut de slaves dug when dey run
away, an' Mister Renfroe stayed dere. It's on de river bank an' its dug
up. You digs an' starts low an' pushes de dirt out an' digs up an' makes
a big room up so de water won't git you. I knows whar dey's two of de
caves on de place; my cow fell in one yestidy.
"When Ol' Marster Amos Travis come out here from Californy, he taken a
lakin' to me an' wanted me to leave t'other side of de place an' move
down dis side of de big house to take keer of dis swamp an' look atter
de han's. But I wanted a big house wid four rooms an' two brick
chimneys, an' I had to talk five years to git it. I's got some
rosebushes now dat was at de big house raght atter de s'rrender, an'
dey's growin' in my yard now.
"Speakin' 'bout graveyard, I was passin' dere one night, ridin' on 'bout
midnight, an' sumpin' come draggin' a chain by me lak a dog. I got down
off'n my horse, but couldn't see nothin' wid no chain, so I got back on
de horse an' dere raght in front of me was a Jack-Me-Lantern wid de
brightes' light you ever seed. It was tryin' to lead me off, an' ev'y
time I'd git back in de road it would lead me off ag'in. You sho' will
git los' if you follow a Jack-Me-Lantern.
"One of dem led a man down to de creek by dem double bridges; said he
foun' he was travelin' in de wrong direction, gittin' frum home stidder
clo'ster, so he jes' sit down under a tree an' waited 'til daylight. I
ain't skeered of nothin' but dem Jack-Me-Lanterns, but dey stirs you up
in yo' min' till you can't tell whar you's at; an' dey's so bright dey
nigh 'bout puts yo' eyes out. Dey is plenty of 'em over by de graveyard
raght over yonder whar all my white folks is buried, an' mammy an'
pappy, too. Dey's all dere 'cept Marsa Jess Travis; he was de nex' whut
come in line for de place, an' he was de bes' frein' dis here nigger
ever had.
"Fac' was, dat's whut he call me; 't was 'nigger'. He an' Mistus Mag
lived raght dere in de big house; den dey move into town an' dat's whar
he died. Me an' Marsa Jess made a 'greement an' he said if he was de
longes' liver, he'd see me buried, an' if I be de longes' liver, I see
him buried. So dat day I went to his office in de co'thouse an' he say
he want to talk wid me. He say, 'You 'members us 'greement?' An' I say,
'Whut 'greement, Marsa Jess?' An' he say, 'Bout buryin'.' Den I say,
sho', 'I 'members dat.'
"Den he got up an' give me some papers 'bout some lan', an' I say, 'Whut
do all dis here mean, Marse Jess?' He say, 'nothin', nigger, 'cept I's
jes' goin' outta business.' Den I say, 'Goodbye, Marse Jess,' an' he
say, 'Goodbye, nigger,' an' I walked on 'crost de street. Den Mr.
Killian say, 'Oliver, whut's happened over at de co'thouse?' An I say,
'Ain't nothin' as I knows of.' Den he say, 'Yes, dey is; jes' look at de
peoples gwine in a hurry.' Den I turn 'roun' an' run back an' dere lay
Marse Jess. Mr. Smith was gettin' him up an' Marse Jess say to me,
'Well, nigger, I didn't do whut I tended to; I missed it.' An' I say,
'Boss, fer God's sake go to de hospital; I'll go wid you an' stay wid
you.' Mistus Mag, she ast me to beg him, but he shuck his head an' say
'If I had a-wanted to live I wouldn't of shot myself.' He res' a minit,
den say, 'Nigger, write Miss Calline an' tell her I says to always be
good to you as long as you lives.'
"Yassum, I was raght dere, done jes' whut I tol' him I'd do; kep' my
'greement an' followed him to de grave. Co'se dat last 'bout Marse Jess
ain't no slavery tale, but I thought you was atter hearin' all 'bout de
family whut owned dis ol' place; an' Marse Jess was de bes' white frein'
a nigger ever had; dis nigger, anyhow."
Nelson Birdsong
*Personal interview with Nelson and Virginia Birdsong*
*Summerville, on Front Street*
--_Ila B. Prine, Mobile, Alabama_
_NELSON BIRDSONG REMEMBERS HIS MASTER_
Nelson Birdsong, who lives on Front Street in the old suburb of
Summerville, about three miles from Mobile, Alabama, was born a slave. A
tall dark Negro man, with white hair and whiskers, he says he was born
at Montgomery Hill, Alabama in Baldwin County, and that his people and
he were owned by Mr. Tom Adkins.
Nelson said he was very small at the time of the Surrender, and could
not tell very much about slavery days. In fact, he adds, "You know,
missie, old folks in dem days did'nt 'low chillun to stan' 'roun' when
dey was talking. We chillun was lack a shot out of a gun when anybody
come in. We was glad when folks come in 'cause we c'ud run out an' play.
Chillun now-a-days knows as much as we did when we was twenty-five years
old."
Nelson does remember his "massa" saying he neber was going to 'let dat
little nigger work.'
He did not remember much about coming to Mobile, but "seemed lack" his
"mammy worked for Mrs. Dunn on Monroe street, and later dey moved out in
old Napoleonville" (which is now Crichton, Alabama, a suburb of Mobile).
He said his "Pa and Mammy den worked fo' gris' mill out dere, and also
owned a big gris' mill in de fork whar de big fire station is now"
(which is located at the intersection of St. Francis street and
Washington Avenue, the latter formerly Wilkinson street). This grist
mill was burned in the 1870's.
Nelson says the first work he remembered doing was "nussing a baby boy
of Mr. Bramwell Burden, a gran'son of old man Burden."
Nelson has owned his little farm and three-room house until the past two
or three years. He said he scuffled and tried to pay de taxes, but had
got so old and his "knees had give out on him, and I seed I was agoin'
to lose mah place so I turned it over to a man to keep up mah taxes, so
I'd have a place to lib. De relief gibes me a little he'p now, an' me
an' my wife makes out de bes' we can."
The house is the familiar type of two-room Negro house, with a porch
across the front, and a shed room on the back. The bedroom had been
papered with scraps of wallpaper of varied designs and so old that most
of it had fallen off. The mantel is covered with the colored comics
section, cut in a fancy pattern of scallops. At the entrance of the
house is a sack nailed to the floor and used for a foot mat, and at the
two upper corners of the door are horse shoes for good luck. Nelson said
he is a member of the African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church, and has
been a Methodist all his life; that he and his wife Virginia "had only
two chillun' and dey were bofe dead."
Nelson's wife, Virginia, came from a family of slaves, although she was
not one herself. She said her folks were owned by Mr. Joe Pickett of
Camden, Wilcox County, Alabama. She said she just can remember Mr. Joe
taking her in his buggy, and she called him "Toe-Toe," as she couldn't
say his name plainly. She also said as she grew older she always spoke
of Mr. Joe, as "my Papa," instead of "my master," for "he sho' was good
to me." She remembers her mother being chambermaid on the "Old
Eleanora," a boat on the Alabama river, and as a small child going back
and forth on the boat with her. When they finally settled in Mobile, her
mother worked for the family of Dr. Heustis who lived in the corner
house now occupied by the new Federal Court House and Custom House, at
St. Louis and St. Joseph streets.
Ank Bishop
*Interview with Ank Bishop*
--_Ruby Pickens Tartt, Livingston, Alabama_
_GABR'EL BLOW SOF'! GABR'EL BLOW LOUD!_
When "Gabr'el take his silver trump," he is going to blow soft for the
saved and loud for the lost souls, according to Ank Bishop who was born
into slavery eighty-nine years ago, and lives in Livingston, Alabama.
The days before the war were as good as the present, Ank believes. He
tells of them in the following story of his life:
"My name is Ank Bishop, en I was born in 1849, August 16th, at Ward,
Alabama. My mother's name was Amy Larken, an' my father was Tom Bishop.
I had three brothers, Alf, Volen an' Jim, an' two sisters, Cely an'
Matildy. Us belonged to Lady Liza Larkin at Ward, right nigh Coke's
Chapel.
"My mother was brought out from South Car'lina in a speculator drove,
an' Lady Liza bought her at de auction at Coke's Chapel. She lef' her
mammy an' daddy back dere in South Car'lina an' never did see 'em no
more in dis life. She was bidded off an' Lady Liza got her, jes' her one
from all her family. She was got fer Lady Liza's house gal. But
sometimes she cooked or was de washer, den ag'in de milker. 'Twas my job
for to min' de ca'ves. Sometimes I went to Mr. Ed Western's sto' at
Gaston, three miles from us house, to see iffen was any mail for Lady
Liza, but 'twa'n't none.
"Dey was good to us 'caze Lady Liza's son, Mr. Willie Larkin, was de
overseer for his ma, but co'se sometime dey git among 'em an' thrashed
'em out. One time one de niggers runned away, old Caesar Townsy, an' dey
sarnt for Dick Peters to come an' bring his "nigger dogs." Dem dogs was
trained to ketch a nigger same as rabbit dogs is trained to ketch a
rabbit. So Mr. Willie Larkin told Stuart for to say to old man Dick
Peters when he come, 'I'm gone,' but for him to come on. 'I'm gwineter
keep de road,' he say, 'an' cross 'Bigbee at Moscow landin'.' So ol'
Dick Peters, he kept de road lack he tole him to, an' he cross 'Bigbee
at Moscow landin' over in de cane-brake. But dem nigger dogs didn't
never ketch ol' man Caesar. He stayed right wharever he was at 'twell
after S'render, an' de War done ceased. Den he come out, but iffen he
had a been caught, dey'd a used him up pretty rough, but he stayed hid
twell de time done passed.
"All de women on Lady Liza's place had to go to de fiel' ev'y day an'
dem what had suckerlin' babies would come in 'bout nine o'clock in de
mawnin' an' when de bell ring at twelve an' suckerlin' 'em. One woman
tended to all of 'em in one house. Her name was Ellie Larkin, an' dey
call her 'Mammy Larkin.' She all time sarnt me down in de fiel' for to
git 'em come suckle de chillen, 'caze dat made hit hard on her when dey
gets hongry an' cry.
"Us didn't get to go to church none, an' us wa'n't larnt nothin'. I'm
nigh 'bout ninety an' I can't read a line. I got some chillun kin read;
one can't whut is sixty-five, but Henry he fifteen an' he kin. De ma,
she go by de name of Pearlie Beasley, she can't read neither, but she's
a good fiel' han' an' she patched dese breeches I'm wearin' an' dis ole
shirt. Miss, I ain't got a coat to my name. Can't go to church, so I
doan' know dat dis any better'n slav'y time. Hit's hard, anyway you got
to travel, got yo' nose on de groun' rock all de time. When pay day
come, ain't nothin' pay wid. Come git de rent, den you out do's ag'in.
Bred an' bawn in Sumter County, wore out in Sumter County, 'specks to
die in Sumter County, an' whut is I got? Ain't got nothin', ain't got
nothin', ain't got nothin'.
[Illustration: _Ank Bishop, Livingston, Alabama_]
"But I'm a believer, an' dis here voodoo an' hoodoo an' sper'ts ain't
nothin' but a lot of folk's outten Christ. Ha'nts ain't nothin' but
somebody died outten Christ an' his sper't ain't at res', jes' in a
wand'rin' condition in de world.
"Dis is de evil sper't what de Bible tells about when hit say a person
has got two sper'ts, a good one an' a evil one. De good sper't goes to a
place of happiness an' rest, an' you doan' see hit no mo', but de evil
sper't ain't got no place to go. Hit's dwellin' place done tore down
when de body died, an' hit's jes' a wand'rin' an a waitin' for Gabr'el
to blow his trump, den de worl' gwineter come to an en'. But when God
say, 'Take down de silver mouf trump an' blow, Gabr'el,' an' Gabr'el
say, 'Lord, how loud shell I blow?' Den de Lord say, 'Blow easy,
Gabr'el, en ca'm, not to 'larm my lilies.' De secon' time Gabr'el say,
'How loud mus' I blow, Lord?' Den de Lord say, 'Blow hit as loud as
seben claps of thunder all added into one echo, so as to wake up dem
damnable sper'ts sleepin' in de grave-ya'ds what ain't never made no
peace wid dey God, jes' alayin' dere in dey sins.'
"But de Christ'en Army, hit gits up wid de fus' trump, an' dem what is
deef is de evil ones what anybody kin see anytime. I ain't skeered of
'em, though. I passes 'em an' goes right on plowin', but iffen you wants
'em to git outten your way, all you gotter do is jes' turn your head
least bit an' look back. Dey gone jes' lack dat! When my fus' wife died
'bout thirty years ago, I was goin' up to Gaston to see Sara Drayden,
ole Scot Drayden's wife, an' I tuck out through Kennedy bottom 'bout
sundown right after a rain. I seed sompin acomin' down de road 'bout dat
high, 'bout size a little black shaggy dog, an' I says, 'What's dat I
sees commin' down de road? Ain't nobody 'roun' here got no black shaggy
dog? Hit kep' a-comin' an' kep' a-gittin' bigger an' bigger an' closer
an' closer, an' time hit got right to me 'twas as big as a ha'f growed
yearlin', black as a crow. It had four feet an' drop years, jes' lack a
dog, but 'twa'n't no dog, I knows dat. Den he shy out in de bushes, an'
he come right back in de road, an' hit went on de way I was comin' from,
so I went on de way hit was comin' from. I ain't never seed dat thing no
mo'. But I'ze gotter pretty good notion 'bout who hit 'twas."
Siney Bonner
*Interview with Siney Bonner*
--_W.F. Jordan_
"Hear dat whistle?" The speaker was Siney Bonner, an ex-slave, now
living in the Norwood section of Birmingham. She had stopped for a
"confab" where a group of other elderly Negroes of the neighborhood had
gathered. "De whistles on dem Big Jacks what pull dese highsteppin' I.C.
trains mind me of dem steamboats what used to pull up at de landin' at
ole Pickensville on de Tombigbee River.
"'Cose dar wa'n't no railroads dem days an' de onlies' way folks had
trabbelin' about was de steamboat which passed most every week, and de
stage coach which passed twice a week.
"Lawsy, man, dem was de days, and many de time atter my daddy, whose
name was Green Bonner, heard dat steamboat blow below Pickensville, he
would hitch up de mules to de waggin and foller Massa John on hossback
down to de landin' to fetch back de supply of sugar and coffee and
plow-tools needed on de plantation. Dey would take me 'long to hold de
mules and watch de waggin and it was a reglar picnic to me to see de big
shiney boat and watch de goin's on.
"Massa John Bonner sho' did 'pend on my daddy. De massa paid a thousand
green-back dollars for him down to Mobile. 'Nuf green-backs to wrap him
up in, he said, so he named him Green Bonner.
"Yes suh, we was all Baptis'--de deep water kind, and every Sunday dey
used to pile us into de waggins and pull out bright and early for Big
Creek Church on the Carrollton road. Everybody fetched a big basket of
grub and, sakes alive! sech another dinner you never see, all spread out
on de grassy grove by de ole graveyard. Mos' all de quality white folks
belonged at Big Creek and when dere slaves got sho' nuff 'ligion, dey
have 'em jine at Big Creek and be baptized at de swimmin' hole. Some of
de niggers want to have dere own meetin's, but Lawd chile, dem niggers
get happy and get to shoutin' all over de meadow where dey built a brush
arbor. Massa John quick put a stop to dat. He say, 'if you gwine to
preach and sing you must turn de wash pot bottom up'; meanin', no
shoutin'. Dem Baptis' at Big Creek was sho' tight wid dere rules too.
Turn you out sho' if you drink too much cawn licker, or dance, or cuss.
"Massa John had a big fine bird dog. She was a mammy dog and one day she
foun' six puppies out in de harness house. Dey was mos' all girl puppies
so massa gwine drown 'em. I axed him to give 'em to me and purty soon de
missus sent me to de pos'office, so I put de puppies in a basket and
took 'em wid me. Dr. Lyles come by whar I was settin' and he say, 'Want
to sell dem pups, Siney?' I tell him, uh-huh. Den he say, 'What
'nomination is dey?'. I tell him, dey's Methodis' dogs. He didn' say no
mo'. Bout a week atter dat ole missus sent me to 'de pos'office again,
so I took my basket of puppies. Sho' nuff, 'long come Dr. Lyles and he
say, 'Siney, see you still ain't sold dem pups'. I say, 'Naw-suh'. Den
he axed me ag'in what 'nomination dey b'long to. I tole him dey was
Baptis' dogs. He say, 'How come? You tole me las' week dem was Methodis'
pups'. Ha-ha! Bless God!, look like he had me. But I say, 'Yas-suh, but
you see, Doctah, dey got dere eyes open since den!' He laff and go on
down to his newspaper office.
[Illustration: _Siney Bonner, Birmingham, Alabama_]
"How old is I? Law chile, I don't know. My mammy say I was fifteen year
old time of de surrender. I 'members dat mighty well. Massa John call
all de niggers on de plantation 'round him at de big house and he say to
'em 'Now, you all jes' as free as I is. I ain't your marster no mo'.
I'se tried to be good to you and take keer of all of you. You is all
welcome to stay and we'll all wuk togedder and make a livin' somehow. Ef
you don' want to stay, dem dat go will jes' have to root, pig, or die.'
Some stayed and some lef'. My daddy stayed wid Marse John till he was
called home to glory. Now dey all gone but Siney, and I'se jes' here,
waitin' for 'em to call me.
"Yas suh, I been 'round Carrollton a heap. Atter Marse John and my daddy
bofe died, I wuk'd 'round from place to place. Used to wuk for Mrs.
Roper at de old Phoenix Hotel. I recollect when de new brick court house
was built. De ole court house had been burned and dey 'rested a nigger
named Bill Burkhalter for settin' it on fire. Dey sent him to de pen'
an' some officers started wid him to Montgomery. When dey got to Sipsey
River a mob ketched up wid 'em an' took Bill and hung him dere in the
swamp. 'Bout dat time a bad cloud come up. Dey axed Bill did he have
anything to say. He say, 'I ain't burn no court house, an' ef you all
kill me, my face gwine always ha'nt you'. Whilst he still hangin' dere
in dat swamp de lightnin' flash and de thunder an' wind was somp'n
awful. Nex' mornin' when de sun come up, bless my soul, right dere on de
winder in de court house tower was a photygraf of de face of de nigger
dey done hung for burnin' de old court house. Yas suh, I done seen dat
wid my own eyes an' I speck dat picture still dere.
"But lawsy me, I got to get goin', kase I'se cookin' me a mess of poke
sallet I picked down by de railroad tracks dis mornin'. Dat poke sallet
and young ernions gwine to be mighty good, and dey sho 'mind me of dem
good old days in Pickens county."
