Slave Narratives: A Folk History of Slavery in the United States Volume 9From Interviews with Former Slaves: Mississippi Narratives (page 2)

When babies was born, dey had good midwives to wait on ’em. Dat was good money.

“When Miss July got mar’ied dey had two cooks in de kitchen makin’ pound cake fer more’n a week, an’ pies, an’ chicken pie, an’ dey killed a hog. Dey had ever’body in de country savin’ butter an’ eggs fer a long time. I didn’ see de weddin’ but de yard was full and we had ever’thing to eat.

“My folks was rich. Marse Cassedy went to de War an’ he was a big man dere. He was gone a long time. Dey kep’ tellin’ us de Yankees was comin’ and Miss Fanny had her silver put in a bag and hid. Dey had de money put in a wash pot and buried, an’ dey ain’t found dat money yet. Oh, dey had _more_ money! Didn’ I tell you dey was rich? No mam, dey wasn’t po’ when war was over. Dey had ever’thing. When de Yankees come, dey carried off all de meat in de smokehouse, an’ de blanket an’ quilts, an’ every thing dey wanted, dey he’ped deyse’ves. None of de slaves went wid’ em.

“When Marse Cassedy come home he had de oberseer blow de horn ’bout ten o’clock and tol’ ’em all dey was freed. He said he’d work ’em fer wages, an’ nearly everyone of ’em stayed fer wages. I stayed wid Miss Mary ’bout ten years. Den I mar’ied. No, Jake an’ me rid horse back an’ went to Magnolia an’ got mar’ied. I doan know who mar’ied us–somebody in de cou’t house.

“Me an’ Jake went to Summit ter live’. We had to work mighty hard. Sometimes I plowed in de fiel’ all day; sometimes I washed an’ den I cooked, an’ afte’ ‘while, we moved down to de new town. I come here when dis town fust started. I cooked fer Mrs. Badenhauser, while he was mayor of de town. Dey worked me hard. Me’n Jake’s had some hard ups an’ downs. I had fo’ chullun, none of dem livin’ dat I know of. I might have some grandchulluns but if I do, dey live up North.

“I’m old an’ can hardly git about. I’se got a cancer. De doctor done cut my lef’ brest clear offen me, but dat hurts me somtimes yit.

“I niver jined any church ’til ’bout 20 year ago, right here in Berglundtown. My church is Flowery Mount Baptist Church, an’ my Brudder Washin’ton is my pastor, an’ he is de best preacher what ever lived. No, Marse Cassedy didn’t have no church fer de slaves. Dey went to de white folks’ church.

“How do I live? Well I gits a pension of fo’ dollars a month, an’ I try to wash a leetle fer de colored folks, an’ den I beg. I can’t stay here long but God won’t low me to starve. Bless God, he’s comin’ fer me some day.”

Wayne Holliday, Ex-slave Monroe County Mississippi Federal Writers
Slave Autobiographies
FEC
Mrs. Richard Kolb

[WAYNE HOLLIDAY
Aberdeen, Mississippi]

“I was born an’ raised in Aberdeen an’ I’se been a railroad nigger fo’ mos’ of my days. I’se retired now ’cause dey say I too old to work any longer, but shucks, I ain’t half dead yet. I was born in 1853 right here close to whar I live now. My folks b’longed to de Hollidays–you know de grand folks of Miss Maria Evans? An’ we stayed right dere in de lot whar de white folks lived.

“My pa an’ my ma was named Frank an’ Sarah Holliday an’ de Cunel brung dem wid him frum North Car’lina. Dey was lot niggers an’ never worked in de fiel’ or lived in de Quarters. My pa was one of de best carpenters in de country. I was too young to work much but sometime I he’ped him ‘roun’ de house but mos’ of de time, I jes played wid my brudders an’ sisters an’ de white chullun what lived aroun’. We played marbles, ridin’ de stick hoss, an’ play house jes lak de chullun do now days, but I think we had mo’ fun. Dey was fo’teen of us in our family an’ we allus had somebody to play wid. An’ den li’l Marse Ben, he wa’nt much older dan us.

“Our marster’s name was Cunel John Holiday. He got dat title in a war before de slav’ry war. He was too old to fight in dat one, or I spect he’d got another title, lak Gen’ral or somethin’. He an’ Miss Julia–dat was his wife–was mighty good to us an’ so was Marse Tom and Marse Ben, an’ Miss Maria an’ all. When de Cunel fust come to Mississippi he bought a plantation in de prairies an’ lived dere for a while. But later he ‘cided to build him a house in town so he got my pa to he’p him build it an’ it was one of de purtiest houses in Aberdeen. It look jes lak it allus did to me now. Co’se dey is worked on it several times since den, but dey ain’t changed it at all.

“My mammy did de cookin’ for de white folks dere. Dey all thought a lot of her. I never knowed much what slav’ry was ’bout, to tell de truf. De folks never treated us wrong an’ chullun in dem days didn’ get to run aroun’ lak dey do today an’ we didn’ get to hear no gossip ’bout de other niggers. Since we didn’ live in no quarters we didn’ hear nothin. Our folks never said nothin’ ’cause dey was very well satisfied lak dey was. We never hear of no whuppin’s, or runaways either, ’til afte’ de War an’ when we got older.

“I ‘member de War tho’. Marse Tom, he went fust, wid de Van Dorns. He was made a capt’in or somethin’ ’cause he was so brave. He fought long wid de fust an’ was one of de fust to get hit. Dey brung his body all de way from Richmond, or Virginny, I fergit which, and lawzy, if de Cunel an’ de Miss didn’ take on somethin’ awful. Dey sho’ loved dat boy an’ so did all of de niggers. Afte’ dey buried him dey took his sword an’ hung it on de wall of de parlor. I reckin it still dar.

“Marse Ben went afte’ dat. He was jes old ‘nough to go but he went an’ fought jes de same. He come back when de war was over an’ dey was sho’ some rejoicin’.

“Time wa’nt much diffrunt den dan it was ‘fo de War. We stayed on wid our folks for a long time. Den my pa started gettin’ a li’l work here an’ dar an’ purty soon he got all his chullun started out purty well. We all went to de colored school what dey had down whar de railroad crossin’ is now, an’ dat was whar I l’arned to read an’ write. I didn’ marry for a good while an’ den I went to work on de I.C. Railroad. I was fust a coal heaver an’ den a coach porter. I was faithful to my job an’ made good money an’ soon built me a house of my own whar I raised my family. I sent all my chullun to school an’ dey is doin’ well. My wife worked right ‘long wid me. She died ’bout two years ago.

“I’se thankful I ain’t got no sad mem’ries ’bout slav’ry times an’ dat I an’ my folks is done as well as dey have. T’is de work of de Lawd.”

Wayne Holliday, who lived in slavery times, and whose father was a slave, is 84 years old, a dried-up looking Negro of light tan color, approximately 5 feet three inches high and weighing about 130 pounds, he is most active and appears much younger than he really is. He is slightly bent; his kinky hair is intermingled white and gray; and his broad mouth boasts only one visible tooth, a particularly large one in the extreme center of his lower gum.

Wayne has the manner of a Negro of the old South and depicts, in his small way, the gallantry of an age gone by.

Prince Johnson, Ex-slave, Coahoma County FEC
Mrs. Carrie Campbell
Rewrite, Pauline Loveless
Edited, Clara E. Stokes

PRINCE JOHNSON
Clarksdale, Mississippi

“Yes mam, I sho’ can tell you all ’bout it ’cause I was dere when it all happened. My gran’pa, Peter, gran’ma, Millie, my pa, John, an’ my ma, Frances, all come from Alabama to Yazoo County to live in de Love fam’ly. Dey names was Dennis when day come, but, after de custom o’ dem days, dey took de name of Love from dey new owner. Me an’ all o’ my brothers an’ sisters was born right dere. Dey was eleven head o’ us. I was de oldes’. Den come Harry, John, William, Henry, Phillis, Polly, Nellie, Virginny, Millie, an’ de baby, Ella.

“Us all lived in de quarters an’ de beds was home made. Dey had wooden legs wid canvas stretched ‘crost ’em. I can’t ‘member so much ’bout de quarters ’cause ’bout dat time de young miss married Colonel Johnson an’ moved to dis place in Carroll County. She carried wid her over one hund’ed head o’ darkies.

“Den us names was changed from Love to Johnson. My new marster was sure a fine gent’man. He lived in a big two-story white house dat had big white posts in front. De flowers all’ roun’ it jus’ set it off.

“Marster took me for de house boy. Den I sho’ carried my head high. He’d say to me, ‘Prince does you know who you is named for?’ An’ I’d say to him, ‘Yes sir. Prince Albert.’ An’ den he’d say to me, ‘Well, always carry yo’se’f lak he did.’ To dis good day I holds myse’f lak Marster said.

“On certain days o’ de week one o’ de old men on de place took us house servants to de fiel’ to learn us to work. Us was brought up to know how to do anything dat come to han’. Marster would let us work at odd times for outsiders an’ us could use de money for anything us pleased. My gran’ma sol’ ‘nough corn to buy her two feather beds.