Jennie Bowen
*Interview with Jennie Bowen*
--_Mary A. Poole, Mobile_
_NO BELL BRUNG HIM_
Jennie Bowen was surrounded by numerous little colored children as I
came upon her sitting on her front porch. She answered my questions
through a mouth void of teeth and with a constant blinking of her brown
eyes with their muddy whites. Her little grand-child had to act to some
extent as an interpreter, as her speech was at times most indistinct.
"Yassum, I remembers lots of things dat happened back in de days of de
Cibil War," she said. "I remembers de place whar I lived. It were de
prettiest house you ever seed. It were on a high hill overlooking a
small creek and de flowers 'roun' in de yard was somp'n to see, sho'
'nuff.
"I was bawn in 1847 on Massa Fisher's and Mistis Fisher's plantation
near Camden, Alabama. Us slaves lived in a row of whitewashed cabins in
de rear of de big house. We useta have a mean oberseer, white folks, an'
all de time dere was slaves on our place a runnin' away.
"I acted as nuss for massa's three chilluns, an' dey learnt me to read
an' write. My pappy was named Burl Fisher an' he come f'um Virginny when
Cap'n Fisher brung him. My mammy was named Grace Fisher, an' she was
'roun' de big house mos' of de time a weavin' an' a cardin' wool for de
slaves, who wo' calico spun in de summer an' wool in de winter.
"An ole nigger man rung a bell for us to get up by, an' to call de fiel'
han's in de evenin's. Atter Surrender, dis ole nigger stayed right on de
plantation an' was a workin' in de fiel's one day when de Fisher boy
rung de bell for de niggers to come in. All of 'em came 'cep'n dis ole
man an' later on dey ax him why he don't come when dey ring de bell. He
answer: 'Tain't no mo' bell ringin' for dis nigger, 'caze I is free.'
[Illustration: _Jennie Bowen, Mobile, Alabama_]
"De Fishers was Pres'terians an' dey had dere own church on de place.
Eve'ybody had to go on Sunday; de white folks sittin' in de front, de
colored folks in de back. De onl'es' holidays us niggers had was
Chris'mas an' New Years. On dese days us all exchanged gif's.
"My pappy an' mammy atter de war farmed on shares wid Cap'n Fisher. I
was ma'ied 'bout dis time, white folks, to Sam Bowen, who long been
daid. Us had a big weddin' an' de two Mistis Fishers (Massa's daughters)
baked us a cake an' I sont a piece to all my white frien's for dem to
dream on. Atter I come to Mobile, I changed my 'ligion to bein' a
Babtist.
"I had ten chilluns, but seven of dem is daid. I is even got fo' great
gran' chilluns.
"Yassum, us had po' white trash back in dem days of de war. Dey lived
near our place, an' some of 'em didn't have no niggers at all. Dey
worked deyse'f in de fiel's. Us didn't fool 'long wid dem kinds of
people dough, white folks. Us kep' mostly to ourselves.
"Yassum, us house niggers et in de kitchens, dat was separated f'um de
main buildin' by a walkway, kivered at de top but not at de sides. All
de slave chilluns had a grown nigger woman and a young gal 'bout sixteen
to look atter dem. We-alls had a good time an' us was happy an' secure."
Nannie Bradfield
*Interview with Nannie Bradfield*
--_Susie R. O'Brien, Uniontown, Alabama_
_WHAT I KEER ABOUT BEIN' FREE?_
Nannie Bradfield is a fat little old woman almost as broad as she is
long, with a pleasant face and a broad smile which displays white teeth
still good at the age of eighty-five. She lives alone in a dilapidated
cabin which rests in a clump of trees by the side of the railroad. The
sagging roof is patched with pieces of rusty tin of many shapes and
sizes.
"Nannie," I said, "aren't you afraid to live here alone?"
"How come I be skeered? Ain't nobody gwine bother me lessen it be a
spirit, and dey don't come 'roun' 'cep'n on rainy nights, den all you
got to do is say 'Lawd have mercy! What you want here,' and dey go 'way
and leave you 'lone.
"Any how I's gittin' pretty old and I won't be here so ve'y much longer
so I jes' as well start gittin' 'quainted wid de spirits."
"Tell me something about yourself and your family, Nannie," I said.
"Dere ain't nothin' much to tell 'cep I was born in slav'y times and I
was 'bout twelve year old in May when 'mancipation come. My Pa and Ma
b'longed to Mars James and Miss Rebecca Chambers. Dey plantation was
jes' on de aidge of town and dat's what I was born. Mars James' son
William was in de war and old Miss would send me to town whar all de
sojers tents was, to tote sompen good to eat to dem. I don't 'member
much 'bout de war 'cep de tents and de bum shells shootin'. I was little
and couldn't do much but I waited on Miss Liz'beth, my young Miss, and
waited on table, toted battie cakes and sich like. No ma'am I don't know
nothin' 'tall 'bout de patterollers or de Klu Kluxers but I know all
'bout de conjer doctors. Dey sho' kin fix you. Dey kin take yo' garter
or yo stockin' top an drap it in runnin' water and make you run de res'
of yo' life, you'll be in a hurry all de time, and if dey gits holt of a
piece of de seat of yo' draw's dey sprinkles a little conjer powder on
it and burns it den you can't never set down in no peace. You jes' like
you settin' on a coal of fiah 'till you git somebody to take de spell
offen you."
"Nannie, were you glad when the war was over and you were free?"
"What I keer 'bout bein' free? Didn't old Marster give us plenty good
sompin to eat and clo's to wear? I stayed on de plantation 'til I
mah'ied. My old Miss give me a brown dress and hat. Well dat dress put
me in de country, if you mah'ie in brown you'll live in de country."
"'Marry in brown you'll live out of town?'" I quoted. "Dat's it--my
remembrance ain't so good and I fergits.
"No ma'am, I ain't got no chillun, but Bradfield had plenty un um, I was
his fouf wife. He died 'bout three years ago and he done well to live
dat long wid all dem wimmens to nag him. De Bible say it's better to
climb on top of the house and set, den to live inside wid a naggin'
'oman."
Martha Bradley
*Interview with Martha Bradley*
--_Mabel Farrior, Montgomery, Alabama_
_IN SLAVERY TIME_
Aunt Martha--as she is known to all her "white folks"--claims to be 100
years old. She was a slave to Dr. Lucas of Mt. Meigs neighborhood long
before the War between the States. Dr. Lucas is one of the well known
Lucas family, with whom General LaFayette spent some time while touring
the United States in 1824.
"Our Marster wuz sho good to all his 'niggers'," she said. "Us allus had
plenty to eat and plenty to wear, but de days now is hard, if white
folks gin you a nickel or dime to git you sumpin' t' eat you has to
write everything down in a book before you can git it. I allus worked in
the field, had to carry big logs, had strops on my arms and them logs
was put in de strop and hauled to a pile where they all was. One morning
hit was rainin' ad I didn' wanna go to the field, but de oversee' he
come and got me and started whooping me. I jumped on him and bit and
kicked him 'til he lemme go. I didn't know no better then. I didn't know
he was de one to do dat.
"But Marster Lucas gin us big times on Christmas and July. Us 'ud have
big dinners and all the lemonade us could drink. The dinner'd be spread
out on de ground an' all the niggers would stand roun' and eat all dey
wanted. What was lef' us'd take it to our cabins. Nancy Lucas was de
cook fer eber' body. Well, she'd sho cook good cake and had plenty of
'em but she wouldn't lak to cut dem cakes often. She keep 'em in a safe.
One day I go to dat safe and I seed some and I wanted it so bad till I
jes' had to have some. Nancy say to me, 'Martha, did you cut dat cake?'
I say, 'No sir! dat knife just flew 'roun by itself and cut dat cake.'
"One day I was workin' in de field and de overseer he come 'roun and say
sumpin' to me he had no bizness say. I took my hoe and knocked him plum
down. I knowed I'se done sumpin' bad so I run to de bushes. Marster
Lucas come and got me and started whoopin' me. I say to Marster Lucas
whut dat overseer sez to me and Marster Lucas didn' hit me no more.
Marse Lucas was allus good to us and he wouldn' let nobody run over his
niggers.
"There was plenty white folks dat was sho bad to de niggers, and
specially dem overseers. A nigger whut lived on the plantation jinin'
ours shot and killed an overseer; den he run 'way. He come to de river
and seed a white man on udder side and say, 'Come and git me.' Well,
when dey got him dey found out whut he'd done, and was gwine to burn him
'live. Jedge Clements, the man dat keep law and order, say he wouldn't
burn a dog 'live, so he lef'. But dey sho burn dat nigger 'live for I
seed him atter he was burned up.
[Illustration: _Martha Bradley, Montgomery, Alabama_]
"Us'd go to meetin' to de Antioch Church some Sundays. Us'd go to de
house and git a pass. When us'd pass by the patterole, us jes' hold up
our pass and den us'd go on. Dar was a 'vidin' 'twixt de niggers and de
white folks. De white preacher'd preach; den de colored man. Us'd stay
at church most all day. When we didn' go to church, us'd git together in
the quarters and have preachin' and singin' amongst ourselves.
"In cotton pickin' time us'd stay in de field till way atter dark and
us'd pick by candle light and den carry hit and put hit on de scaffold.
In de winter time us'd quilt; jes' go from one house to anudder in de
quarter. Us'd weave all our ever' day clothes but Marster Lucas'd go to
Mobile ever' July and Christmas and git our Sunday clothes, git us
dresses and shoes and we'd sho be proud of 'em.
"In slavery time dey doctored de sick folks dif'funt frum what dey does
now. I seed a man so sick dey had to put medicine down his tho'at lak he
was a horse. Dat man got well and sho lived to turn a key in de jail. Ef
it was in dese days dat man would be cay'd to de hospital and cut open
lak a hawg.
"Dere was a slave whut lived in Macon county. He run 'way and when he
was catched dey dug a hole in de ground and put him crost it and beat
him nigh to death."
Allen Brown
*Interview with Allen Brown*
--_Gertha Couric_
_IS NIGH A HUNDERD_
Uncle Allen is a thin little man with a short white beard that hides
nothing of his ready, toothless smile always evident when conversing
with "de white folks" and contributes to his dignified mien when
solemnly lecturing to "de niggers" about their "no 'count ways." He is
as deaf as the proverbial post, and, once launched into a discourse,
rambles on to its end without regard to interruptions. Asked to tell
something of his early life, he said:
[Illustration: _Allen Brown, Eufala, Alabama_]
"I is nigh on to a hundred yeahs old, Suh, and I was brung to dis
country from Virginny whar I was bawn. My mammy's mahster was movin'
from Virginny to Texas, and when he go dis fur he sole me and my mammy
to Mahster McRea. Den Mahster McRea he give me to Miss Julia; den Miss
Julia she mah'ied Mahs Henry Young and I was dere ca'iage driver. Mahs
Henry soon went off to de wawh and was kilt in de battle of Gettysbu'g
and dat nearly bout kilt Miss Julia.
"A'ter de Surrender nothin' neber was de same. Jest hahd times mos'ly.
Neber been any times lak de days when I was drivin' my ca'iage amongst
de Eufaula high steppers, and I reckon dere neber will be ag'in.
"De ole man too ole and bruck down to wuhk now, and I gits along wid
whut de Welfare gives me."
Gus Brown
*Interview with Gus Brown*
--_Alexander B. Johnson, Birmingham, Alabama_
_GUS SAW MASSA'S HAT SHOT OFF_
"They is all gone, scattered, and old massa and missus have died." That
was the sequence of the tragic tale of "Uncle" Gus Brown, the body
servant of William Brown; who fought beside him in the War between the
States and who knew Stonewall Jackson.
"Uncle Gus" recalled happenings on the old plantation where he was
reared. His master was a "king" man, he said, on whose plantation in
Richmond, Virginia, Uncle Gus waited on the tables at large feasts and
functions of the spacious days before the War. He was entrusted to go
with the master's boys down to the old swimming hole and go in "washin."
They would take off their clothes, hide them in the bushes on the side
of the bank, put a big plank by the side of the old water hole and go in
diving, swimming and have all the fun that youngsters would want, he
said.
Apparently his master's home was a plantation house with large columns
and with all the glitter and glamour that the homes around Richmond have
to offer. About it were large grain storage places for the master was a
grain dealer and men on the plantation produced and ground large
quantities into flour.
Gus worked around the house, and he remembers well the corn shuckings as
he called them on which occasions the Negroes gave vent to emotion in
the form of dancing and music. "On those occasions we all got together
and had a regular good time," he said.
"Uncle," he was asked, "do you remember any of the old superstitions on
the plantation? Did they have any black cat stories?"
"No sir, boss, we was educated Negroes on our plantation. The old
bossman taught his Negroes not to believe in that sort of thing.
"I well remember when de war came. Old massa had told his folks befo' de
war began dat it was comin', so we was ready for it.
"Beforehand the master called all the servants he could trust and told
them to get together all of the silver and other things of value. They
did that, he explained and afterward they took the big box of treasures
and carried it out in the forest and hid it under the trunk of a tree
which was marked. None of the Negroes ever told the Yankees where it was
so when the war ended the master had his silver back. Of course the war
left him without some of the things which he used to have but he never
suffered.
"Then de war came and we all went to fight the Yankees. I was a body
servant to the master, and once a bullet took off his hat. We all
thought he was shot but he wasn't, and I was standin' by his side all
the time.
"I remember Stonewall Jackson. He was a big man with long whiskers, and
very brave. We all fought wid him until his death.
"We wan't beaten, we was starved out! Sometimes we had parched corn to
eat and sometimes we didn't have a bite o' nothin', because the Union
mens come and tuck all the food for their selves. I can still remember
part of my ninety years. I remembers we fought all de way from Virginia
and winded up in Manassas Gap.
"When time came for freedom most of us was glad. We liked the Yankees.
They was good to us. 'You is all now free. You can stay on the
plantation or you can go.' We all stayed there until old massa died. Den
I worked on de Seaboard Airline when it come to Birmingham. I have been
here ever since.
[Illustration: _Gus Brown, Birmingham, Alabama_]
"In all de years since de war I cannot forget old massa. He was good and
kind. He never believed in slavery but his money was tied up in slaves
and he didn't want to lose all he had.
"I knows I will see him in heaven and even though I have to walk ten
miles for a bite of bread I can still be happy to think about the good
times we had then. I am a Confederate veteran but my house burned up wid
de medals and I don't get a pension.
"Thank you, mister bossman, fer the quarter. It will buy me a little
grub. I'se too old to work but I has to."
The reporter left him sitting with his little pack and a long fork in
his hands; in his eyes, dimmed with age, a far-off look and a tear of
longing for the Old Plantation.
Walter Calloway
*Interview with Walter Calloway*
--_W.F. Jordan_
_OLE JOE HAD REAL 'LIGION_
Walter Calloway lives alone half a block off Avenue F, the thoroughfare
on the southside of Birmingham on which live many of the leaders in the
Negro life of the city. For his eighty-nine years he was apparently
vigorous except for temporary illness. A glance at the interior of his
cabin disclosed the fact that it was scrupulously neat and quite orderly
in arrangement, a characteristic of a great many ex-slaves. As he sat in
the sunshine on his tiny front porch, his greeting was: "Come in, white
folks. You ain't no doctor is you?"
To a negative reply, he explained as he continued, "Fo' de las' past
twenty-five years I been keepin' right on, wukkin' for de city in de
street department. 'Bout two mont's ago dis mis'ry attackted me an'
don't 'pear lak nothin' dem doctors gimme do no good. De preacher he
come to see me dis mornin' an' he say he know a white gemman doctor,
what he gwine to sen' him to see me. I sho' wants to git well ag'in
pow'ful bad, but mebby I done live long 'nuff an' my time 'bout come."
Quizzed about his age and antecedents, he began his story: "Well, sir,
Cap'n, I was born in Richmond, Virginny, in 1848. Befo' I was ole 'nuff
to 'member much, my mammy wid me an' my older brudder was sold to Marse
John Calloway at Snowdoun in Montgomery county, ten miles south of de
town of Montgomery.
"Marse John hab a big plantation an' lots of slaves. Dey treated us
purty good, but we hab to wuk hard. Time I was ten years ole I was
makin' a reg'lar han' 'hin' de plow. Oh, yassuh, Marse John good 'nough
to us an' we git plenty to eat, but he had a oberseer name Green Bush
what sho' whup us iffen we don't do to suit him. Yassuh, he' mighty
rough wid us but he didn't do de whuppin' hisse'f. He had a big black
boy name Mose, mean as de debil an' strong as a ox, and de oberseer let
him do all de whuppin'. An', man, he could sho' lay on dat rawhide lash.
He whupped a nigger gal 'bout thirteen years ole so hard she nearly die,
an' allus atterwa'ds she hab spells of fits or somp'n. Dat make Marse
John pow'ful mad, so he run dat oberseer off de place an' Mose didn' do
no mo' whuppin.
"Same time Marse John buy mammy an' us boys, he buy a black man name
Joe. He a preacher an' de marster let de slaves buil' a brush arbor in
de pecan grove ober in de big pastur', an' when de wedder warn't too
cold all de slaves was 'lowed to meet dar on Sunday 'fo' preachin'.
"Yassuh, ole Joe do purty good. I spec he had mo' 'ligion dan some of de
hifalutin' niggers 'tendin' to preach nowadays. De white folks chu'ch,
hit at Hope Hill ober on de stage road, an' sometimes dey fetch 'dere
preacher to de plantation to preach to de slaves. But dey 'druther heah
Joe.
"Nawsuh, we didn' git no schoolin' 'cep'in' befo' we got big 'nough to
wuk in de fiel' we go 'long to school wid de white chillun to take care
of 'em. Dey show us pictures an' tell us all dey kin, but it didn't
'mount to much.
[Illustration: _Walter Calloway, Birmingham, Alabama_]
"When de war started 'mos' all I know 'bout it was all de white mens go
to Montgomery an' jine de army. My brudder, he 'bout fifteen year ole,
so he go 'long wid de ration wagon to Montgomery 'mos' ebry week. One
day he come back from Montgomery an' he say, 'Hell done broke loose in
Gawgy.' He couldn't tell us much 'bout what done happen, but de slaves
dey get all 'cited 'caze dey didn' know what to 'spect. Purty soon we
fin' out dat some of de big mens call a meetin' at de capitol on Goat
Hill in Montgomery. Dey 'lected Mista Jeff Davis president an' done
busted de Nunited States wide open.