“Us always had plenty t’eat. De old folks done de cookin’ for all de fiel’ han’s, ‘cept on Sund’y when ever’ fam’ly cooked for dey ownse’fs. Old Mis’ ‘ud come over ever’ Sund’y mornin’ wid sugar an’ white flour. Us ‘ud mos’ ingen’ally have fish, rabbits, ‘possums, or coons. Lord, chil’! Dem ‘possums was good eatin’. I can tas’ ’em now.

“Folks dese days don’t know nothin’ ’bout good eatin’. My marster had a great big garden for ever’body an’ I aint never seen such ‘taters as growed in dat garden. Dey was so sweet de sugar ‘ud bus’ right th’ough de peelin’ when you roasted ’em in de ashes.

“Old Aunt Emily cooked for all de chillun on de place. Ha’f a hour by de sun, dey was all called in to supper. Dey had pot likker an’ ash cake an’ such things as would make ’em grow.

“Chillun den didn’ know nothin’ ’bout all de fancy ailments what chillun have now. Dey run an’ played all day in dey shirt tails in de summer time. When winter come dey had good warm clo’es[FN: clothes] same as us older ones.

“One day Marster’s chillun an’ de cullud chillun slipped off to de orchard. Dey was jus’ a-eatin’ green apples fas’ as dey could when ‘long come de master, hisse’f. He lined ’em all up, black an’ white alike, an’ cut a keen switch. Twant a one in dat line dat didn’ git a few licks. Den he called de old doctor woman an’ made ‘er give ’em ever’ one a dose o’ medicine. Dey didn’ a one of’ em git sick.

“Marster an’ Old Mis’ had five chillun. Dey is all dead an’ gone now, an’ I’s still here. One o’ his sons was a Supreme Judge ‘fore he died.

“My folks was sho’ quality. Marster bought all de little places ‘roun’ us so he wouldn’ have no po’ white trash neighbors. Yes sir! He owned ’bout thirty-five hund’ed acres an’ at leas’ a hund’ed an’ fifty slaves.

“Ever’ mornin’ ’bout fo’ ‘clock us could hear dat horn blow for us to git up an’ go to de fiel’. Us always quit work ‘fore de sun went down an’ never worked at night. De overseer was a white man. His name was Josh Neighbors, but de driver was a cullud man, ‘Old Man Henry.’ He wasn’t ‘lowed to mistreat noboby. If he got too uppity dey’d call his han’, right now. De rule was, if a Nigger wouldn’ work he mus’ be sol’. ‘Nother rule on dat place was dat if a man got dissati’fied, he was to go to de marster an’ ask him to put ‘im in his pocket.’ Dat meant he wanted to be sol’ an’ de money he brought put in de marster’s pocket. I aint never known o’ but two askin’ to be ‘put in de pocket.’ Both of ’em was sol’.

“Dey had jails in dem days, but dey was built for white folks. No cullud person was ever put in one of ’em ’til after de war. Us didn’ know nothin’ ’bout dem things.

“Course, Old Mis’ knowed ’bout ’em, ’cause she knowed ever’thing. I recollec’ she tol’ me one day dat she had learnin’ in five diffe’ent languages.

“None o’ us didn’ have no learnin’ atall. Dat is us didn’ have no book learnin’. Twant no teachers or anything lak dat, but us sho’ was taught to be Christians. Ever’thing on dat place was a blue stockin’ Presbyterian. When Sund’y come us dressed all clean an’ nice an’ went to church. Us went to de white folks’ church an’ set in de gal’ry.

“Us had a fine preacher. His name was Gober. He could sho’ give out de words o’ wisdom. Us didn’ have big baptisins lak was had on a heap o’ places, ’cause Presbyterians don’t go down under de water lak de Baptis’ do. If one o’ de slaves died he was sho’ give a gran’ Christian fun’al. All o’ us mourners was on han’. Services was conducted by de white preacher.

“Old Mis’ wouldn’ stan’ for no such things as voodoo an’ ha’nts. When she ‘spected[FN: inspected] us once a week, you better not have no charm ‘roun’ yo’ neck, neither. She wouldn’ even ‘low[FN: allow] us wear a bag o’ asfittidy[FN: asafetida]. Mos’ folks b’lieved dat would keep off sickness. She called such as dat superstition. She say us was ‘lightened Christian Presbyterians, an’ as such us mus’ conduc’ ourse’fs.

“Nobody worked after dinner on Satu’d’y. Us took dat time to scrub up an’ clean de houses so as to be ready for ‘spection Sund’y mornin’. Some Satu’d’y nights us had dances. De same old fiddler played for us dat played for de white folks. An’ he sho’ could play. When he got dat old fiddle out you couldn’ keep yo’ foots still.

“Christ’mus was de time o’ all times on dat old plantation. Dey don’t have no such as dat now. Ever’ chil’ brought a stockin’ up to de Big House to be filled. Dey all wanted one o’ de mistis’ stockin’s, ’cause now she weighed nigh on to three hund’ed pounds. Candy an’ presents was put in piles for ever’ one. When dey names was called dey walked up an’ got it. Us didn’ work on New Year’s Day. Us could go to town or anywhere us wanted to.

“De mos’ fun was de corn shuckin’. Dey was two captains an’ each one picked de ones he wanted on his side. Den de shuckin’ started. You can’t make mention o’ nothin good dat us didn’ have t’eat after de shuckin’. I still studies’ bout dem days now.

“Dey was big parties at de white folks’ house, me, all dressed up wid taller[FN: tallow] on my face to make it shine, a-servin’ de gues’es[FN: guests].

“One time, jus’ when ever’thing was a-goin’ fine, a sad thing happened. My young mistis, de one named for her ma, ups an’ runs off wid de son o’ de Irish ditch digger an’ marries ‘im. She wouldn’ a-done it if dey’d a-let ‘r marry de man she wanted. Dey didn’ think he was good ‘nough for her. So jus’ to spite’ em, she married de ditch digger’s son.

“Old Mis’ wouldn’ have nothin’ more to do wid ‘er, same as if she warnt her own chil’. But I’d go over to see ‘er an’ carry milk an’ things out o’ de garden.

“It was pitiful to see my little miss poor. When I couldn’ stan’ it no longer I walks right up to Old Mis’ an’ I says, ‘Old Mis’, does you know Miss Farrell aint got no cow.’ She jus’ act lak she aint hear’d me, an’ put her lips together dat tight. I couldn’ do nothin’ but walk off an’ leave her. Pretty soon she called, ‘Prince!’ I says, ‘Yes mam.’ She says, ‘Seein’ you is so concerned ’bout Miss Farrell not havin’ no cow, you better take one to ‘er.’ I foun’ de rope an’ carried de bes’ cow in de lot to Miss Farrell.

“Shortly after dat I lef’ wid Old Marster to go to North Carolina. Jus’ ‘fore de war come on, my marster called me to’ im an’ tol’ me he was a-goin’ to take me to North Carolina to his brother for safe keepin’. Right den I knowed somethin’ was wrong. I was a-wishin’ from de bottom o’ my heart dat de Yankees ‘ud stay out o’ us business an’ not git us all ‘sturbed in de min’.

“Things went on at his brother’s place ’bout lak dey done at home. I stayed dere all four years o’ de war. I couldn’ leave ’cause de men folks all went to de war an’ I had to stay an’ pertec’ de women folks.

“De day peace was declared wagon loads o’ people rode all th’ough de place a-tellin’ us ’bout bein’ free. De old Colonel was killed in battle an’ his wife had died. De young marster called us in an’ said it was all true, dat us was free as he was, an’ us could leave whenever us got ready. He said his money warnt no good anymore an’ he dida’ have no other to pay us wid.

“I can’t recollec’ if he got new money an’ paid us or not, but I do ‘member ever’ las’ one o’ us stayed.

“I never lef’ dat place’ til my young marster, Mr. Jim Johnson, de one dat was de Supreme Judge, come for me. He was a-livin’ in South Carolina den. He took us all home wid ‘im. Us got dere in time to vote for Gov’nor Wade Hamilton. Us put ‘im in office, too. De firs’ thing I done was join de Democrat Club an’ hoped[FN: helped] ’em run all o’ de scalawags away from de place. My young marster had always tol’ me to live for my country an’ had seen ‘nought of dat war to know jus’ what was a-goin’ on.

“I’se seen many a patrol in my lifetime, but dey dassent come on us place. Now de Kloo Kluxes[FN: Ku Kluxes] was diff’ent. I rid[FN: rode] wid’ em many a time. ‘Twas de only way in dem days to keep order.

“When I was ’bout twenty-two year old, I married Clara Breaden. I had two chilluns by her, Diana an’ Davis. My secon’ wife’s name was Annie Bet Woods. I had six chillun by her: Mary, Ella, John D., Claud William, an’ Prince, Jr. Three boys an’ two gals is still livin’. I lives wid my daughter, Claud, what is farmin’ a place ’bout five miles from Clarksdale. I has’ bout fifteen head o’ gran’chillun an’ ever’ las’ one of ’em’s farmers.

“Things is all peaceful now, but de worl’ was sho’ stirred up when Abraham Lincoln was ‘lected. I ‘member well when dey killed ‘im. Us had a song’ bout ‘im dat went lak dis:

‘Jefferson Davis rode de milk white steed, Lincoln rode de mule.
Jeff Davis was a mighty fine man,
An’ Lincoln was a fool.’