"Atter dat dar warn't much happen on de plantation 'cep'in' gangs of
so'jers passin' th'ough gwine off to de war. Den 'bout ebry so often a
squad of Confederate so'jers would come to de neighborhood gatherin' up
rations for Gin'ral Lee's army dey say. Dat make it purty hard on bofe
whites an' blacks, takin' off some of de bes' stock an' runnin' us low
on grub.
"But we wuk right on 'twell one day somebody sen' a runner sayin' de
Yankees comin'. Ole mistis tell me to hurry ober to Mrs. Freeman's an'
tell 'em Wilson's Yankee raiders was on de way an' comin' lak a
harrikin. I hop on a mule an' go jes' as fas' as I can make him trabel,
but befo' I git back dey done retch de plantation, smashin' things
comin' an' gwine.
"Dey broke in de smoke house an' tuk all de hams an' yuther rations, dey
fin' what dey want an' burn up de res'. Den dey ramshack de big house
lookin' fo' money an' jewelry an' raise Cain wid de wimmin folks 'caze
dey didn't fin' what dey wanted. Den dey leave dere ole hosses an' mules
an' take de bes' we got. Atter dey done dat, dey burn de smoke house, de
barns, de cribs an' some yuther prop'ty. Den dey skedaddle some place
else.
"I warn't up dar but I heern tell dey burn up piles an' piles of cotton
an' lots of steamboats at Montgomery an' lef' de ole town jes' 'bout
ruint'. Twarn't long atter dat dey tell us we'se free. But lawdy, Cap'n,
we ain't neber been what I calls free. 'Cose ole marster didn' own us no
mo', an' all de folks soon scatter all ober, but iffen dey all lak me
dey still hafter wuk jes' as hard, an some times hab less dan we useter
hab when we stay on Marse John's plantation.
"Well, Cap'n, dat's 'bout all I know. I feel dat misery comin' on me
now. Will you please, suh, gimme a lif' back in de house? I wisht dat
white gemman doctor come on iffen he comin'."
Esther King Casey
*Interview with Esther King Casey*
--_Edward F. Harper, Birmingham_
Living with her grandchildren at 801 Washington Avenue, Birmingham,
Alabama, Esther King Casey, former slave of Capt. Henry King of
Americus, Georgia, recalls from fading memory a few vivid scenes of the
days when men in gray moved hurridly about the town, suddenly
disappeared for a while and then returned, one by one, with weary,
halting tread and hollow faces, while gloom and despair hovered over the
town like a pall of desolation.
Less vivid in her memory are the stories told her by her grandmother of
a long voyage across the ocean, of the arrival in a new land called
Mobile, and of slaves being sold at public auction. Less vivid, too, are
the memories of her own journey to Georgia, where she, with her parents
and brother, were brought to be the slaves of Captain King.
"I was only four or five years old when we came to Captain King's big
house," said the old woman, brightening with pride in her ability to
recollect. Her manners bore the marks of culture and refinement, and her
speech was surprisingly void of the usual Negro dialect. She is an
example of the former slave who was educated along with the white
children in the family.
"There were eight or ten slaves in all," Esther continued. "We lived in
a house in the backyard of Captain King's Big House. My mamma was the
cook. Papa was a mechanic. He built houses and made tools and machinery.
Captain King gave me to the 'white lady;' that was Miss Susan, the
Captain's wife. Captain King was a fine man. He treated all of us just
like his own family. The 'white lady' taught us to be respectable and
truthful."
When asked if she had ever been punished for misbehavior the old woman
smiled and said: "Once the 'white lady' whipped me for playing with the
jailer's children. She had told me not to play with them because they
were not good company for me. She said that she wanted to raise me to be
good and truthful, and that the jailer's little white children told lies
and talked bad."
Esther remembers well the mobilization of gray-uniformed troops at the
courthouse which stood only a block from the King residence. "The town
was filled with soldiers for several days," she said. "They assembled
about the courthouse and had speakings. One day I passed there with my
papa and saw Abraham Lincoln hanging from a noose in the courthouse
square. Of course, it was only an effigy of Abraham Lincoln which was
used to show what the soldiers thought of him. Papa told me that the
soldiers shot the effigy full of bullet holes before they left town.
"Before Captain King left he brought a man with him from the courthouse
to value his property. The slaves were valued, too. I remember Captain
King lifting me high above his head and saying to the man: 'I wouldn't
take a thousand dollars for this little gem.'"
She paused a moment. The light in her eyes showed that she was reliving
the thrill of that childhood incident.
"Then Captain King left with the other soldiers. Papa stayed and took
care of the 'white lady' and the house. After a while my brother ran
away and joined the troops to fight for Captain King. He came back after
the war, but Captain King did not. Several years later I saw a man down
in south Georgia who told me that he belonged to Captain King's troops.
He said that he was standing near him when he was killed.
[Illustration: _Esther King Casey, Birmingham, Alabama_]
"After the proclamation the slaves were free. Most of them leased out to
plantation owners. I stayed with mamma and the 'white lady.'"
Mrs. King had taught the little slave girl to read and write, and when
schools were opened for the freed slaves she told the child's mother to
send her to school. Fees of fifty cents a month were charged, which Mrs.
King paid as long as the child remained with her. At eighteen years of
age the girl had acquired sufficient education to qualify to teach in
the public schools for Negroes. After three years of teaching she
married Jim Casey, an ex-slave, who took her to his "three-plow" farm in
south Georgia.
"No man ever lived who was finer than Jim," said the old woman. "My
daughter used to say that I loved him more than God, and that God was
jealous and took him away from me."
After her only daughter's death in 1919, Esther was brought to
Birmingham by her grandson who has kept her comfortably ever since. Her
hair is just turning gray, though she was born in 1856. The little briar
pipe, which she endeavors to conceal from strangers, is the only outward
evidence that she has anything in common with others of her generation.
Amy Chapman
*Interview with Amy Chapman*
--_Ruby F. Tartt, Livingston, Alabama_
_DE MASTERS GOOD, BUT OVERSEERS MEAN_
Aunt Amy paused as she worked among the small plants in her garden,
removing a weed here and there. She pushed back the sunbonnet that
shaded her eyes and began:
"I was bawn on Governor Reuben Chapman's place five miles north of
Livingston on May 14, 1843. My name is Amy Chapman. My mother was Clary
Chapman an' my pappy was Bob Chapman. Dey both come from Virginny; my
mammy from Petersburg an' my pappy f'um Richmond. Dey was driv' down to
Alabamy lak cattle an' Marse Reuben bought 'em. He had a lot of slaves
caze he had a heap of plantations, but him an' his wife stay most of de
time in Huntsville an' dey had a heap of white oberseers. I had a plenty
of chilluns but not as many as my mammy.
"Who was my husban'? Law chile, I ain't never had no special husban'. I
even forgits who was de pappy of some of dese chilluns of mine.
"Us had a mean oberseer, an' since Marse Reuben warn't never at home,
dem oberseers useter treat us somp'n awful. One day Marse Reuben come
home an' when he foun' out dat de oberseer was mean to de slaves he
commence to give him a lecture, but when Miss Ferlicia tuk a han' in de
business, she didn't stop at no lecture, she tol' dat oberseer dis: 'I
hear you take my women an' turn dere clothes ober dere haids an' whup
'em. Any man dat's got a family an' would do sich a thing oughter be
sham' of hisself, an' iffen Gov. Chapman can't make you leave, I kin, so
you see dat road dere? Well, make tracks den.' An' Mistis, he lef' raght
den. He didn't wait for no coaxin'. He was de meanes' oberseer us ever
had. He tuk my ol'est brother an' had him stretched out jus' lak you see
Christ on de cross; had him chained, an' I sot down on de groun' by him
an' cried all night lack Mary an' dem done. Dat oberseer was de fus' one
dat ever putt me in de fiel', an' he whupped me wid de cat er nine tails
when I was stark naked.
"Den dere was anudder mean man named [...] who was always a-beatin'
nigger women caze dey wouldn't mind him.
"Us warn't learned to read an' write, but Mr. Jerry Brown's slaves were.
He owned a big plantation. Us didn't go to no nigger church, caze dere
warn't none. I was babtized in Jones Creek, an' Dr. Edmon's a white
preacher, j'ined me to de Jones Creek Babtist Church long fo' de war,
an' de song I lacked bes' was a white folks song. Twarn't no nigger
song. It was lack dey sing it now, 'cep' mo' lovely, Miss, mo' lovely.
Dark was de night
Col' was de groun'
On which my Savior lay
Blood in draps of sweat run down
In agony he pray.
Lawd, move did bitter cup
If sich dy sacred will
If not content I'll drink it up
Whose pleasure I'll fullfil.
"An' anudder one us niggers useter sing was might pretty:
In evil long I tuk de light
An' led by shame an' fear
When a new object stopped my flight
An' stopped my wild career.
I saw him hangin' on a tree
In agony an' blood
He fixed his languid eyes on me
As near his cross I stood.
Sho' never till my latter breath
Kin I forgit dat look
He seemed to change me wid his death
Yit not a word he spoke.
My conscience felt an' owned de quilt
An' plunged me in despair
I saw my sins his blood had spilt
An' helped to nail him dere.
"Yassum, I kin tell you things about slavery times dat would make yo'
blood bile, but dey's too turrible. I jus' tries to forgit.
[Illustration: _Amy Chapman, Livingston, Alabama_]
"I could tell you 'bout bein' run myself wid dem nigger dogs, but I
ain't gwineter do it. I will tell you dough 'bout a mean man who whupped
a cullid woman near 'bout to death. She got so mad at him dat she tuk
his baby chile what was playin' roun' de yard and grab him up an'
th'owed it in a pot of lye dat she was usin' to wash wid. His wife come
a-hollin' an' run her arms down in de boilin' lye to git de chile out,
an' she near 'bout burnt her arms off, but it didn't do no good 'caze
when she jerked de chile out he was daid.
"One day I seed ole Unker Tip Toe all bent over a-comin' down de road
an' I ax him whut ail him an' he say: 'I's been in de stocks an' been
beat till de blood come. Den ole Massa 'ninted my flesh wid red papper
an' turpentine an' I's been most dead but I is somewhat better now.'
Unker Tiptoe belonged to de meanes' ol' marster around here.
"But, honey, I ain't never tol' nobody all dis an' ain't gwine tell you
no mo'. Ride me home now, caze I's cripple; a cow was de cause of it.
She drug me roun' dat new orchard whut I planted las' fall. She done run
away wid me. Mistis I wished you would do me a favor an' write my son in
Texas an' tell him dat I say, iffen he 'specks me to make him anymo' of
dem star quilts, he better come on here an' kiver my house. De roof sho'
does leak bad."
Emma Chapman
*Interview with Emma Chapman*
--_Mary A. Poole_
Living in a small room in the rear of a house at 361 Augusta Street,
Mobile, Alabama, the writer located an interesting ex-slave, Emma
Chapman, who when first approached was somewhat reticent. I soon learned
I had arrived just as she was ready to have her breakfast, which
consisted of bread and coffee, and insisted she eat first and talk
afterwards, as she had made just about enough fire in the open fireplace
to boil the coffee.
While she followed my suggestion I glanced about the room and found it
very neat and tidy and an unusually comfortable looking double bed, a
mirrored door chifferobe and two trunks, one rocking chair and a couple
of straight chairs, a table containing all cooking utensils and food
containers. The walls were covered with sheets of manilla wrapping
paper, tacked on, and part of the ceiling patched with odds and ends of
corrugated paper. Emma is small in stature, of light complexion with
greying hair arranged in neat braids around her head, very clean in
appearance.
Emma said she was about 13 years of age at the time of the surrender,
and that she was born on the plantation of Rev. Mr. Montgomery Curry of
Charleston, S.C. When she was about 3 years of age Mr. Curry moved to
Pickens County, Alabama, about 5 miles from Carrollton and 8 miles from
Pickenville. When I asked why they moved to Alabama, Emma laughed, and
said they expected to find money growing on trees in Alabama, and that
she as a child came near being "snake bit" many a time, digging around
the roots of old trees, trying to find money.
Rev. Montgomery Curry, said Emma, was married to Ann Haynie, whose
parents were Aaron and Francis Hudson Haynie, and Emma's grandmother was
Lucy Linier, who was born in Virginia and was sold to Mr. Haynie to pay
a debt. Lucy Linier was nurse for his daughter Ann and when she married
Mr. Curry, she brought Lucy with her to her new home. The Currys had
three children, a boy and two girls, and it was Lucy Linier's daughter,
Patsy, who acted as their nurse.
The home of Rev. and Mrs. Montgomery Curry was a two-story log house
with wide open hall running the entire length of the house and with
rooms opening off either side. The kitchen was out a short distance from
the main house, with the dairy between the two, under a large hickory
tree.
The slave quarters were also built of logs, with space between for a
shed room and small garden plot and a few chickens. The slave women did
not go to the fields on Saturday as that was their day to clean up
around their homes. They usually washed their clothes at night and hung
them on the bushes where they were left to dry in the sunshine, maybe a
couple of days, as no one could or would disturb them.
Rev. Montgomery Curry was a Baptist preacher and had no overseer, except
Lucy Linier and her husband, Emma's grandparents, who kept a supervision
over the slaves about 40 in number. There was no whipping allowed on the
Curry plantation, and after the death of Reverend Curry, Mrs. Ann Curry
(his widow) ran the plantation under the same system. The patrollers had
no jurisdiction over the Curry slaves, they were given permits by the
Currys to go and come, and Emma said if one of those patrollers whipped
one of "ole Miss's slaves, she would have sure sued them.
Emma laughingly said the slaves on other plantations always said the
Curry slaves were "free niggers," as they could always get permits, and
had plenty to eat and milk to drink. The slaves cooked their breakfasts
in their own cabins, but dinner and supper was cooked in the kitchen and
each came with their pan to be filled and had their own gourds which
were grown on the place to drink their milk and of which they could have
full and plenty.
During the war they cooked for the Confederate soldiers encamped nearby
and great quantities were prepared. Emma was one of those delegated to
carry the food to the camp. All she ever saw of the Yankees were two who
stopped at the house and asked for something to eat. Mrs. Montgomery
invited them in and served the best she had. One of the men wanted to
take the last mule she had and the other said "No, Mrs. Montgomery is a
widow and from the appearance of her slaves she has treated them well."
Mrs. Montgomery told them that someone had stolen her saddle horse and
the soldier who had remonstrated with the other replied: "Madam, your
saddle horse will be returned in three weeks," and sure enoug, one night
about midnight they heard a horse whinny and Emma's grandfather said
"there is old Spunk," and there was old Spunk waiting outside.
Emma said the first whipping she ever had, was after the Surrender,
given her by her own father when they left Alabama and went to live near
Columbus, Miss.
She had always lived in the house with the "old Miss" and her young
Miss, and when she had to leave them, she cried and so did they.
Her grandmother Lucy Linier nursed "Miss Ann"; Lucy's daughter Patsy
nursed "Miss Ann's" children, and was the special property of Fannie
Montgomery Curry, who married a Mr. Sidney Lipscomb and whose children
Emma helped to look after, so the three generations were interwoven.
Emma only wishes she could go back to plantation days. All her trials
and suffering came after she left "Ole Miss," and went to live with her
father and mother, George and Patsy Curry, who had fourteen children and
of which Emma was the eldest. Her father who was a quadroon in cast was
cruel to his family, and especially so to her. He made her work like a
man, cutting timber, splitting rails, digging, planting and all work of
the farm.
Now, Emma is the only member of her family left. She married three
times, having only two children, a girl and a boy, these by her last
husband, Frank Chapman, now dead, and Emma has no knowledge of her
children's whereabouts. She gave them an education so they could write
to her if they wanted to. The girl married and left Mobile, the boy went
to Chicago, was chauffeur for some rich folks. His last letter several
years ago, in which he enclosed $25.00, stated he was going on a trip to
Jerusalem with one of the young men of the family.
Henry Cheatam
*Interview with Henry Cheatam*
--_Ila B. Prine_
_I HEARD LINCOLN SET US FREE_
"White folks, I'se glad you drapped by to have a talk wid me. I was
gittin' powerfully lonely," said Henry Cheatam, who lives in Marysville,
a Mobile suburb. "Sho' I'll be glad to tell you some about de slave
days. I sho' 'members plenty. Well, to begin wid, I was born in 1850
near West Point. Dat's in Clay County, Mississippi, you know. I b'longed
to Mr. Tom Hollingshead who was killed in de Cibil War. I 'members all
de slaves agoin' in to take a last look at him atter dey done brung his
body home.
"My mammy's name was Emmeline Cheatam, an' my pappy's was Sam Cheatam. I
don't remember my grandpappy an' grandmammy atall.
"Us slaves libed in log cabins what was daubed wid clay to keep de rain
an' win' out, an' de chimneys was made of clay an' sticks. De beds was
home-made an' nailed agin' de wall wid legs on de outer side. De Massa's
house was build of logs too, but it was much bigger'n de nigger cabins
an' sot way out in front of ourn. Atter de massa was kilt, old Miss had
a nigger oberseer an' dat was de meanest debil dat eber libbed on de
Lawd's green yearth. I promise myself when I growed up dat I was agoin'
to kill dat nigger iffen it was de las' thing I eber done. Lots of times
I'se seen him beat my mammy, an' one day I seen him beat my Auntie who
was big wid a chile, an' dat man dug a roun' hole in de groun' an' put
her stummick in it, an' beat an' beat her for a half hour straight till
the baby come out raght dere in de hole.
"Why de Mistis 'low such treatment? A heap of times ole Miss didn't know
nuthin' 'bout it, an' de slaves better not tell her, 'caze dat oberseer
whup 'em iffen he finds out dat dey done gone an' tol'. Yassun, white
folks, I'se seed some turrible things in my time. When de slaves would
try to run away our oberseer would put chains on dere legs wid big long
spikes tween dere feets, so dey couldn't git away. Den I's seen great
bunches of slaves put up on de block an' sol' jus' lak dey was cows.
Sometimes de chilluns would be seprated from dere maws an' paws.
"I come pretty near to bein' tuk away from my maw. When de slaves was
bein' 'vided, one of ole Miss' datters was agoin' to Texas, an' I was
goin' to have to go when somebody hollered 'Freedom', an' I sho' was
glad 'caze I could stay wid my mammy now.
"In dose days us had plenty of good, plain food; such as pot likker,
greens, cornbread, 'taters, peas, pears, an' at hog killin' us had
chittlin's an' pig jowls an' back bone. Den us would cotch 'possums at
night when dey come up in de corn fiel'. Us neber seed no flour dough.