“One o’ de little gals was a-singin’ dat song one day an’ she mixed dem names up. She had it dat Marse Davis was de fool. I’se laughed ’bout dat many a time. When Mistis finished wid’ er she had sho’ broke her from suckin’ eggs.

“I knows all ’bout what slave uprisin’s is, but never in my life has I seen anything lak dat. Never! Never! Where I was brought up de white man knowed his place an’ de Nigger knowed his’n[FN: his]. Both of’ em stayed in dey place. We aint never had no lynchin’s, neither.

“I know all ’bout Booker T. Washington. He come to de state o’ Mississippi once an’ hel’ a meetin’ in Jackson. He made a gran’ talk. He made mention ’bout puttin’ money in de bank. Lots o’ darkies made ‘membrance o’ dat an’ done it. He tol’ us de firs’ thing us had to learn was to work an’ dat all de schoolin’ in de worl’ wouldn’ mean nothin’ if us didn’ have no mother wit[FN: energy & common sense]. It’s a pity us aint got more folks lak him to guide us now dat us aint got no marster an’ mistis to learn us.

“I’s a Nigger what has been prosperous. I made a-plenty cotton an’ I teached my chillun to be good blue stockin’ Presbyterians. All ‘roun’ de country I was knowed an’ ever’body b’lieved in me.

“Maybe things is better lak dey is today. Mos’ folks says so anyway. But if Old Marster were a-livin’ I’d be better off. I know dat to be so.

“I can hear ‘im say to me new, ‘Prince Albert, who is you named for? Well den hol’ yo’ head high so folks can see you is quality.'”

Mississippi Federal Writers
Slave Autobiographies

[HAMP KENNEDY
Mahned, Mississippi]

Uncle Hamp Kennedy, a farmer, 78 years old, weighs about 135 pounds, and is about 5 feet 9 inches high. His head is bald with a little gray fuzz over his ears and growing low toward the nape of his neck. He does not wear spectacles nor smoke a pipe. His face is clean shaven.

Physically active, he does not use a crutch or cane and his hearing, eyesight, and mind appear alert. The old Negro cannot read or write, but he has a remarkable memory. He seems very happy in his little cabin where he and his wife live alone, and his eyes beam with interest when he remembers and discusses slavery times.

“I was jes a little nigger when de War broke out–’bout fo’ years ol’, my white folks say. I had a sister an’ three brudders. My mammy an’ pappy was Mary Kennedy an’ Lon Kennedy. My mammy was Mary Denham befo’ she mar’ied. I was born an’ raised at Mahned, Mississippi. Old Miss Bill Griffin was my missus.

“De Yankees sho’ come to our house–yes sir, dey did. De fust time dey kotched our hogs an’ cut off de hind part an’ take hit wid’ em. De front part dey lef’ in de fiel’. Dey carries corn in de saddle bags an’ throwed hit out to de chickens. Den when de chickens come up to eat dey kotched ’em by de head an’ wring hit off an’ take all de chickens wid ’em.

“Our white folks buried all dey silver in de groun’ an’ hid dey hosses in de deep gullies near de plantation. Even dey clo’es an’ meat dey hide, an’ de soljers didn’ find nothin’ ‘cepin’ de hosses, an’ dey lef’ dey tired ones an’ tuk our fresh ones wid’ em. Dey burned de fiel’s an’ orchards so our white folks couldn’ he’p feed our soljers none.

“One time I ‘member when Aunt Charity an’ Winnie McInnis, two niggers on our plantation, tried to swim some of our hosses cross de riber to save ’em frum de soljers an’ dey rode ‘cross in a little boat. Well, when de hosses got in de middle of de water, up comes a’ gator[FN: alligator], grabs one hoss by de ear, an’ we ain’t neber seed him no mo’.

“When niggers run ‘way frum de plantation dey was whupped, but dey had to go to da sheriff to be whupped. De sheriff, he would tie de nigger to a tree an’ whup him till de blood run out.

“‘Bout de only recr’ation us niggers had in dem days was candy pullin’s. We all met at one house an’ tol’ ghost stories, sung plantation songs, an’ danced de clog while de candy was cookin’. Dem was de good old days. Dey don’t do dem things no mo’.

“When a nigger died, we had a wake an’ dat was diffrunt too frum whut ’tis today. Dey neber lef’ a dead nigger ‘lone in de house, but all de neighbors was dere an’ hoped[FN: helped]. Dey turned de mirrors to de wall ’cause dey say once a long time ago, a nigger died an’ three days afte’wards his people looked in a mirror an’ dere dey see da dead nigger plain as day in de mirror.

“At da wake we clapped our han’s an’ kep’ time wid our feet–_Walking Egypt_, dey calls hit–an’ we chant an’ hum all night ’till de nigger was _funeralized_.

“If we heerd a little old shiverin’ owl[FN: screech owl] we’d th’ow salt in de fire an’ th’ow a broom ‘cross de do’ fer folks say dat ’twas a sign of bad luck, an’ a charm had to be worked fas’ to keep sumpin’ terrible frum happenin’, an’ if a _big owl_ hollered, we wasn’t ‘lowed to say one word.

“Fire was ’bout de hardes’ thing fer us to keep. Dere wa’nt no matches in dem days, an’ we toted fire frum one plantation to ‘nother when hit burned out. We put live coals in pans or buckets an’ toted it home.

“Sometimes we put heavy waddin’ in a old gun an’ shot hit out into a brush heap an’ then blowed the sparks’ til de fire blazed. Ever’body had flint rocks too, but few niggers could work ’em an’ de ones dat could allus had dat job to do.

“My gran’mammy come frum South Ca’lina an’ libed fust at New Augusta, Mississippi. She used to pick big Catawba leaves an’ roll her dough in ’em an’ bake hit in a log heap, pilin’ ashes over hit. Some called hit ash cakes an’ hit sho’ was good. Nothin’ lak hit dese days–no sir.

“We had plen’y to eat–smoke sausage, beef, home made lard, an’–yes sir, possum when we wanted hit.

“We didn’ git any pay fer our work but we had plen’y to eat an’ clo’es to wear, our clo’es was coarse but good. Most of ’em was wove on de looms an’ our socks an’ stockings was knitted by de wimmin. De white folks though, dey wear linen an’ fine silk clo’es fer de big times. We made blankets–coverlets, too.

“We had ’bout 60 slaves on our place, an’ if a nigger man on one plantation fall in love wid a slave girl on ‘nother place, dey jus’ come to her plantation an’ jump ober de broom an’ den dey is mar’ied. De slabes never had preachers lak dey do at weddin’s dese days. If de girl didn’t love de boy an’ he jumped ober de broom an’ she didn’t, den dey wa’nt mar’ied.

“Dere was no schools in dem days either, an’ I can’t read an’ write today. Some of de white folks taught de younger niggers an’ den dey tuk dey lessons an’ studied at dey cabin of nights afte’ dey had finished work.

“We had prayer meetin’s in each others houses durin’ de week. One plantation owner built a little church on his place an’ de niggers, dey go in de back do’ an’ sit in de back, an’ white folks dey come in de front of de church an’ sit. De Presbyterin chu’ch was de only one ’round dere an’ dey sprinkled ever’body–jes poured water ober dey heads frum a glass an’ den patted hit hit in (demonstrated).

“‘Twas funny–one time Joe an’ Green, two niggers on our place, et dey supper an’ run ‘way at night an’ afte’ dey was kotched, dey tol’ us dat when dey was passin’ through de woods dat night a great big old gran’daddy owl flopped his wings an’ Joe said ‘we’d better turn back.’ I allus heard hit was bad luck fer to hear a owl floppin’ lack dat, but Green said ‘twant nothin’, jes a old owl floppin’, but he jes naturally flopped diffrunt dat night, an’ Green walked on ’bout 15 steps an’ somebody shot him dead. Joe said he tu’ned back an’ run home.

“All our niggers had to have passes to leave de plantation an’ when de pataroller kotched ’em wid out’n a pass, de nigger was whupped. Sometimes de plantation owner did hit an’ sometimes de sheriff. Dey used a long leather strop cut at de ends.

“We used snake root, hohound weed, life everlastin’ weed, horse mint, an’ sassafras as medicine.

“When de War was right on us, grub was scarce an’ sometimes little niggers only had clabber milk an’ dey et it in de trough wid de pigs, an’ sometimes dey only had pie crusts an’ bread crusts at night when dey et on de cabin flo’. Dem was hard times afte’ de War.

“‘Nother time one nigger run ‘way frum our plantation an’ hid by day an’ traveled by night so de nigger dogs wouldn’t git him an’ he hid in a hollow tree. Dere was three cubs down in dat tree an’ hit was so slick inside an’ so high ’til he couldn’t clim’ out, an’ afte’ while de ole bear came back an’ throw in half a hog. Den she go ‘way an’ come ag’in an’ throw in de other half. ‘Bout a hour later, she came back an’ crawl in back’ards herse’f. De nigger inside de tree kotched her by de tail an’ pulled hisself out. Hit scared de bear so ’til she run in one direction an’ de nigger in ‘nother. But de nigger, he run in de direction of his marster’s place an’ said he’d neber run off again as long as he libed.