"As for fishin', we neber did none, 'caze we hadda work too hard. We
worked from 'can to can't.' Git up at sunrise, go to de fiel' an' stay
till dark. In de middle of de day dey would sen' our somp'n t'eat to de
fiel' wid a barrel of water. But for breakfas' an' supper, us hadda cook
our own grub dey gib us.
"Our clo's warn't many. Us chilluns wo' a one-piece suit made outen
osnaburg, an' us would hab to take dat off at night, wash it an' put it
back on de nex' day. As for shoes, chillun neber had none. You see,
white folks, I was jus' a chile, jus' big enough to tote water to de
fiel's.
[Illustration: _Henry Cheatam, Marysville, Alabama_]
"I 'members when de Yankees was acomin' th'ough I hoped to ca'y de
hosses to de woods an' hoped to hide de meat an' bury de valu'bles,
'caze dem Yankees tuk whatever dey wanted, an' you better not say
nothin' neither 'caze dey had dem long swyords ahangin' at dere sides.
"In dem days, de slaves done all de work an' carried all de news. De
marsters sont notes from one plantation to anudder, an' when dey wanted
de niggers to come to de Big House dey would blow an ole cow horn. Dey
had certain number of blows for certain niggers. Dat is, de niggers dat
was somp'n. Dey would also use dis horn for 'possum an' coon huntin' at
night. De li'l niggers at night went to de big house to spin an' weave.
I'se spun a many roll an' carded a many bat of cotton. I'se also made a
many tallow candle by tyin' strings onto a long stick an' droppin dem
down into moulds filled wid tallow. I'se hid many a night in de fence
corners when I'd be agoin' som'ers to git my mammy some 'bacco. De
pattyrollers would be out lookin' for slaves dat didn't hab no pass from
dere oberseer, an' I'd hear dem acomin' an' I'd hide till dey pass on,
'caze iffen dey cotch me I sho' gwine have a sound beatin'.
"De owners always tuk care of us, and when us got sick dey would git a
doctor, an' ole Miss was all right, but dat oberseer was a debil. He
wouldn't 'low no meetin' on de place. Sometimes us would slip down de
hill an' turn de wash pot bottom up'ards so de soun' of our voices would
go under de pot, an' us'd have a singin' an' prayin' raght dere.
"Mos' of de slave could go sometimes to de white folks church when dey
gits a pass from dere Massa, but dat mean oberseer always tried to keep
us from goin' so's us couldn't learn nothin'. He didn't want us to learn
to read or write neither.
"No'm us didn't have nothin' lak matches till I was growed. Us used
flint rocks an' cotton to start de fires.
"Us didn't have nothin' but food an' clothes. We didn't have no garden
of our own an' der wan't no celebratin', 'ceptin' at hog killin'. Dat
was de bigges' day of de year.
"On Sat'day afternoon we was 'lowed to play, but I can't 'member none of
de games. Us jus' played lak all li'l niggers did den. At night time us
jus' went to our cabins an' went to bed, 'caze we warn't 'lowed to do no
singing. Mos' of de singin' was done in de fiel's.
"Cornshuckin' time come when dey wanted to git de seed corn for
plantin', an' us would commence de shuckin' when it commence rainin'.
"You axed me 'bout funerals an' weddin's. Us niggers nebber ma'ied an'
don't 'member any big weddin's of de white folks. But dey buried folks
den de same as dey does now, in a box. Dey would bury de slaves same as
dey done de white folks, but us didn't eben have no babtizin' on 'count
of dat oberseer. He didn't lak for us to git no religion. Cose all
slaves didn't have hard treatment lak us did, 'caze dere oberseer an'
Marster warn't as mean as ourn.
"No'm we didn't know nothin' 'bout no hoodoo stuff in dem days. Dey only
had homemade medicines, dat is unless dey got sho' nuff powerful sick
an' den dey would go to see a doctor. Us used bone-set tea made from a
weed. Lawd, it was bitterer dan quinine, an' it were good for de chills
an' fever, an' it would purge you too. Den us used life-everlastin' tea
for fever, an' Jerusalem brush-reed to get rid of worms.
"But, Miss, I knows dere is gostes, 'caze when I was a little boy my
mammy come in from de fiel' an' laid across de bed an' I was sittin' in
front of de fireplace an' a big somp'n lak a cow widout no haid come in
de do' an' I commence to beat on it wid my fists. Den my mammy say:
'What matter wid you, nigger?' Den dat critter he walk raght out de do'.
I looked outen de window an' dere it was a-goin' in Aunt Marfa's cabin.
I neber did see it no mo'. Den anudder time a white man died an' my
mammy was a stayin' wid his sister an' dis spirit lak an angel come to
my mammy an' tol' her to tell de white lady to read de Bible back'ards
three times, 'caze dere was one talent 'tween her an' Jesus. Atter dat
she were comforted. Anudder time, my pappy, Sam Cheatam, who was a
wicked man, was a-sittin' in front of de fire an' a big brindle dog come
to de do' an' started barkin'. My pappy say: 'What in de Hell am dat?'
an' snapped his fingers at de dog. De dog he den dropped daid. Some
folks say dat dere ain't no sich things as gostes, but I know dere is,
'caze dere is good spirits an' bad spirits.
"Dem was good ol' days, Mistis, even iffen us did have a hard time an' I
don't know iffen it warn't better'n it is now. I has to almos' go
hongry, an' I can't git no he'p from de government, 'caze I is over 65
years old. Fact is, I believe I 'druther be alivin' back dere dan today
'caze us at least had plenty somp'n t'eat an' nothin' to worry about.
An' as for beatin'; dey beats folks now iffen dey don't do raght, so
what's de difference? Yassum, Mistis, I worked as long as I was able an'
didn't axe nobody for nothin', but now it's diff'rent, 'caze I ain't
able to do no work. I'se tried to do raght and ain't never been in but
one fight in my life. I now belongs to de Corinthian Babtist Church, an'
I's tryin' to live so when de good Lawd calls I'll be ready to answer
wid a clean soul.
"I'se had two wives, but I was only a young nigger when I had de fust
un, an' had two chilluns by her, den I lef' her 'caze she warn't no
'count. Dat's been forty year ago, an' I ain't neber seen my chilluns in
all dem years. My second wife I got when I lived thirty miles below
Birmingham, Alabama, at de ol' Bank Mines. Dat's been thirty-five year
ago an' us is still together. Us ain't neber had no chilluns. No'm, I
don't know nothin' 'bout Abe Lincoln 'ceptin' dey say he sot us free,
an' I don't know nothin' 'bout dat neither."
Laura Clark
*Interview with Laura Clark*
--_Ruby Pickens Tartt, Livingston, Alabama_
_CHILLUN IN EV'Y GRABEYARD_
Laura Clark, black and wrinkled with her eighty-six years, moved
limpingly about the tiny porch of her cabin on the outskirts of
Livingston. Battered cans and rickety boxes were filled with a profusion
of flowers of the common variety. Laura offered me a split-bottomed
chair and lowered herself slowly into a rocker that creaked even under
her frail body. "Po'ly, Miss, po'ly," she responded to my query about
her health. "Tain't lack de old days. I's crippled and mos' blin' now
atter all de years what I got.
"I was born on Mr. Pleasant Powell's place in North Ca'lina, and when I
was 'bout six or seven years ole I reckon hit 'twas, Mr. Garret from
right up yonder in de bend, 'bout eight miles from Livingston gwine
no'th on de Livingston and Epes road, bought ten of us chillun in North
Ca'lina and sont two white men, and one was Mr. Skinner, to fotch us
back in waggins. En he fotch ole Julie Powell and Henry to look atter
us. Wa'n't none of dem ten chillun no kin to me, and he never bought my
mammy, so I had to leave her behine.
"I recollect Mammy said to old Julie, 'Take keer my baby chile (dat was
me) an iffen I never sees her no mo' raise her for God.' Den she fell
off de waggin where us was all settin' and roll over on de groun' jes'
acryin'. But us was eatin' candy what dey done give us for to keep us
quiet, and I didn't have sense 'nuff for to know what ailed Mammy, but I
knows now and I never seed her no mo' in dis life. When I heered from
her atter S'render she done dead and buried. Her name was Rachel Powell.
My pappy's name I don't know ca'se he done been sole to somewhars else
when I was too little to recollect. But my mammy was de mother of
twenty-two chillun and she had twins in her lap when us driv' off. My
gran'mammy said when I lef', 'Pray, Laura, and be er good gal, and min'
bofe white and black. Ev'body will lack you and iffen you never see me
no mo' pray to meet me in heaven.' Den she cried. Her name was Rose
Powell.
"Us all started den for Mr. Garrett's plantation down yonder in de bend,
ten chillun and two ole uns, and two white men, and us was travellin'
solid a month. Fuss thing Ole Marsa say was 'Now be good ter dese
motherless chillun.' Den he went to war, and de overseers forgot all
'bout dey promise. When Ole Marsa come back he done got his arm shot
off, but he let bofe dem overseers go, ca'se dey done whupped dat ole
'oman what come wid us to deaf. She brought her two little boys, Colvin
and 'Lias, but Joe, dey pappy, didn't come--he was sole 'fo 'Lias was
bawn. Joe never seed 'Lias.
[Illustration: _Laura Clark, Livingston, Alabama_]
"I sets cross de road here from dat church over yonder and can't go
'ca'se I'm cripple' and blin', but I heers um singin':
A motherless chile sees a hard time
Oh, Lord, he'p her on de road.
'Er sister will do de bes' she kin
Dis is a hard world, Lord, fer a motherless chile.
"And I jes' busts out cryin'. Dat was de song I had in view to sing for
you, hit's so mournful. I knowed 'twa'n't no reel, 'twa'n't nothin' lack
no reel, 'ca'se I been b'longin' to de church for fifty-five years, and
I don't fancy no reel. I'm glad I got hit to my min' 'fo' you lef'. But
my recollection is shaller. I ain't never read no verse in no Bible in
my life, ca'se I can't read. Some my chillun kin, though. My husban'
died and lef' me wid nine chillun, none of um couldn't pull de others
outer de fire iffen dey fell in. I had mo'n dat, but some come here dead
and some didn't. I got chillun dead in Birmingham and Bessemer. Dey
ain't a graveyard in dis here settlement 'roun' Prospect where I ain't
got chillun buried. Hettie Ann, right up dere ter Mr. Hawkins'
graveyard, and my boy whut got killed settin' on de side de road eatin'
his dinner, he' buried in Captain Jones' place in de bend yonder.
"Yassum, I been drug about and put through de shackles so bad I done
forgot some of dey names, and I mos' blin' now and can't hear good
neither. But my eyes is good nuff for to see ghosts, but I don't b'lieve
in 'em, 'ca'se I'd see dem chillun sometime effen dey was ghosties. I
know I'd see my boy, ca'se dey showed me his head whar dat Miller boy
hit him in de head wid a spade and split his head wide open, slip up
behin' him and all he said was 'Squeek,' jes' lack a hog, and he was
dead. And de murderer live right here but dey move and now I'm here.
When hit rain us jes' gets under de bed 'ca'se de house ain't got no top
on hit.
[Illustration: _Laura Clark's House, Livingston, Alabama_]
"I can't say Marse Garrett wa'n't good to us motherless chillun but de
overseer, Mr. Woodson Tucker, was mean as anybody. He'd whup you nigh
'bout to deaf, and had a whuppin' log what he strip 'em buck naked and
lay 'em on de log. He whup 'em wid a wide strop, wider'n my han', den he
pop de blisters what he raise and 'nint 'em wid red pepper, salt, and
vinegar. Den he put 'em in de house dey call de pest house and have a
'oman stay dere to keep de flys offen 'em 'twell dey get able to move.
Den dey had reg'lar men in de fields wid spades, and iffen you didn't do
what you git tole, de overseer would wrop dat strap 'roun' his han' and
hit you in de haid wid de wooden handle 'til he kilt you. Den de mens
would dig a hole wid de spades and throw 'em in hit right dere in de
fiel' jes' lack dey was cows--didn't have no funeral nor nothin'.
"Us had a heap of houses in de quarters right on bofe sides de Big
House. Us could step outer one house to 'tother. But, Miss, I didn't
work so hard or have no trouble either. I was in de house atter Marsa
come home and foun' me splittin' rails and plowin'. He 'lowed dey done
put me in too hard a ship, and I was too little, so he tuck me to de
house to draw water and wash dishes, 'ca'se I was a little motherless
gal. Ole Marsa done a good part by me, and I was married to my fuss
husban', Cary Crockett, right dere in de parlor. He tole de overseer dat
us was human and had feelin's same as him, so he rejected de
paterrollers and made 'em git off de place. I was treated good, 'ca'se I
'membered what my gran'ma say, and whatever dey tole me to put my han'
to, I did, and I was obedient and wasn't hardheaded lack some de res.' I
had no trouble, and wasn't 'buked none. But I's had mo' trouble las' ten
years wid my own chillun den I ever did in slav'y time. Dey gives me
sich bitter words till I can't swaller 'em and I jes' sets and cries. I
can't read no songs to comfort me, jes' ketch 'em from de preacher on de
stan' and hole 'em, dat's de way I ketch my larnin'.
"Las' sermon I hyard, he tuck his tex' en said, 'Don't nobody rob God.'
Den he say, 'Effen you is goin' to 'tend to serve God, serve Him in de
full, 'ca'se God don't never bat a eye, nor turn His haid and he kin see
you. He frowns at ev'y sin, but He's a sinforgivin' man.' I use to know
a heap 'bout de Lord, but I'm so cripple' an blin' since de ca'f jumped
on my foot I can't go to church no mo', so I done forgot.
"You ax 'bout dem flowers on de po'ch--I sho' wish dey was mine, you
could have 'em 'ca'se dey ain't room nuff wid dem for me ter sit whar I
desire. Us ain't got no meal and here 'tis jes' Tuesday--no mo' till
Saddy. Sho' is bad; us jes' 'pends on de neighbors and borrys."
Hattie Clayton
*Interview with Hattie Clayton*
--_Preston Klein_
_DE YANKS DRAPPED OUTEN DE SKY_
'Aunt' Hattie Clayton said, "I'se gittin' erroun' de ninety notch,
honey, an' I reckon de Kingdom ain't fur away."
She lives in a tiny cabin not far from Opelika. Her shoulders are bent;
her hair gray, but she still does a large amount of housework. She likes
to sit on the tumbledown front porch on summer afternoons, plying her
knitting needles and stretching her aged legs in the warm sunlight.
"'Twas a long time ago, honey," she observed when talk of slavery days
was brought up, "but I 'members as ef 'twas yestidy. My ol' mistus was
de Widder Day. She owned a plantation clos't to Lafayette an' she was
mighty good to us niggers.
"Ol' Mistus boughten me when I was jus' a little tyke, so I don't
'member 'bout my pappy an' mammy.
"Honey, I 'members dat us little chilluns didn't go to de fiel's twel us
was big 'nuff to keep up a row. De oberseer, Marse Joe Harris, made us
work, but he was good to us. Ol' Mistus, she wouldn't let us wuk whin it
was rainin' an' cold."
Asked about pleasures of the old plantation life, she chuckled and
recalled:
"I kin heah de banjers yit. Law me, us had a good time in dem days. Us
danced most eb'ry Sattidy night an' us made de rafters shake wid us
foots. Lots o' times Ole Missus would come to de dances an' look on. An'
whin er brash nigger boy cut a cute bunch uv steps, de menfolks would
give 'im a dime or so.
"Honey, us went t' de church on a Sundays. I allus did lak singin' and I
loved de ol' songs lak, 'Ol' Ship of Zion,' an' 'Happy Land.' Ol' Mistus
useter take all de little scamps dat was too little for church an' read
de Book to dem under de big oak tree in de front yahd."
"Aunt Hattie," she was asked, "do you remember anything about the War
between the States?"
"You mean de Yankees, honey?"
"Yes, the Yankees."
Her coal black face clouded.
"Dey skeered us nearly to death," she began. "Dey drap right outen de
sky. Ol' Mistus keep hearin' dey was comin', but dey didn't nebber show
up. Den, all ter once, dey was swarmin' all ober de place wid deir blue
coats a-shinin' an' deir horses a'rarin'.
"Us chilluns run en hid in de fence corners en' behin' quilts dat was
hangin' on de line. An' honey, dem Yankees rid deir horses rat onto Ol'
Mistus flower beds. Dey hunted de silver, too, but us done hid dat.
"I 'members dey was mad. Dey sot de house a-fire an' tuk all de vittals
dey could fin'. I run away an' got los', an' whin I come back all de
folks was gone."
'Aunt' Hattie said she "wint down de big road an' come to a lady's house
where she remained until she married.
"Us moved to Lafayette an' den to Opelika," she concluded, "an' I bin'
here eber since."
She lives with one of her numerous granddaughters now. She finds her
great happiness in "de promise" and the moments when she can sit in the
shade and dip her mind back into memory.
Wadley "Shorty" Clemons
*Interview with Wadley "Shorty" Clemons*
--_G.L. Clark_
He was bent over the lawn, carefully trimming the border into a neat
line. A small black figure in overalls, clean but worn blue chambray
shirt, the misshapen remains of shoes and a nondescript hat, from under
which protruded thin white sideburns.
"Good morning, Uncle," I said, "Mr. Lee was telling me about you. He
said you lived back in slavery times. Is that right?"
"Yes suh, I sho' did. I'll be 92 years old de second of August, and I
was a slave for 20 year. I had a good ole massa and mistis, de bes' dere
was. Ole massa was a great big man, an' he wa'n't scared of nothin' dey
was. He wouldn't go nowhere without me. He always took me wid him. My
grandma was a cook and my ma was a house girl.
"We lived in Pine Hill, a summer resort in Jefferson County, Georgia,
across the river from Louisville. From home we could look over and see
de people walkin' about in Louisville.
[Illustration: _Wadley (Shorty) Clemons, [TR: Village Springs?],
Alabama_]
"I remembers de day de Yankees come to Louisville. We could see them
goin' about from one house to anudder, settin' fire. Den dey come on to
de river and sot fire to de bridge. Dey wouldn't use our bridge. Dey
built dese here pontoon bridges and dey could build dem before you could
look away and look back. Den dey come across de river to Pine Hill.
"Ole massa had his hosses an' mules hid down in de swamp but my uncle
Tom went and got 'em an' brung 'em to de Yankees at de big gate. He
didn't had to do it. He was jes' mean. He hadn't been much good to massa
since de war commenced; lay off in de swamp mos' of de time. Arter he
brung massa's hosses an' mules to de Yankees he went wid dem into
massa's bedroom and dey jes' throwed massa and mistis close all outa' de
closet and wardrobe and he give em' mistis gold yearings and bracelets
and dey took de yearings and put dem on de hosses' years and put de
bracelets on de hosses' ankles.
"Ole massa was sittin' on de long porch smokin' one of dese Meerschaum
pipes wid a stem way so long and dat pipe was white as snow. He had a
big can of tobacco on de table in front of him. In dem days people made
dey own tobacco and I wisht I had some of it now.
"Massa had 'bout thutty fattening hogs and de Yankees jes' went in de
pen and cut dem hogs in two. He had jes' lots of turkeys and guineas an'
de Yankees shot dem down. He had thutty hives of bees in one long row
an' one Yankee run up to de firs' hive an jump in it head first, and de
bees stung him till he died. De udders pull him out and took him to de
well and poured water over him but he stayed dead so dey just dug a hole
down by the side of the road and bury him in it. Yessir, dat's de trufe!
"Dey stayed dere all night and camped out and cooked massa's good smoked
meat and burnt down de barns and done all de devilment dey could. I
couldn't see no use in dere doin' what dey did, but dat's what dey done.
"Massa had 71 slaves when dey was made free. De next county wasn't fit
for much farming and atter we was freed my Uncle Andy went dere an'
bought a place. De land sold for 50 cents de acre atter de timber was
cut off. Uncle Andy had a brudder Sam and Sam had a steer. Dey plowed
wid de steer.
"Uncle Andy worked at de sawmill in daytime an' at night he cut two
cords of wood before he go to bed. He make two bales of cotton de first
year and de next year he make four. Den he tuk up preachin'. He was a
Methodist preacher.
"Den ole massa die and ole mistis lose all her land. Uncle Andy was
right good fixed so he took keer of her a year or more 'fore she died.
Den when she died, he went to pay all de expenses of de funeral but de
white folks won't let him kase dey say he done his share already.
"My massa's name was William Clemons and dey name me Wadley for ole man
Wadley, de president of de Center Road.
"Dem days is gone a long time an' I still heah, but dey was good times
den. I had plenty to eat, plenty close to wear and when I gets sick, ole
massa come to give me some medicine and I don't need no doctor.
"People worship God in dem days and not bother wid church houses so
much. Ev'ry Sunday ole massa get out by de back do' and teach us Sunday
school. Den we cut tree limbs and make brush arbors for preaching. In de
summer atter crops been laid by, us all, black and white, go to camp
meetin' and stay a week. De white preacher preach on one side and de
nigger on de udder. We carry lots of vittles and feed everybody. Niggers
sho' was better off in slavery times."
William Colbert
*Interview with William Colbert*
--_John Morgan Smith_
_MY MASTER WAS A MEAN MAN_
"Sho. I remember de slavery days. How could I forgits?"
Slowly Uncle Will spoke these words as he made his way up a few rickety
steps with the aid of an old broomstick to his cabin door. "We can jes'
set in de swing effen you wants to hear a little 'bout dem ole days,
kaze I can sho tell it."
"Well, first, Uncle Will, what's your full name and where are you from?"
"My name am William Colbert and I'se fum Georgia. I was bawn in 1844 on
my massa's plantation in Fort Valley. My massa's name was Jim Hodison.
At one time he had 165 of us niggers."
Uncle Will, a gaunt, black figure with two weeks growth of gray hair
upon his face, spoke in a soft, quaking voice scarcely audible ten feet
away. His eyes had a far-off, sad expression of one who had known
suffering. They were set deep back in bony caverns.
"Well, Uncle Will, tell me something about the slave days. Was your
master good to you?"
[Illustration: _William Colbert, [TR: Birmingham], Alabama_]
"Nawsuh, he warn't good to none of us niggers. All de niggers 'roun'
hated to be bought by him kaze he was so mean. When he was too tired to
whup us he had de oberseer do it; and de overseer was meaner dan de
massa. But, Mister, de peoples was de same as dey is now. Dere was good
uns and bad uns. I jus' happened to belong to a bad un. One day I
remembers my brother, January was cotched ober seein' a gal on de next
plantation. He had a pass but de time on it done gib out. Well suh, when
de massa found out dat he was a hour late, he got as mad as a hive of
bees. So when brother January he come home, de massa took down his long
mule skinner and tied him wid a rope to a pine tree. He strip' his shirt
off and said:
"'Now, nigger, I'm goin' to teach you some sense.'
"Wid dat he started layin' on de lashes. January was a big, fine lookin'
nigger; de finest I ever seed. He was jus' four years older dan me, an'
when de massa begin a beatin' him, January neber said a word. De massa
got madder and madder kaze he couldn't make January holla.
"'What's de matter wid you, nigger' he say. 'Don't it hurt?'
"January, he neber said nothin', and de massa keep a beatin' till little
streams of blood started flowin' down January's chest, but he neber
holler. His lips was a quiverin' and his body was a shakin', but his
mouf it neber open; and all de while I sat on my mammy's and pappy's
steps a cryin'. De niggers was all gathered about and some uv 'em
couldn't stand it; dey hadda go inside dere cabins. Atter while,
January, he couldn't stand it no longer hisself, and he say in a hoarse,
loud whisper:
"'Massa! Massa! have mercy on dis poor nigger.'
Will's eyes narrowed down to fine creases as his thick lips came
together in smacking noises, and the loose skin beneath his chin, and
jaws seemed to shake with the impact of dread memories.
"Den," he continued, after a brief pause in which time there was no
sound except the constant drop of a bead of water in a lard bucket, "de
war came. De Yankees come in and dey pulled de fruit off de trees and et
it. Dey et de hams and cawn, but dey neber burned de houses. Seem to me
lak dey jes' stay aroun' long enough to git plenty somp'n t'eat, kaze
dey lef' in two or three days, an' we neber seed 'em since. De massa had
three boys to go to war, but dere wasn't one to come home. All the
chillun he had was killed. Massa, he los' all his money and de house
soon begin droppin' away to nothin'. Us niggers one by one lef' de ole
place and de las' time I seed de home plantation I was a standin' on a
hill. I looked back on it for de las' time through a patch of scrub
pines and it look' so lonely. Dere warn't but one person in sight, de
massa. He was a-settin' in a wicker chair in de yard lookin' out ober a
small field of cotton and cawn. Dere was fo' crosses in de graveyard in
de side lawn where he was a-settin'. De fo'th one was his wife. I lost
my ole woman too 37 years ago, and all dis time, I's been a carrin' on
like de massa--all alone."
Tildy Collins
*Interview with Tildy Collins*
--_Susie R. O'Brien, Uniontown, Alabama_
In the Negro section of Uniontown, locally known as "Rabbit Yard" (named
by the Negroes themselves), lives "Aunt Tildy" Collins, a typical "black
mammy" of orthodox type. She is a talkative old soul, running over with
slavery tales and greatly beloved by a wide range of acquaintances among
both races. Although eighty-four summers have passed over her snow-white
head, Aunt Tildy's spirit is unconquered by time and her physical
activity is truly remarkable for her age. She does her own housework and
cares for her home without assistance. In front of her one-room cabin is
a neat garden of vegetables and flowers combined, with morning glories
trained carefully over the fence nearly all the way around. There is a
saying in the South, that cotton will grow better for a Negro than for
any other race, and this might well be extended to include morning
glories in Aunt Tildy's case; since none in Uniontown are quite so fine
in growth or brilliance of coloring.
Like nearly all old Negroes, Aunt Tildy goes to sleep very readily. She
was dozing in a rocker on her small porch, while the scent of wood smoke
and the odor of boiling vegetables issued from the cabin. An iron pot,
hanging from a crane in the fireplace, sending forth clouds of steam and
an appetizing aroma. She clings to old fashioned equipment and disdains
a stove for cooking. Her "biled" vegetables or meats in the hanging pot,
with baked potatoes and "pone" bread from the oven make up a meal that
leaves little to be desired, as many visitors who have shared her
repasts well know.
As the gate squeaked, Aunt Tildy awoke with a start and a smile.
"Come in, white folks, I was jes' a-settin' here waitin' for my greens
to bile, an' I musta drapped off to sleep. Set down in dat cheer right
dar, an' tek off your hat; you sho' is lookin' well, an' I'se proud to
see you.
"Yas, ma'am, I sho' was borned in slavery times, an' I wish to Gawd I
could git now what I useter hab den, 'caze dem was good times for de
black folks. Dese free niggers don't know what 'tis to be tuk good keer
of.
"Co'se I means dat! I was borned on a big plantation near 'bout to
Linden, an' my Ole Marster was name Harris, yassum, Dick Harris, an' my
Ole Mistis was Miss Mandy. Bofe dey boys fit in de wah, an' I 'members
when dey went off wid de sojers, ole Mistis she cry an' hug dem boys an'
kiss 'em goodbye, an' dey was gone a long time. I was a leetle gal
whenst dey went to de wah, an' I was mos' a grown 'oman when dey come
home, an' dey bofe had whiskers. Young Massa Richard he limpin' an' look
mighty pale, an' dey say he been wounded an' stay in prison on Mister
Johnson's island, summuz up de ribber; but Marse Willis, he look all
right, 'cep'in' whiskers. Ole Marster had a big house, an' dat same
house standin' dar right now. Us had plenty to eat an' plenty to wear,
an' dat's mo'n what some folks got now.
"Ole Marster was good to all he niggers, an' my pappy and mammy bofe
belonged to him. Dey was a slave-yard in Uniontown, an' ev'y time a
spec'later cum wid a lot of new niggers, Ole Marster he buy four or five
niggers, an' dat's how he come to buy my pappy, atter de spec'later
brung him an' a whole passel of niggers from North C'lina. My mammy here
already 'long to Ole Marster. Her was borned his'n.
"Sometime a no 'count nigger tek an' runned erway; but de oberseer, he
put de houn's on he track, an' dey run him up a tree, an' de oberseer
fetch him back nex' mawnin', all tuckerd out, an' he' glad to stay home
for a spell an' 'have hese'f. Ole Marster had a good oberseer, too.
'Cose he wan't no quality, lak Ole Marster an' Ole Mistis, but he was a
good, kin' man an' he didn't hab no trouble on de whole plantation.
"Us alluz had a Chris'mus tree in de quarter, jes' lak de white folks
an' dey was presents for ev'ybody--nobody wan't lef' out, big or little.
Dere was a meetin' house on de plantation an' Ole Marster had a rule dat
all de chilluns had to go to Sunday school soon as dey was big 'nuff,
an' dey had to go in clean white clo'se, too. Us chilluns hate to see
Sunday come, 'caze Mammy an' Granmammy dey wash us an' near 'bout rub de
skin off gittin' us clean for Sunday school, an' dey comb our heads wid
a jimcrow. You ain't neber seed a jimcrow? Hit mos' lak a card what you
card wool wid. What a card look lak? Humph! Missy, whar you been
raise--ain't neber seed a card? Dat jimcrow sho' did hurt, but us hadder
stan' hit, an' sometimes atter all dat, Mammy she wrap our kinky hair
wid t'read an' twis' so tight us's eyes couldn't hardly shet.
"My Granmammy, her de head cook 'oman at de big house, an' us had to
mine her lak us did Mammy. I ho'p Granmammy in de kitchen, atter I got
big 'nuff an' she sho' did keep me humpin'. Chilluns had to mine dey
olders in dem days. Dey wan't lak dey is now, don't mine nobody, not
eben dey Pa.
"When de surrender come, Ole Marster he tole all de niggers dey was free
now, an' some was glad an' some was sorry an' welst dey might be sorry,
iffen dey knowed what a hard time dey goner had knockin' 'roun' de worl'
by deyself; no Ole Marster an' no Ole Mistis ter look atter 'em an' feed
'em when dey sick an' when dey well. Look lak ter me, when de surrender
parted de white folks an' de black folks, it hurt 'em bofe. Dey oughter
be tergedder, jes' lak de Good Lord 'tended dey be."
Aunt Tildy sighed deeply and, gazing afar off, said: "Iffen Ole Marster
was livin' now, I'd be all right an' not hafter worry 'bout nuffin."
In spite of her eighty-four years, Aunt Tildy makes her living as a
mid-wife and serves as a "doctor man" in cases of minor ailments; but
her practice is so closely interwoven with "conju'in'" that it is
difficult to say which is the more important to her. For example: she
prescribes wearing matches in the hair or a little salt on the mole of
the head for headache. Her sovereign remedy for rheumatism is "'nint de
j'ints wid a little kerosene oil an' put some mullen leaves on it." "A
good dost of turpentine is good for mos' anything de matter wid you." A
coin with a hole in it, usually a dime, tied around the ankle will keep
you from getting "pizen." Furthermore, this same treatment warns against
the ill effects of getting "conju'ed." "Iffen you gits conju'ed, de dime
turn black, an' you kin go to de conju' doctor an' git de conju' took
off."
"Is you got to go, Missy? Come back agin. I's allus proud to see you,"
Aunt Tildy called after me from the edge of the porch.
Sara Colquitt
*Interview with Sara Colquitt*
--_Preston Klein, Opelika, Alabama_
_SHE JUST CAN REMEMBER HER HUSBAND'S NAME_
Sara Colquitt, who used to till the fields in slavery days, now has a
handmaiden of her own. Sara does not know the date of her birth in
Richmond, Virginia, but she says it was more than a century ago. (1937).
The "girl," whom her daughter has employed to take care of the nearly
blind and helpless centenarian, is well past eighty herself, yet she
keeps her charge neat and clean and the cabin in which they live tidy.
Sara's daughter works in the fields nearby at Opelika, Ala. to keep the
family going.
"Mr. Bill Slaughter and Miss Mary Slaughter was our marster and mistess
and dey had two chilluns, Marsa Robert and Marsa Brat," Sara said. "I
had four brothers and sisters, Tate, Sam, Jennie, and Tenner. Us lived
in log cabins wid dirt floors and dey was built in two long rows. Us
beds was nailed to de wall at one end and us used corn shucks and pine
straw for mattresses.
"Miss Mary was good to us, but us had to work hard and late. I worked in
de fields every day from 'fore daylight to almost plumb dark. I usta
take my littlest baby wid me. I had two chilluns, and I'd tie hit up to
a tree limb to keep off de ants and bugs whilst I hoed and worked de
furrow. All us niggers was fed from de big kitchen and wasn't hongry,
but sometimes us would steal more food dan was give us anyhow.
[Illustration: _Sara Colquitt, Opelika, Alabama_]
"I was one of de spinners, too, and had to do six cuts to de reel at de
time and do hit at night plenty times. Us clothes was homespun osnaburg,
what us would dye, sometimes solid and sometimes checked.
"'Sides working de fields and spinning, sometimes I'd ho'p wid de
cooking up at de Big House when de real cook was sick or us had a passel
of company. Us cooked on a great, big fireplace what had arms hanging
out over de coals to hang pots on to bile. Den us had three-legged
skillets what set right over de coals for frying and sech like. Us
cooked sho' 'nuff bread in dem days, ash cakes, de best thing you ever
et. Dey ain't nothing like dat dese days.
"I was sold oncet before I left Virginia. Den I was brung down to
Alabama and sold from de block for $1,000 to Mr. Sam Rainey, at Camp
Hill, Ala. I still worked in de fields, but I would cook for de white
folks and hope around de Big House on special 'casions. Our overseer was
Mr. Green Ross, and he was a bad one, too. Mean, my goodness! He'd whup
you in a minute. He'd put you in de buck, tie your feet and den set out
to whup you right.
"He would get us slaves up 'fore day, blowing on his big horn, and us
would work 'twell plumb dark. All de little niggers'd get up, too, and
go up to de Big House to be fed from wooden bowls. Den dey'd be called
ag'in 'fore us come from de fields and put to bed by dark. I useta stop
by de spring house to get de milk, it was good cold too, and tote it up
to de Big House for dinner.
"I had two chilluns. Dey was named Lou and Eli, and dey was took care of
like de rest. Us useta have some good times. Us could have all de fun us
wanted on Sa'dday nights, and us sho' had it, cutting monkeyshines and
dancing all night long sometimes. Some would pat and sing, 'Keys not
arunning, Keys not arunning," and us sho' did more'n dance, I'm telling
you. Sometimes our Mistess would come down early to watch us dance.
"Next to our dances, de most fun was corn-shucking. Marsa would have de
corn hauled up to de cribs and piled as a house. Den he would invite de
hands 'round to come and ho'p shuck it. Us had two leaders or generals
and choose up two sides. Den us see which side would win first and
holler and sing. I disremembers the hollers jest now. My mind is sorter
missing. Marsa would pass de jug 'round, too. Den dey sho' could work
and dat pile'd just vanish.
"Us used de white folks' church in de morning. I j'ined de church den,
'cause I always tried to live right and wid de Lord.
"When de Yankees come through Dadeville, Ala., us heard 'bout hit and
Marsa hid his money and lots of his fine things in de colored folks's
houses. Dey never found 'em neither.
"Lemme see who I married? I mighty nigh forgot who it was I did marry.
Now, I knows. Hit was Prince Hodnett.
"No'm, I don't want no more slavery. I hope dey don't have no more such,
'cause hit was terrible.
"Yes'm, I'd be proud to have my picture took."
So pridefully Sara's chair was dragged out on the porch by her maid, and
the "picture was took."
Mandy McCullough Cosby
*Interview with Mandy McCullough Cosby*
--_Margaret Fowler, Fruithurst, Alabama_
_THEY CALLED US MCCULLOUGH'S FREE NIGGERS_
Mandy McCullough Cosby puffed reflectively at her mellowed corncob pipe
and began her story:
"My Massa, Bryant McCullough, was a Chambers county man. He had so many
slaves I can't tell you de numbah. He didn't know hisself how many he
had. I is now ninety-five years old an' what I remembers mos' is de way
de chillun roll aroun' in de big nurses room." Mandy lives at 1508-Pine
Street, Anniston, Alabama. She was cutting collards for dinner and left
her dishpan and butcher knife to receive her caller.
"Mist' McCullough, he raised niggahs to sell--an' the little black
chillen play aroun' until 'bout sundown, dey is give dey supper. A long
trough out in a cool place in the bak yard is filled wif good, cold
buttermilk an' cornbread crumbed in, an' dey each is give a spoon, an'
dey eats dey fill. Den dey is ready fo' bed. Some of dem jes' fall ovah
on de groun', asleep, and is picked up, and put on dey pallet in de big
chillens room. Dey was old woman called de nurse, look after 'em. Dey
git good care fo' de master expects dey will bring good money.