“I can’t ‘member de old songs but dese niggers today can’t sing lak dat neither ’cause dey ain’t libed back dere, an’ dey can’t feel hit lak us old folks. Dem was de good old days allright, an’ dey was hard days too.”

JAMES LUCAS
Natchez, Mississippi

James Lucas, ex-slave of Jefferson Davis, lives at Natchez, Adams County. Uncle Jim is small, wrinkled, and slightly stooped. His woolly hair is white, and his eyes very bright. He wears a small grizzled mustache. He is always clean and neatly dressed.

“Miss, you can count up for yo’se’f. I was born on October 11, 1833. My young Marster give me my age when he heired de prope’ty of his uncle, Marse W.B. Withers. He was a-goin’ through de papers an’ a-burnin’ some of ’em when he foun’ de one ’bout me. Den he says, ‘Jim, dissen’s ’bout you. It gives yo’ birthday.’

“I recollec’ a heap’ bout slav’ry-times, but I’s all by myse’f now. All o’ my frien’s has lef’ me. Even Marse Fleming has passed on. He was a little boy when I was a grown man.

“I was born in a cotton fiel’ in cotton pickin’ time, an’ de wimmins fixed my mammy up so she didn’ hardly lose no time at all. My mammy sho’ was healthy. Her name was Silvey an’ her mammy come over to dis country in a big ship. Somebody give her de name o’ Betty, but twant her right name. Folks couldn’ un’erstan’ a word she say. It was some sort o’ gibberish dey called gulluh-talk, an’ it soun’ _dat_ funny. My pappy was Bill Lucas.

“When I was a little chap I used to wear coarse lowell-cloth shirts on de week-a-days. Dey was long an’ had big collars. When de seams ripped de hide would show through. When I got big enough to wait ‘roun’ at de Big House an’ go to town, I wore clean rough clo’es. De pants was white linsey-woolsey an’ de shirts was rough white cotton what was wove at de plantation. In de winter de sewin’ wimmins made us heavy clothes an’ knit wool socks for us. De wimmins wore linsey-woolsey dresses an’ long leggin’s lak de sojers wear. Dis was a long narrow wool cloth an’ it wropt ‘roun’ an’ ‘roun’ dey legs an’ fas’n at de top wid a string.

“I never went to no church, but on Sund’ys a white man would preach an’ pray wid us an’ when he’d git through us went on ’bout us own business.

“At Chris’mus de Marster give de slaves a heap o’ fresh meat an’ whiskey for treats. But you better not git drunk. No-sir-ree! Den on Chris’mus Eve dey was a big dance an’ de white folks would come an’ see de one what dance de bes’. Marster an’ Mistis laugh fit to kill at de capers us cut. Den sometimes dey had big weddin’s an’ de young white ladies dressed de brides up lak dey was white. Sometimes dey sont to N’awleans for a big cake. De preacher married’ em wid de same testimony[FN: ceremony] dey use now. Den ever’body’d have a little drink an’ some cake. It sho’ was larrupin'[FN: very good][HW:?]. Den ever’body’d git right. Us could dance near ’bout all night. De old-time fiddlers played fas’ music an’ us all clapped han’s an’ tromped an’ sway’d in time to de music. Us sho’ made de rafters ring.

“Us slaves didn’ pay no ‘tention to who owned us, leastways de young ones didn’. I was raised by a marster what owned a heap o’ lan’s. Lemme see, dey is called Artonish, Lockdale, an’ Lockleaven. Dey is plantations ‘long de river in Wilkinson County, where I was raised. Dey is all ‘long together.

“I’s sho’ my firs’ marster was Marse Jim Stamps an’ his wife was Miss Lucindy. She was nice an’ sof’-goin’. Us was glad when she stayed on de plantation.

“Nex’ thing I knowed us all b’longed to Marse Withers. He was from de nawth an’ he didn’ have no wife. (Marsters wid-out wives was de debbil. I knows a-plenty what I oughtn’ tell to ladies. Twant de marsters whut was so mean. Twas dem po’ white trash overseers an’ agents. Dey was mean; dey was meaner dan bulldogs. Yes’m, wives made a big diffe’nce. Dey was kin’ an’ went ’bout mongst de slaves a-lookin’ after ’em. Dey give out food an’ clo’es an’ shoes. Dey doctered de little babies.) When things went wrong de wimmins was all de time puttin’ me up to tellin’ de Mistis. Marse D.D. Withers was my young marster. He was a little man, but ever’body stepped when he come ‘roun’.