"Ol' Miss, she don't lak to see dem sold, an' she cry ever' time, she so
tender-hearted. But Mist' McCullough is jes' lak mens is today. He jes'
laugh an' go on.
"But he was good to his black folks. Folks called us 'McCullough's free
niggers.' Wasn't much whippin' went on 'roun' our plantation, but on
some places close to us, they whipped until blood run down. Some places
they even mixed salt an' pepper in water an' bathed 'em with it. The
salt water'd heal, but when the pepper got in there, it burned lak fire,
an' they'd as well get on to work quick, cause they can't be still
nohow.
"One woman, on a plantation not so far from us, was expectin', an' they
tied her up under a hack-a-berry tree, an' whipped her until she died.
Mos' any time at night ef you go 'roun' that tree, you could hear that
baby cry. I 'spect you could hear it yet.
"Everybody said that was murder, an' that something ought to be done
about it, but nothin' ever was.
"Mist' McCullough always give his folks plenty of sumpin' t'eat an' then
he say, 'I's lookin' for plenty uv work.' 'Niggahs fat an' greasy can't
do nothin' but work.
"My mother was a loomer. She didn't do nothin' but weave. We all had
reg'lar stints of spinnin' to do, when we come from the fiel'. We set
down an' eat a good supper, an' ever'night until ten o'clock we spin
cuts of cotton, an' reel the tread, an' nex' day, the rolls is carded
an' packed in a basket to be wove.
"Spinnin' wheels was in every cabin. Dere was so many of us to be tuk
care of, it took lots of spinnin'."
Emma Crockett
*Interview with Emma Crockett*
--_Ruby Pickens Tartt, Livingston, Alabama_
On the old east road from Livingston to Epes, about six miles north-east
of Livingston, is the "double house" built of widely assorted materials,
where Emma Crockett lives. The older part of the house is the "settin'
room" where the stick-and-clay chimney of its earlier days has been
replaced by a new brick chimney. A roof of corrugated sheet metal tops
the warped, roughly hewn logs which form the walls. The "new room" is
built in the later shanty style--pine boards, unplaned, and nailed
upright to a frame of 2X4's, the cracks of the flat joints "stripped"
with narrow siding. A roof of "bought" shingles covers this room.
Connecting the two rooms is an open hall roofed with heavy boards
"rived" from pine blocks. Despite its conglomerate architecture this is
a better "colored folks'" house than many in the Black Belt. These
"double houses" often have no roof for the hall and some also lack a
floor, the hall being made entirely of earth, sky and imagination.
Emma settled herself on the top step at the front of the hall to talk to
me, after first ironing a tiny wrinkle out of her "string apron" with
her hand.
[Illustration: _Emma Crockett, Livingston, Alabama_]
"Miss, I'm 'bout sebenty-nine or eighty year old," she told me, "and I
belonged to Marse Bill Hawkins and Miss Betty. I lived on deir
plantation right over yander. My mammy was called Cassie Hawkins and my
pappy was Alfred Jolly. I was Emma Jolly 'fore I married Old Henry
Crockett. Us had five chillun and dey's two of 'em livin' in Bummin'ham,
Fannie and Mary.
"Sometimes I kain't git my min' together so as I kin tell nothin'. I
fell out t'other day and had a misery in my head ever since. I wish I
could read, but I wa'n't never l'arnt nothin' 'ceptin' atter Surrender
Miss Sallie Cotes she showed us how to read printin'; but I kain't read
no writin. I kain't tell you so much 'bout de wah' ca'se my recollection
ain't no 'count dese days. All I knowed, 'twas bad times and folks got
whupped, but I kain't say who was to blame; some was good and some was
bad. I seed the patterollers, and atter Surrender de Ku Kluxes dey come
den, but didn't never bother me. See, I wan't so old and I minded
ev'ybody, and didn't vex 'em none. Us didn't go to church none, but I
goes now to de New Prophet Church and my favorite song is:
Set down, set down, set down,
Set down, set down,
Set down, chile, set down.
Soul so happy till I kain't set down.
Move de member, move Dan-u-el,
Move de member, move Dan-u-el.
Dan-u-el, member, don' move so slow.
Dan-u-el, member, don' move so slow.
Got on my rockin' shoes, Dan-u-el.
Got on my rockin' shoes, Dan-u-el.
Shoes gwine to rock me home,
Shoes gwine to rock me home, Dan-u-el,
Shoes gwine to rock me home, Dan-u-el,
Shoes gwine to rock me home, Dan-u-el,
Dan-u-el.
Shoes gwine to rock by faith,
Shoes gwine to rock by faith, Dan-u-el,
Shoes gwine to rock by faith, Dan-u-el.
Love de member, move Dan-u-el.
Love de member, move Dan-u-el.
Got on my starry crown, Dan-u-el.
Got on my starry crown, Dan-u-el.
"Dat's all I kin tell you today, honey. Come back when dis misery leave
my head and I gwine to think up some tales and old songs.
[Illustration: _Emma Crockett's House, Livingston, Alabama_]
"But I didn't never fool wid no hoodoo and no animal stories neither. I
didn't have no time for no sich foolishness. And I ain't scared of
nothin' neither.
"I lives here wid my grandchile now on Mr. Bob Davis' place. Us gits
enough to eat, I reckon, but it's tight, I tell you dat!"
Cheney Cross
*Interview with Cheney Cross*
--_Annie D. Dean_
_GITTIN' MY PENSION_
From all accounts, Aunt Cheney Cross must be quite ninety years old. "In
jewin' de war," she says, "I had done long pass my thirteenth birthday."
Today Aunt Cheney is a true reflection of slavery days and the Southern
mammy.
Away from highways and automobiles, she lives several miles from
Evergreen on a small farm in the piney woods with her "baby boy."
Talk with Aunt Cheney reveals that Evergreen's city marshall, Harry L.
Riley, "put out to hope" this old family servant who had "tended" to his
father, George Riley; his mother, "Miss Narciss," and "Miss Lizzible,"
his sister. She also helped bring his own "chillun" into the world.
Aunt Cheney had promised Mr. Riley that she would come in town on a
certain Saturday morning in May, 1937, and would bring a letter from her
young "mistis" for me to read.
It was past noon on that particular Saturday when she came up the back
steps, a little out of breath, but smiling. "Lawd, honey," she said,
"here 'tis pas' dinner time an' I'se jes' makin' my arrivement here.
No'm, I don't wants no dinner, thank you jes' de same. Whut makes me so
late here now, I stopped by Miss Ella Northcutt's. She's my folks too,
you know, an' she done made me eat all I kin hole! No'm, honey, I can't
eat no cabbage. Me an' cabbage never is set horses together much, but I
will thank you for the ice tea."
Settling herself down in a low chair, she sighed and began taking off
her shoes. "Honey, you don't mind ef I resses my feets does you? My
white folks is sp'ilin' me here today. I'll be lookin' for it tomorrrow,
too, an' I won't be gittin' it." Her black eyes twinkled in her shiny,
old, wrinkled face as she talked on.
"I tole Mr. Harry I'se comin'. An' here I is! How'd I come? I come on
Mack and Charlie, dat's how! Yes, ma'am! Dese two boys here, dey brung
me." Pushing her feet out for inspection, she leaned forward, smiling
and pleased. "Dese here foots, dey's Mack an' Charlie. Dey's my whole
pennunce for gittin' about. Don't you worry none. Mr. Harry he'll git be
back home 'gainst dark come on.
"Lawd, honey, I don't want to know no better folks'n Mr. Harry an' Miss
Emma. I follow dem good folks clean up to Muscle Show! Yessum, I sho'
did. At fust, I tole'm I couldn't go nohow. But dey pull down on me so
hard, look lack I couldn't he'p myself.
"I stayed on up dere at Muscle Show twell I got so homesick to see my
baby boy I couldn't stan' it no mo'. Now, cose, my baby boy he was den
de father of his own, a boy an' a girl, but to me dat boy is still jes'
my baby, an' I had to come on home."
Aunt Cheney's little, old body shook with laughter as she leaned back
and said: "Yes, ma'am! I ain't been home no time atall neither, 'twell
here come Mr. Harry back to Evergreen wid his own self. Yes, Lawd! I kin
see'm now, comin' up de big hardwood road, his haid raired back,
asmokin' a sugarette lack he's a millinery! Lawd, Lawd! Me nor Mr. Harry
neither one ain't never gona be contentious nowheres but right here. An'
dat's de Gawd's trufe!
"Iffen Mr. Harry hadn't come on back here, I never woulda seed no
pension. Dat's de Gawd's trufe, too. Nobody here didn't know my eggzack
age, cause dis wasn't my originally home. All dem whut did know close
onto my age done died out an' I knows it. So when Mr. Harry put out to
hope me, I says in my heart 'Thank Gawd!'
"I tole Mr. Harry dat iffen anybody in de world knowed my age, it was my
young mistis, an' I didn't know eggzackly where she at, but her papa was
Captain Purifire (Purifoy). Back yonder he was de madistra of our town,
an' he had all of dem lawin' books. I figgered dat my birthright would
be down in one of dem books. I knowed in reason dat my mistis still got
dem books wid her, 'cause dey ain't been no burnin's dat I done heard
about. I knowed, too, dat Mr. Harry was gona fine out where she at.
"I 'members Captain Purifire jes' lack a book. I does dat! Now, cose,
when he come on in home from de war he didn't 'zackly favor hisse'f den,
'cause when I seed him comin' roun' de house he look so ragged an'
ornery I tuck him for de ole Bad Man hisse'f. I tuck out behind de smoke
house, an' when I got a good look at him th'ew a crack it look lack I
could recognize his favor, but I couldn't call his name to save my life.
Lawd, honey! He's a sight! All growed over an' bushy! You couldn't tell
iffen he's man or beas'. I kep' on alookin' whilst he's comin' roun' de
corner, an' den I heard him say 'Cheney, dat you?' I'se so happy, I jes'
melt down."
Aunt Cheney was really living over her past. "You see, it's lack dis,"
she said: "My fore parents, dey was bought. My Mistis an' my daddy's
mistis, too, was Miss Mary Fields, an' my daddy was Henry Fields. Den de
Carters bought my daddy from Miss Mary Fields. Well, dey mix up an' down
lack dat, twell now my young mistis, what used to be little Frances
Purifire, she's married to Mr. Cunningham.
"I was brung up right in de house wid my white folks. Yessum, I slep' on
de little trundler bed what pushed up under de big bed, in durinst de
day. I watched over dem chillun day an' night. I washed 'em an' fed 'em
an' played wid 'em. One of de babies had to take goat's milk. When she
cry, my mistis say, 'Cheney, go on an' git dat goat.' Yes Lawd! An' dat
goat sho' did talk sweet to dat baby! Jes' lack it was her own. She look
at it an' wag her tail so fas' an' say: "Ma-a-a-a-a!" Den she lay down
on de flo' whilst us holes her feets an' let de baby suck de milk. All
de time dat goat bees talkin', 'Ma-a-a-a-a,' twell dat baby got
satchified.
"When us chillun got tuck wid any kind of sickness or zeezes, us tuck
azzifizzity an' garlit. You know, garlit what smell lack onions. Den we
wore some roun' us necks. Dat kep' off flu-anz.
"Dese days it look lack somepin t'eat don't tas'e lack dat we cooked
back yonder. De coffee us used had to be fresh groun' ever' day. An'
when it commence to bile, I put dese here knees down on de flo' befo' de
fire an' stir dat coffee for de longes'. Den my gran'ma she hung dat pot
up on dem pot hooks over de fire an' washed de meat an' drap it in. Time
she done pick an' overlook de greens an' den wrinched 'em in spring
water, de meat was bilin'. Den she take a great big mess of dem fresh
turnip greens an' squash 'em down in dat pot. Dey jes' melt down an' go
to seasonin'.
"Nex' thing I knowed, here come my mistis, an' she say: 'Now Cheney, I
wants some pone bread for dinner.' Dem hick'ry coals in dat fire place
was all time ready an' hot. They wouldn't be no finger prints lef' on
dat pone when Cheney got th'ew pattin' it out neither. Better not! Look
lack dem chillun jes' couldn't git 'nuff of dat hard corn bread.
"Plenty of fancy cookin' went on 'roun' dat fire place, but somehow de
pot licker an' pone bread longside wid de fresh buttermilk stirs my
mem'ry worse'n anything.
"All dis good eatin' I'se speakin' 'bout tuck place befo' de Yankees
raided us. It was den, too, dat my mistis tuck me down to de spring back
of de house. Down dere it was a holler tree stump, taller'n you is. She
tell me to clam' up to de top of dat holler tree, den she han' me a big
heavy bundle, all wropped up an' tied tight. Hit sho' was heavy! Den she
say: 'Drap it in, Cheney.' I didn't know den whut she's up to, but dat
was de silver an' jew'lry she was hidin'.
"Yes honey, I 'members dat Yankee raid lack it was jes' yistiddy. I'se
settin' dere in de loom room, an' Mr. Thad Watts' lil' gal, Louise,
she's standin' at the winder. She say: 'O-o-oh! Nannie! Jes' look down
yonder!' 'Baby, what is dat?' I says. 'Dem's de Yankees comin'!' 'Gawd
hep us!' I says, an' befo' I kin ketch my bref, de place is kivvered.
You couldn't stir 'em up wid a stick. Feets sounded lack mutterin'
thunder. Dem bayonets stick up lack dey jes' setting on de mouf of dey
guns. Dey swords hangin' on dey sides singin' a chune whilst dey walk. A
chicken better not pass by. Iffen he do, off come his head!
"When dey pass on by me, dey put' nigh shuck me outa my skin. 'Where's
de men's?' dey say an' shake me up. 'Where's de arms?' Dey shake me
twell my eye balls loosen up. 'Where's de silver?' Lawd! Was my teefs
drappin' out? Dey didn't give me time to ketch my bref. All de time,
Miss Mary jes' look 'em in de eye an' say nothin'!
"Dey tuck dem enfield rifles, half as long as dat door, an' bus' in de
smoke house winder. Dey jack me up off'n my feet an' drag me up de
ladder an' say: 'Git dat meat out.' I kep' on th'owin' out Miss Mary's
hams an' sawsidges, twell dey holler 'stop'. I come backin' down dat
ladder lack a squirrel, an' I ain't stop backin' twell I retch Miss
Mary.
"Yes, Lawd! Dem Yankees loaded up a waggin full of meat an' tuck de
whole barrel of 'lasses! Takin' dat 'lasses kilt us chillun! Our mainest
'musement was makin' 'lasses candy. Den us cake walk 'roun' it. Now dat
was all gone. Look lack dem sojers had to sharpen dey swords on
ever'thing in sight. De big crepe mullen bush by de parlor winder was
bloomin' so pink an' pretty, an' dey jes' stood dere an' whack off dem
blooms lack folkses heads drappin' on de groun'.
"I seed de sargeant when he run his bayonet clean th'ew Miss Mary's
bestest feather bed an' rip it slam open! Wid dat, a win' blowed up an'
tuck dem feathers ever' which away for Sunday. You couldn't see where
you's at. De sargeant, he jes' th'owed his head back an' laugh fit to
kill hisse'f. Den fust thing next, he done suck a feather down his
win'pipe! Lawd, honey, dat white man sho' struggled. Dem sojers th'owed
water in his face. Dey shuck'm an' beat'm an' roll'm over, an' all de
time he's gettin' limberer an' bluerer. Den dey jack him up by his feets
an' stan'm on his haid. Den dey pump him up an' down. Den dey shuck'm
twell he spit. Den he come to.
"Dey didn't cut no mo' mattrusses. An' dey didn't cut nothin' much up in
de parlor, 'cause dat's where de lieutenant an' de sargeant slep'. But
dey lef' de nex' day, de whole place was strewed wid mutilation.
"I 'members well back dere in jewin' de war how ever' oncet a month that
come 'roun' a big box, longer'n I is an' wider too, was tuck to our
sojer boys on de battle fiel'. You never seed de lack of sawsidges dat
went in dat box! Wid cake an' chicken an' pies, an' Lawd! de butter all
rolled up in corn shucks to keep it fresh. Ever'body from ever'where
come to fix dat box an' he'p pile in de stuff. Den you hear 'em say:
'Poor sojers! Put it in here!' Den ever'thing look sorta misty, an' dey
haids droop over, lack. Den you see a mother's bres' heave wid her
silent prayer.
"Directly atter de surrender, de Ku Kluxes sho' was bad atter de
Yankees. Dey do all sorts of things to aggivate 'em. Dey's continual'
tyin' grape vines crost de road, to git 'em tangled up an' make 'em trip
up an' break dey own necks. Dat was bad too, 'cause dem poor Yankees
never s'picioned no better'n dat dem vines jes' blowed down or somepin.
"'Long about den, too, seem lack ha'nts an' spairits was ridin'
ever'thing! Dey raided mostly 'roun' de grabeyard. Lawd, honey, I ain't
hankerin' atter passin' by no grabeyards. 'Cose, I knows I got to go in
dere some day, but dey do make me feel lonesome an' kinder jubus.
"I 'members one night, way back dere, when I'se walkin' down de big road
wid Bud, an' he say: 'Look! Didn't you see me give dat road? Dat ha'nt
done push me clean outa my place.' Now let me tell you somepin. Iffen
you ain't never been dat clost to a ha'nt, you don't know nothin'! I
'lowed he gwine follow me home. When I got dere I shuck mustard seeds
down on my flo'. When you sprinkles 'em lack dat he can't git outa dat
room twell he done count ever' las' one of dem seed. Well sir, de nex'
mawnin' all us could see was somepin lack a lump of jelly layin' dere on
de flo' 'mongst dem seeds. Look lack he done counted hisse'f to a pulp.
"After dat night, I puts a big sifter down at my do'. You know ha'nts
has to count ever' hole in dat sifter befo' dey can come th'ough. Some
folks puts de Bible down dere, too. Den de poor spairit has to read
ever' word of dat book befo' he crosses over.
"I reckon 'bout de terriblest thing ever happen to me was dat big
lookin' glass. De lookin' glass was all laid out in de top of my trunk,
waitin' for my weddin' day. One night I'se standin' by de trunk wid hit
wide open. I seed somepin black befo' my eyes an' den a screech owl lit
in my winder an' screech right in my face. I'se so scared I sot right
down in de middle of dat lookin' glass. Hit bus' in a million pieces!
Mamma th'owed up her han's an' holler, 'Git up from dere, gal. You gona
have seven years of bad luck. Shoo dat hootin' owl away befo' you dies
in your tracks!' Den I swoons off. I feels dem ha'nts gittin' ready to
ride me clean down in my grabe. 'Bout den somepin kep' sayin' to me,
over an' over: 'Th'ow dem pieces of lookin' glass in runnin' water.' Den
hit say: 'Burn your mammy's ole shoe an' de screech owl leave.' Atter I
does dat my min' was at res'.
"Soon as my daddy hear 'em firin' off for de Surrender, he put out for
de plantation where he fust belong. He lef' me wid my mistis at Pine
Flat, but 'twan't long twell he come back to git me an' carry me home
wid him. I hates to leave my mistis, an' she didn't want to part from
me. She say: 'Stay here wid me, an' I'll give you a school learnin'.'
She say to Captain Purifire: 'You go buy my li'l nigger a book. Git one
of dem Blue Back Websters,' she say, 'so I kin eddicate her to spell.'
Den my daddy say: 'Her mamma tole me not to come home widout her an' she
has to go wid me.'
"I never will fergit ridin' behin' my daddy on dat mule way in de night.
Us lef' in sich a hurry I didn't git none of my cloze hardly, an' I
ain't seed my mistis from dat day to dis!"
Matilda Pugh Daniel
*Interview with Matilda Pugh Daniel*
--_Gertha Couric_
_MATILDA WAS WED IN DE WHITE FOLKS' PARLOR_
Near Eufaula, Alabama, on a bluff stands a little three room cabin
neatly furnished with plain, well worn, but nicely kept furniture.
Surrounding the house are small beds of pretty flowers, and rows of
fresh vegetables. Here resides in peace and tranquility Aunt Matilda
Pugh Daniel, an old Negro slave, aged 96 years. Aunt Matilda was a full
grown buxom gal when the War between the States was raging. She belonged
to United States Senator, James L. Pugh, and was born on his plantation,
near Eufaula. Even though time has dimmed her sight, and slightly
diminished her hearing powers, she is still active of mind and accurate
in her memories. We will let her speak for herself:
"Yassuh, white folks, I remembers lots of things dat happen in de
slabery times. I works aroun' de house for mistis, who was de daughter
of Gen'l John Linguard Hunter befo' she ma'ied de massa. When I was a
little pig-tailed nigger, I usta play 'roun' wid Massa's chilluns. We
play injuns in de woods, an' buil' dams down on de creek an' swing in de
yard an' sometime we sho do devilish things. We hid red pepper in ole
Black Bob's chewin' bacca, an' you ought to seed de faces he made. It
makes me laugh still yit. Den we tuken a skunk dat us little white an'
black debils kotched an' turn him loose in de slave quarters. You ought
ter seed dem niggers come a flyin' outer dere. Dey come out like a swarm
of wet antses.
"Atter I grew up I ma'ied Joe Daniel, a house nigger, an' Gen'l Hunter,
de Mistis's pappy 'formed de ceremony. We was ma'ied in de parlor, an' I
wo' a party dress of Miss Sara's. It sho' was purty; made outen white
tarleton wid a pink bow in de front. I had a pink ribbon 'roun' my haid
too, an' Joe, he look proud of me. Atter de weddin' all de niggers on de
plantation gathered about an' we had a soiree in de back yard. Me an'
Joe moved to de quarter den, but I still worked in de house. Mistis
warn't goin' ter let nobody wash dem julep glasses but me, an' warn't
nobody a goin' ter polish dat silber but dis here nigger. Nawsuh.
[Illustration: _Matilda Pugh Daniel, Eufaula, Alabama_]
"Durin' de war us warn't bothered much, but atter de surrender, some po'
white trash tried to make us take some lan'. Some of 'em come to de
slave quarters, an' talk to us. Dey say 'Niggers, you is jus' as good as
de white fo'ks. You is 'titled to vote in de 'lections an' to have money
same as dey,' but most of us didn't pay no 'tention to 'em.
"Den Massa James an' Mistis moved to Washington, an' Miss Sara wanted me
to go wid her to be her house maid. She said she'd pay me money fo' it,
but I couldn't leave my ole man, Joe, kaze he had a case of consumption.
Joe died a year later an' lef' me wid fo' little chilluns. Us stayed
'roun' on de plantation an' de new massa paid us good money fo' workin',
but soon de house kotched fire an' burn to de groun', an' I have to move
to Eufaula. I bought dis little house wid de money I saved. I has
kinfolks in Detroit dat sen's me a little money, an' some good peoples
in Eufaula helps me out some so I is in purty good financial shape. I
ain't neber 'sociated wid no trashy niggers an' I ain't neber 'ten' to.
I is goin' to be a proud an' good nigger to de las'."
Carrie Davis
*Interview with Carrie Davis*
--_Preston Klein, Lee County, Alabama_
_PLANTATION PUNISHMENT_
Carrie Davis said "Honey, dere was a lot of cruel things done in slavery
times."
She was washing when I arrived at her shanty near Smith's Station,
Alabama. She asked, as so many of the old Negroes do, "Has you come to
help me?" I said: "No, Carrie; I want you to tell me about slavery."
She shook her gray head, recalled: "Dem was good an' bad times, Mistus;
good an' bad. I had a purty good marster; but de marster on de
plantation dat j'ined our'n was mighty mean. He was a bad man, no matter
if de slaves behaved or not.
"Honey, I 'members dat he had regular days to whup all de slaves wid
strops. De strops had holes in 'em so dat dey raised big blisters. Den
dey took a hand saw, cut de blisters and washed 'em in salt water. Our
Ol' Mistus has put salve on aheap of backs so dey could git deir shirts
off. De shirts'd stick, you see. De slaves would come to our house for
water an' Mistus would see 'em."
Asked about her life as a slave, she said: "I was borned in Harris
County, Georgia, an' was 'bout ten or twelve when freedom come. My mammy
an' pappy was Martha an' Nathan Perry and had seben chillun. Besides me,
dere was Amy, Ida, Knoxie, Jim, Abraham, an' Franklin.
"Us lived in de Perry quarters. De cabins was made of split logs, put up
edgeways and daubed wid mud inside an' out. Dey was 'bout a hundred
yards from de big house, whar Marster Billy an' Mistus Nancy Perry
lived. Deir chillun was Clara Maria, Malinda, Sara, Alec, Jim, an' Bill.
Dey was real good to us, too. Us et at de big house. 'Course de food was
cooked on de fireplace, but us had meat and greens but not much
biscuits. Us had collards an' cabbage, too.
"Sometimes us would have wild game, 'ca'se de men hunted lots an'
kotched rabbits, 'possums and coons. Dey also kotched a lot of fish.
"No'm, our beds warn't so good. Dey was homemade and de sides was
scantlings wid legs nailed on. Den slats was nailed on top of it to put
our shuck-and-straw mattresses on.
"My grand-parents was from Virginny. When I was a slave I was used as a
house-girl and to help keep de yards clean and bring in water. Us wore
mostly slips, wove in homemade looms; an' dey was osnaburg an' homespun.
We wore 'em Sunday and Monday de same. Us shoes was made at a tanyard
and dey was brogans as hard as rocks.
"I 'members dat some of our white neighbors was poor and didn't have no
slaves. Dey would help us work. De overseer couldn't whip dem, but he
would make dem work hard and late. I 'members, too, dat de overseer
waked us up wid a trumpet.
"Dey useta tell us dat if us didn't work dey was going to sell us to
help feed de rest; and bless yo' soul, us niggers'd go to work, too.
Marster wasn't mean. He would jest lock de slaves in de crib fer
punishment. When slaves was sold, I seed many a nigger put on de block
for five and six hundred dollars.
"Us couldn't leave de plantation widout a pass; and you better not let
'em kotch you wid a book. Us walked to de white church an' set in de
back. Mr. Davey Snell preach and baptize, and dey had foot-washin's.
Sometimes de niggers'd git so happy dey would shout. Den dey would keep
shoutin' in de fields next day and git a whipping.
"If a nigger got out widout a pass, dey sot de hounds on you; and de
patrollers'd tear you up too, if you stayed out too late.
[Illustration: _Carrie Davis, Smith's Station, Alabama_]
"Us had sech good times on Sattidy nights; frolic, dance an'
cornshuckin's. Most of 'em would be drinkin' and sing and holler:
Sheep's in de cotton patch;
Got 'im out Monday.
Had it been a white man;
Got 'im out Sunday.
"Kid Kimbrough was our leader, and he could sing 'Dixie,' too.
"Christmas mornin' us'd have a better breakfast and dey would give us
rations at de big house. When any of de slaves got married dey went up
to de white folks' house an' jumped over de broom. Dat was de ceremony
at de weddin'. And if marster wanted to mix his stock of slaves wid a
strong stock on 'nother plantation, dey would do de mens an' women jest
lak horses. I 'members dat when two niggers married, dey got a big
supper.
"All us chilluns had a big time; played 'Pretty Pauline,' 'Turn,
Charlie,' an' sech-lak.
"No'm I never did see nor b'lieve in ghosts.
"When us got sick Mistus'd give horse-mint, life-everlasting, goldenrod,
an' holly teas, yessum. And us wore asafetida and pop-ball seed.
"When de Yankees come, dey handcuffed our folks and took 'em off.
Marster had his meat, corn, fodder, and sech hauled in de swamp near de
plantation. Dem Yankees went as straight to it as if dey had seed us put
it dere. Dey burned it all up and took some niggers from de other farm.
"When freedom come, I 'members dat marster told us dat us was free, but
dat we could stay on if we lacked. Most of us stayed on wid him for a
spell. Now and den de Ku Klux Klan'd come around and beat on a nigger.
"I married Charlie Gibson and had two chillun, twelve grand-chilluns and
nine great-grandchilluns.
"Honey, I's heard Abraham Lincoln's name, but don't know nothin' 'bout
him. I got tired livin' 'mong wicked peoples; and I wanted to be saved.
Dat's why I j'ined de church and still tries to de right."
Clara Davis
*Interview with Clara Davis*
--_Francois Ludgere Diard_
_AUNT CLARA DAVIS IS HOMESICK FOR OLD SCENES_
"I was bawn in de year 1845, white folks," said Aunt Clara, "on de
Mosley plantation in Bellvy jus' nawth of Monroeville. Us had a mighty
pretty place back dar. Massa Mosely had near 'bout five hundred acres
an' mos' near to one hundred slaves.
"Was Marse Mosely good to us? Lor', honey, how you talk. Co'se he was!
He was de bes' white man in de lan'. Us had eve'y thing dat we could
hope to eat: turkey, chicken, beef, lamb, poke, vegetables, fruits,
aigs, butter, milk ... we jus' had eve'y thing, white folks, eve'ything.
Dem was de good ole days. How I longs to be back dar wid my ole folks
an' a playin' wid de chilluns down by de creek. 'Tain't nothin' lak it
today, nawsuh. When I tell you 'bout it you gwine to wish you was dar
too.
"White folks, you can have your automobiles an' paved streets an'
electric lights. I don't want 'em. You can have de busses an' street
cars an' hot pavements an' high buildin' 'caze I ain't got no use for
'em no way. But I'll tell you what I does want. I wants my ole cotton
bed an' de moonlight nights a shinin' through de willow trees an' de
cool grass under my feets as I runned aroun' ketchin' lightnin' bugs. I
wants to hear de sound of de hounds in de woods atter de 'possum, an' de
smell of fresh mowed hay. I wants to feel de sway of de ol' wagon
a-goin' down de red, dusty road an' listen to de wheels groanin' as dey
rolls along. I wants to sink my teeth into some of dat good ol' ash
cake, an' smack de good ol' sorghum offen my mouth. White folks, I wants
to see de boats a passin' up an' down de Alabamy ribber an' hear de
slaves a singin' at dere work. I wants to see de dawn break over de
black ridge an' de twilight settle over de place spreadin' a sort of
orange hue over de place. I wants to walk de paths th'ew de woods an'
see de rabbits an' watch de birds an' listen to frogs at night. But dey
tuk me away f'om dat a long time ago. 'Twern't long befo' I ma'ied an'
had chilluns, but don't none of 'em 'tribute to my suppote now. One of
'em was killed in de big war wid Germany and de res' is all scattered
out ... eight of 'em. Now I jus' live f'om han' to mouth; here one day,
somewhere else de nex'. I guess we's all a-goin' to die iffen dis
'pression don't let us 'lone. Maybe someday I'll git to go home. Dey
tells me dat when a pusson crosses dat ribber, de Lawd gives him whut he
wants. I done tol' de Lawd I don't want nothin' much ... only my home,
white folks. I don't think dat's much to axe for. I supposed he'll sen'
me back dar. I been a-waitin' for him to call."
George Dillard
*Interview with George Dillard*
--_Alice L. Barton_
_I LOVED TO PICK DAT BOX_
George Dillard, born in Richmond, Va., in 1852, now idles about his
little home at Eutaw and recalls days when he was a slave. The memories
bring smiles to his wrinkled, black face.
"Honey, dar was a dance every Sattidy night," he chuckled, "an' all de
niggers nigh 'bout broke dey legs adancin'."
"And didn't you dance just as hard as the others, Uncle George?"
"Well, Mistus, I was right spry; but I was at my best in de job of
pickin' de banjer. I shorely did love to pick dat box while de other
niggers danced away."
George said his family came from Virginia to Mississippi, and that he
came to Greene County about 60 years ago. His two masters were a Mr.
Dillard and Bob Steele.
George explained that he was a field hand and had to work hard most of
the time.
"But us had plenty to eat," he said. "De food was cooked in Ol' Mistus'
kitchen an' sont to de fiel' on a big cart. I 'member dat a bell would
ring for us to git up, an' we would work as long as it was daylight."
George said that Mr. Steele owned about 200 slaves and that he always
had plenty of everything. The plantation, he said, consisted of about
2,000 acres.
"Ol' Massa had a church right on de plantation for us niggers," he
continued. "Many's de time I danced late in de night an' den had to git
up an' go to church wid de rest. All of us had to go. A white man would
preach, but I allus enjoyed de singin' most of all."
George believes earnestly that ghosts exist, but admits they have never
bothered him.
[Illustration: _George Dillard, Eutaw, Alabama_]
"Dey is all aroun'," he maintains, "but dey don't follow me. No'm, I's
not 'fraid of 'em; but I knows plenty of niggers dat'll run if a ghost
so much as brushes by 'em."
The old darkey said that "atter freedom come to de worl'" he continued
to live with his master and worked a share crop. He said that Mr. Steele
was always fair and good to him; always giving him the best of
everything.
George married Celia Shelton, and to them were born twenty-four
children.
"It was a bunch of dem," he said, "but I loved ebry one. I had a nice
weddin' an' de white folks helped me to git myself a 'oman an' then to
git married to her."
Ella Dilliard
*Personal interview with Ella Dilliard*
*756 Canal Street, Mobile, Alabama*
--_Ila B. Prine_
_ELLA'S WHITE HEN IS HEAPS OF COMPANY_
Ella Dilliard, an old Negro woman who lives at 756 Canal Street, Mobile,
says she was a small girl during slavery time, and does not know the
hardships of it, because she was owned by good people. Her mother's name
was Mary Norris, owned by Mrs. Calvin Norris, who lived in Selma, Ala.,
but had a homestead in Mobile. Her father belonged to people by the name
of Childress, and his name was Green Childress. She doesn't remember
much about him because his white people took him to Texas.
Ella said that her mother was her madame's hairdresser, and that Mrs.
Norris had her mother taught in Mobile. So Ella's life was very easy, as
she stayed around the big house with her mother, although her
grandmother, Penny Anne Norris, cared for her more than her mother did.
One of the things she remembers quite distinctly was her grandmother's
cooking on the fireplace, and how she would not allow any one to spit in
the fireplace. She said her grandmother made corn-pone and wrapped it in
shucks and baked it in ashes.
Ella said she did not know many colored people, since the quarters were
quite a ways from the big house, and that the plantation was managed by
an overseer. She said the quarters were built in rows with streets
between them.
She also remembers the first boat she ever saw that was when she was
brought to Mobile after the surrender, and when she saw the boat she
said to her mother: "Look at that house sitting on the water."
Ella said that there were three cooks at the big house, their names
being Hannah, Judy, and Charlotte, and the gardener's name was Uncle
John. Ella also said that one thing that she remembers so well about the
kitchen in the big house was a large dishpan, that had a partition in
the middle of it, one side you washed the dishes in, and the other side
was used for scalding them.
The slaves always had Saturdays to wash their clothes and do things for
themselves. Ella, not having lived among Negroes, does not know much
about their habits and customs, but she does remember seeing the big
white covered wagons that the slaves were carried in to be sold; and
remembers hearing talk of the "Pattyrollers." She said when the slaves
were sold, they were put on a block, and that the man who were buying
would look in their mouths just like they did horses.
Ella said she was born in Greensboro, Alabama, but the plantation where
she later lived was on the Alabama river near Selma, Ala. She doesn't
know how many acres it comprised, or how many slaves that her master
owned. She remembers her madame made her stop calling her mother
"mammy," and her father "daddy." She said: "You know, Miss, that the
white children now-a-days calls their parents 'mammy and daddy' like the
colored people used to. The children now do not respect their parents as
they should, and in fact everything is so different the truth done 'be
under the table.' You know, miss, I am telling the truth, because the
Bible says, 'Woe be unto the one that lies; Judgment is on the land.'
"In those days people had to work to live, and they raised most
everything they used, such as cattle, hogs, cotton, and foodstuff. Then
the women spun the thread out of the cotton, and wove the cloth."
Ella helped her grandmother at the weaving by picking up the shuttles
for her. She said they generally used the cloth as it was woven. The
shoes were made on the place and were called red brogans.
As for the churches, the white folks had the brush arbor camp meetings,
where the people would go and camp in little cabins for weeks, so they
could attend the church. They had newspapers then, Ella said, "but
'course they ain't like you have now, there warn't so many as there is
now.
"You asked something, miss, about medicines. I don't remember much about
any medicine, because Mr. Calvin Norris was a doctor, and he always
treated us when we were sick. There was a Dr. Browder who 'tended the
plantation."
Ella is a bright colored, small woman, whose eyes are very keen. She
says that a short time ago she had some trouble with her eyes, and she
got something from the drug store to bathe them with, but it did not
help them. So she caught some pure rain water and "anointed" her eyes
with that, and now she can see to thread a needle. Her life has been
very colorful in many respects. She recalled as a small child, that,
during the war, a minie-ball came through a brick wall of the servant
house where they were living, but it fell without harming any of the
servants. She said when Wilson's raid was made on Selma, that the Yankee
men went through the houses just like dogs, taking whatever they wanted.
"I 'members Mr. Parkman putting two sacks of money down in his big well,
and him getting it out with hooks after the Yankees left."
Later when she was brought to Mobile she worked for Judge Oliver Semmes
for twenty years. Judge Semmes was the son of Admiral Raphael Semmes,
and she said he was a blessed, good man. For the past fourteen years she
has been working for the Frank Lyons family of Mobile.
Ella lives in a double tenement house, having one room and a small
kitchen. The room is full of old furniture and odd things. On the mantle
is a lovely old china pitcher that once was owned by Judge Semmes and
which Ella prizes very much. The thing that puzzles Ella most among the
modern inventions, she said, are the aeroplanes, and the way ice is
made. She said:
"Miss, we never had any ice way back yonder. We had nice, old, open
brick wells, and the water was just like ice. We would draw the water
and put around the milk and butter in the dairy. It's a mystery to me
how they make that ice, but, my goodness! I guess I need not worry my
head about things, because I am not here for long. All my family is dead
and gone now, and the only companion I have is this here little white
hen. Her name is Mary. You see, I bought her last year to kill for
Christmas, but I couldn't do it. She is so human; and you ought to see
the eggs she lays. I even have a few to sell sometimes. I just keeps
Mary in the room at night with me, and she is heaps of company for me."
Rufus Dirt
*Interview with Rufus Dirt*
--_Woodrow Hand, Birmingham, Alabama_
_RUFUS WOULD TALK A LOT FOR A DIME_
Foreword: This Negro, Rufus Dirt, was found on one of Birmingham's
busiest streets begging for coins. Because of his inability to read, he
was unable to give the number or location of his home. All he knew was
"jes' som'ers on Southside, boss."
"I'll drop a dime in your hat uncle if you'll stand here and talk to me
for a few minutes."
"Sho' boss, iffen you wants, I'll talk all day fo' dat much money. I'se
been here fo' a long time an' I knows plenty to talk 'bout. What does
yo' want to know?"
I explained my interest in slavery days and my search for ex-slaves, but
he began telling me before I had time to finish. His ability to talk had
somehow escaped what his age had done to his hair, which was sparse as
well as snowy white. His eyes were a glazy red. One hand and arm seemed
to be crippled, but the other waved around in the air as he talked and
finally settled on my shoulder.
"Boss, I don' rightly know jes' how old I is. I was a driver (Negro boss
of other slaves) during slavery and I reckons I was about twenty
sompin'. I don' remember nothin' in particular that caused me to get dat
drivin' job, ceptin' hard work, but I knows dat I was proud of it 'cause
I didn' have to work so hard no mo'. An' den it sorta' made de other
niggers look up to me, an' you knows us niggers, boss. Nothin' makes us
happier dan' to strut in front of other niggers. Dere ain't nothin' much
to tell about. We jes' moved one crop atter de other till layin' by time
come and den we'd start in on de winter work. We done jes' 'bout de same
as all de other plantations.
"My massa's name was Digby and we live at Tuscaloosa befo' de war. An'
'bout dat war, white folks. Dem was some scary times. De nigger women
was a-feared to breathe out loud come night an' in de day time, dey
didn't work much 'cause dey was allus lookin' fo' de Yankees. Dey didn'
come by so much 'cause atter de first few times. Dere wa'nt no reason to
come by. Dey had done et up ever'thing and toted off what dey didn' eat.
Dey tuk all Massa's stock, burned down de smokehouse atter dey tuk de
meat out, an' dey burned de barn, an' we'all think ever' time dat dey
goin' to burn de house down, but dey musta forgot to do dat.
"When de war was finally over an' I was free, my family went to
Vicksburg, Mississippi where we made a livin' first one way an' den de
other. I don't know how long we stayed dere, but I was livin' in
Bummin'ham when dere wa'nt nothin' much here a'tall. I watched all de
big buildin's 'round here go up and I see'd dem build all de big plants
and I'se still watchin', but I still don' know how to tell folks where
places is, 'cause I don' know how to read numbers. I goes anywhere I
wants to go an' I don't ever get lost, but jes' de same, I can't tell
nobody where I am. I don' even know where we is standin' talking like
dis right now. An' boss, I ain't beggin' 'cause I'se too lazy to work.
I'se worked plenty in my time till I crippled dis arm in de mines and
befo' my eyes got so bad," and with a grace and gentleness that may be
called a characteristic of his generation, he added, "I hope I'se told
you what you wants to know."
He had. I felt well repaid for the dime I had given him. As he walked
off down the street, I noticed for the first time the large crowd that
had gathered around us. Evidently slave tales carry more interest than
this writer realized.
Katherine Eppes
*Interview with Katherine Eppes*
--_Susie R. O'Brien, Uniontown, Alabama_
_CABINS AS FAR AS YOU COULD SEE_
"Ma" Eppes sat on the steps of her weatherbeaten, unpainted little
cabin, duplicate of the dozens that make up Rat Row, Negro quarter of
Uniontown, and looked down the vista of memory to her childhood when she
lived in "where de log cabins stretched as far as you could see in de
slave qua'ters."
Despite her eighty-seven years, Katherine Eppes, known to everyone as
"Ma," came as spryly to her tiny porch as her rotund body would permit.
She smiled broadly at her interviewer and seated herself slowly.
"Sho', honey, I can tell you mo'n anything you want to know 'bout the
big fight, 'ca'se I been here a long time," she began her story. "Dey
ain't many lef' to tell 'bout dem days. My mammy an' pappy was Peter an'
Emma Lines an' us all belonged to Marsa Frank and Miss Sarah Lines. I
was born on dey plantation five miles below Faunsdale 'bout 1850 so dey
tells me.
"I is right ol' but thank Gawd I still got my teefies an' my ha'r lef'."
Proudly the old woman unwrapped her "head rag" to display a thick mop,
woolly white but neatly parted into squares. Dozens of little plaits,
wrapped with yards of twine, just as her hair had been dressed in the
slave quarters before the War, adorned her head. She sat with uncovered
head unblinking in the bright June sunshine, as she took up the tale of
her health. "I sees pretty good, too, but I's so hebby I ain't able to
toe myse'f 'roun' as pert as I useter.
"It was diff'rent back in dem days when I belonged to rich white folks.
Dey had plenty of niggers an' dey was log cabins in de quarters jes' as
far as your eyes could see. Marsa Frank an' Miss Sarah was good to de
black folks, too. Dey son, young marsa Frank, fit in de big war. Atter
de war was over I stayed on de Lines' place 'twell atter I ma'ied, an'
Ol' Miss gin me my weddin' dress an' a long veil down to my foots.
"When us was chillun in de quarters we did a mighty lot of playin'. Us
useta play 'Sail away Rauley' a whole lot. Us would hol' han's an' go
'roun' in a ring, gittin' faster an' faster an' dem what fell down was
outa de game.
"My mammy wukked in de Big House, aspinnin' an' anussin' de white
chillun. All of dem called her 'mammy.' Ah 'members one thing jes' lack
it was yestiddy. Miss Sarah went to 'Mospolis (Demopolis) to visit wid
her sister, an' whilst she were gone de oberseer, what go by de name of
Allen, whupped my Mammy crost her back 'twell de blood runned out.
"When Miss Sarah comed back an' foun' it out, she was de maddes white
lady I eber seed. She sont for de oberseer, an' she say: 'Allen, what
you mean by whupping Mammy? You know I don't allow you to tech my house
servants.' She jerk her dress down an' stan' dere lookin' like a sojer
wid her white shoulders shinin' lack a snow bank, an' she say: 'I
'druther see dem marks on my own shoulders dan to see 'em on Mammy's.
Dey wouldn't hurt me no wuss.' Den she say: 'Allen, teck your fambly an'
git offen my place. Don't you let sundown ketch you here. 'So he lef'.
He wasn't nothin' but white trash nohow."
"Ma" Eppes sat silent for a time as she recalled the vision of Miss
Sarah standing straight and regal in her dismissal of the overseer.
Finally she turned with an abrupt change of subject.
"Honey, is you a Christian?" she asked earnestly. "I hopes you is, ca'se
you is too fine lookin' for to go to Hell. I b'longs to de Baptis'
Church, an' dey calls me Ma Eppes 'ca'se I's de mother of de church. I
loves to sing de gospel Hymns."
She began to sing in a high, cracked voice, her body swaying with the
rhythm. The song rose until her neighbors had gathered to form quite an
audience. With much moaning between every line, she sang:
"I am a sojer of de Cross,
A follerer of de Lam'.
I'm not afeard to own His name,
Nor to 'fen' His cause."
(Chorus)
"I wan' you to come,
I wan' you to come,
I wan' you to come
An' be saved."
She was still singing as I left her, the neighbors joining in the
choruses. Suppers would be late in the row of weatherbeaten cabins,
because the spirit of song was on the gathering.
Reuben Fitzpatrick
*Interview with Reuben Fitzpatrick*
--[HW: _Mabel Farrior, Montgomery, Alabama]_
_A HORN FOR A HEADACHE_
Reuben Fitzpatrick, of Eugene Street, Montgomery, was born Jan. 9, 1854,
(83 years old). He says:
"My Marster was Mister Gholson frum Bullock county. He had lots uv
slaves 'cause he was a rich man. I was jes' a boy ten years ole an' he
was a squire dat tried cases, so he rode all over de country to dif'funt
places. I rode wid him to hole his horse. He wore a high top black hat
and had a buggy wid a top dat let back. When we went we was gone a long
time an' when night come he would fix it fer me to sleep wid some uv de
niggers in de quarters where we stopped. I sho' lacked to go 'bout wid
him.
"My mother was de cook. She had rule over all the cookin'. She spinned
thread an' reeled it off too.
"When de Yankees come through de country I seed 'em all runnin' so I
thought it was jedgment day an' I runned an' hid under de chimney an'
stayed dere 'tel night. Dey didn't tarry long, but dey drove de horses
right up on de piazza, and throwed ever' thing out de houses, eben
knocked down de smoke 'ouse doors. Dat's de trufe'.
"One time I was taken to the slave market and I was screwed on the block
and Mr. Martin bought me and my Mamma. The man that was selling us would
holler, "Who'll bid? Who'll bid?" We was supposed to be spry and fidgety
so as to make the men want to buy us. My fust Marster was Wash Jones. He
wan't good to us. He would hit us wid his cane jes' as if it had been a
switch. Ben Jones didn't like the way Marse Wash treated us niggers. He
bought us for his son.
"We didn't have no doctors much in dem days, but us had a horn us use
when we got sick. If us had the headache that horn would go right over
the spot and it wouldn't be no time 'fore the pain'd be gone. We'd use
that horn anytime we was ailing an' it'd sho' do the work. I used to
have the horn but I don't know jes' where it is now."
Heywood Ford
*Interview with Heywood Ford*
--_Susie R. O'Brien, Uniontown, Alabama_
_HEYWOOD FORD TELLS A STORY_
"White folks," said Heywood Ford, "I'se gonna tell you a story 'bout a
mean oberseer an' whut happened to him durin' de slabery days. It all
commenced when a nigger named Jake Williams got a whuppin' for stayin'
out atter de time on his pass done gib out. All de niggers on de place
hated de oberseer wuss dan pizen, 'caze he was so mean an' useta try to
think up things to whup us for.
"One mornin' de slaves was lined up ready to eat dere breakfas' an' Jake
Williams was a pettin' his ole red-bone houn'. 'Bout dat time de
oberseer come up an' seed Jake a pettin' his houn' an' he say: 'Nigger
you ain't got time to be a-foolin' 'long dat dog. Now make him git.'
Jake tried to make de dog go home, but de dog didn't want to leave Jake.
Den de oberseer pick up a rock an' slam de dog in de back. De dog he den
went a-howlin' off.
"Dat night Jake he come to my cabin an' he say to me: 'Heywood, I is
gonna run away to a free State. I ain't a-gonna put up wid dis treatment
no longer. I can't stand much mo'. I gibs him my han' an' I say: 'Jake,
I hopes you gits dere. Maybe I'll see you ag'in sometime.'
"'Heywood,' he says, 'I wish you'd look atter my houn', Belle. Feed her
an' keep her de bes' you kin. She a mighty good possum an' coon dog. I
hates to part wid her, but I knows dat you is de bes' pusson I could
leave her wid.' An' wid dat Jake slip out de do' an' I seed him
a-walkin' toward de swamp down de long furrows of cawn.
"It didn't take dat oberseer long to fin' out dat Jake done run away,
an', when he did, he got out de blood houn's an' started off atter him.
It warn't long afore Jake heered dem houn's a-howlin' in de distance.
Jake he was too tired to go any further. He circled 'roun' an' doubled
on his tracks so as to confuse de houn's an' den he clumb a tree.
T'warn't long afore he seed de light of de oberseer comin' th'ough de
woods and de dogs was a-gittin' closer an' closer. Finally dey smelled
de tree dat Jake was in an' dey started barkin' 'roun' it. De oberseer
lif' his lighted pine knot in de air so's he could see Jake. He say:
'Nigger, come on down fum dere. You done wasted 'nuff of our time.' But
Jake, he neber move nor make a sound an' all de time de dogs keppa
howlin' an' de oberseer keppa swearin'. 'Come on down,' he say ag'in;
'iffen you don't I'se comin' up an' knock you outen de tree wid a
stick.' Jake still he neber moved an' de oberseer den began to climb de
tree. When he got where he could almos' reach Jake he swung dat stick
an' it come down on Jake's leg an' hurt him tur'ble. Jake, he raised his
foot an' kicked de oberseer raght in de mouf, an' dat white man went a
tumblin' to de groun'. When he hit de earth dem houn's pounced on him.
Jake he den lowered hisself to de bottom limbs so's he could see what
had happened. He saw de dogs a-tearin' at de man an' he holla: 'Hol'
'im, Belle! Hol' 'im, gal!' De leader of dat pack of houn's, white
folks, warn't no blood houn'. She was a plain old red-bone possum an'
coon dog, an' de res' done jus' lak she done, tearin' at de oberseer's
th'oat. All de while, Jake he a-hollerin' f'um de tree fer dem dogs to
git 'im. 'Twarn't long afore dem dogs to' dat man all to pieces. He died
raght under dat maple tree dat he run Jake up. Jake he an' dat coon
houn' struck off through de woods. De res' of de pack come home.
"I seed Jake atter us niggers was freed. Dat's how come I knowed all
'bout it. It musta been six years atter dey killed de oberseer. It was
in Kentucky dat I run across Jake. He was a-sittin' on some steps of a
nigger cabin. A houn' dog was a-sittin' at his side. I tells him how
glad I is to see him, an' den I look at de dog. 'Dat ain't Belle,' I
says. 'Naw,' Jake answers, 'Dis her puppy.' Den he tol' me de whole
story. I always did want to know what happen to 'em."
Bert Frederick
*Interview with Bert Frederick*
--_Preston Klein_
_WANTS MY FRIENDS TO GO WID ME_
"Wants my friends to go wid me, New Jerusalem;
Wonder ef I'll ever git to heaven, New Jerusalem!"
Nappy-headed, humble little Bert Frederick sang the old song in a voice
that trembled and broke on the high notes. His black face beamed when he
had finished, and "de old times" came flooding back into his mind.
"Honey, Ol' Master us'ta sing dat good song to us niggers; an' he allus
could sing it so purty."
Uncle Frederick, like all the other gray-bearded Negroes of the Old
South, is occupied mostly these days with getting ready to meet "de
Sweet Jesus." As well as he can remember, he was around 12 years old
when "de hawn of freedom sounded."
He shook his white head when the interviewer asked his age, a slow smile
spreading over his face.
"Honey chile, you's axed me a riddle. I disremember 'bout dat. De bes' I
kin till you is dat I is eighty-odd--but as to 'zackness, I can't tell."
Some years ago, Uncle Frederick suffered a broken back in an accident.
Since then he has been unable to stand erect, but can straighten his
back when seated. Therefore, he politely asked to sit down when he was
asked to pose for a picture.
His first master, he says, was Dr. Rich Vernon, who lived in Chambers
County. Afterward, he was sold to William Frederick.
He chuckled as he recalled the old days.
"I was a shirt-tail nigger," he laughed. "Dat is, I wore jes' a long
shirt 'twel I was a big scamp more dan twelve year old. Honey, I was a
sight to look at!
"Whut did I do about de plantation? Well, I driv de cows an' sheep to
pasture an' seed dat no eagles kotched de lambs. Us had big eagles
'roun' den, an' us had to be keerful wid de small stock. Ef us warn't,
ol' eagle ud swoop down an' tote off a whole lamb.
"Us had a time in dem days. I 'members dat us had a pen to ketch wild
turkeys in. An' us kotched a few of dem, too."
Uncle Frederick's mother was Harriett Lumpkin, who lived below Opelika.
He had three sisters, Mary Dowdell, Anne Carlisle and Emma Boyd; but all
are dead.
[Illustration: _Bert Frederick, Opelika, Alabama_]
"When de Yankees come to Alabama," he recalled, "Ol' Master tol' de
niggers to hitch up all de wagons an' load all de food an' sech on 'em.
Us had 'bout forty acres of swamp land, so us hid de stuff dere.
"'Fore long I seed a long string of black an' white horses, wid mules
behin' dem. Dey had packs on dey back. In de packs was grub de Yankees
had tuk off'en de white peoples."
"Did you enjoy the old slavery days, Uncle?"
"Yes, chile, dey was good days. Some of de white peoples was bad to de
niggers, but my Ol' Master warn't dat kind. Dat de reason he would let
all de niggers sit aroun' whilst he was a singin'; an' he could sing."
Uncle Frederick putters about his tiny home in Opelika, managing to grow
a profusion of flowers and vegetables despite his bent back. He was
hoeing in his garden when the interviewer came upon him, but he eagerly
laid down the hoe when told what he sought.
"Uncle, I want to talk with you about the old times."
"Lordy me, chile," he beamed, his eyes twinkling, "you done foun' de
raght nigger!"
Delia Garlic
*Interview with Delia Garlic*
--_Margaret Fowler, Fruithurst, Alabama_
_DEM DAYS WAS HELL_
Delia Garlic lives at 43 Stone Street, Montgomery, and insists she is
100 years old. Unlike many of the old Negroes of the South, she has no
good words for slavery days or the old masters, declaring: "Dem days was
hell."
She sat on her front porch and assailed the taking of young children
from mothers and selling them in different parts of the country.
"I was growed up when de war come," she said, "an' I was a mother befo'
it closed. Babies was snatched from dere mother's breas' an' sold to
speculators. Chilluns was separated from sisters an' brothers an' never
saw each other ag'in.
"Course dey cry; you think dey not cry when dey was sold lak cattle? I
could tell you 'bout it all day, but even den you couldn't guess de
awfulness of it.
"It's b
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