“Don’ rightly know how it come ’bout. Lemme see! De bes’ I ‘member my nex’ Marster was Pres’dent Jefferson Davis hisse’f. Only he warnt no pres’dent den. He was jus’ a tall quiet gent’man wid a pretty young wife what he married in Natchez. Her name was Miss Varina Howell, an’ he sho’ let her have her way. I spec I’s de only one livin’ whose eyes ever seed ’em bofe. I talked wid her when dey come in de big steamboat. ‘Fore us got to de big house, I tol’ her all ’bout de goins’-on on de plantations. She was a fine lady. When I was a boy ’bout thirteen years old dey took me up de country toward Vicksburg to a place call Briarsfield. It mus’-a been named for her old home in Natchez what was called ‘de Briars.’ I didn’ b’long to Marse Jeff no great while, but I aint never fo’git de look of ‘im. He was always calm lak an’ savin’ on his words. His wife was jus’ de other way. She talked more dan a-plenty.

“I b’lieves a bank sol’ us nex’ to Marse L.Q. Chambers. I ‘members him well. I was a house-servant an’ de overseer dassent hit me a lick. Marster done lay de law down. Mos’ planters lived on dey plantations jus’ a part o’ de year. Dey would go off to Saratogy an’ places up nawth. Sometimes Marse L.Q. would come down to de place wid a big wagon filled wid a thousan’ pair o’ shoes at one time. He had a nice wife. One day whilst I was a-waitin’ on de table I see old Marse lay his knife down jus’ lak he tired. Den he lean back in his chair, kinda still lak. Den I say, ‘What de matter wid Marse L.Q.?’ Den dey all jump an’ scream an’, bless de Lawd, if he warnt plumb dead.

“Slaves didn’ know what to ‘spec from freedom, but a lot of ’em hoped dey would be fed an’ kep’ by de gov’ment. Dey all had diffe’nt ways o’ thinkin’ ’bout it. Mos’ly though dey was jus’ lak me, dey didn’ know jus’ zackly what it meant. It was jus’ somp’n dat de white folks an’ slaves all de time talk ’bout. Dat’s all. Folks dat ain’ never been free don’ rightly know de _feel_ of bein’ free. Dey don’ know de meanin’ of it. Slaves like us, what was owned by quality-folks, was sati’fied an’ didn’ sing none of dem freedom songs. I recollec’ one song dat us could sing. It went lak dis:

‘Drinkin’ o’ de wine, drinkin’ o’ de wine, Ought-a been in heaven three-thousan’ yeahs A-drinkin’ o’ dat wine, a-drinkin’ o’ dat wine.’

Us could shout dat one.

“I was a grown-up man wid a wife an’ two chillun when de War broke out. You see, I stayed wid de folks til ‘long cum de Yanks. Dey took me off an’ put me in de War. Firs’, dey shipped me on a gunboat an’, nex’, dey made me he’p dig a canal at Vicksburg. I was on de gunboat when it shelled de town. It was turrible, seein’ folks a-tryin’ to blow each other up. Whilst us was bull-doggin’ Vicksburg in front, a Yankee army slipped in behin’ de Rebels an’ penned ’em up. I fit[FN: fought] at Fort Pillow an’ Harrisburg an’ Pleasant Hill an’ ‘fore I was ha’f through wid it I was in Ba’timore an’ Virginny.

“I was on han’ when Gin’l Lee handed his sword to Gin’l Grant. You see, Miss, dey had him all hemmed in an’ he jus’ natchelly had to give up. I seen him stick his sword up in de groun’.

“Law! It sho’ was turrible times. Dese old eyes o’ mine seen more people crippled an’ dead. I’se even seen ’em saw off legs wid hacksaws. I tell you it aint right, Miss, what I seen. It aint right atall.

“Den I was put to buryin’ Yankee sojers. When nobody was lookin’ I stript de dead of dey money. Sometimes dey had it in a belt a-roun’ dey bodies. Soon I got a big roll o’ foldin’ money. Den I come a-trampin’ back home. My folks didn’ have no money but dat wuthless kin’. It was all dey knowed ’bout. When I grabbed some if it an’ throwed it in de blazin’ fiah, dey thought I was crazy, ’til I tol’ ’em, ‘dat aint money; it’s no ‘count!’ Den I give my daddy a greenback an’ tol’ him what it was.

“Aftah de War was over de slaves was worse off dan when dey had marsters. Some of ’em was put in stockades at Angola, Loosanna[FN: Louisiana], an’ some in de turrible corral at Natchez. Dey warnt used to de stuff de Yankees fed ’em. Dey fed’ em wasp-nes’ bread, ‘stead o’ corn-pone an’ hoe cake, an’ all such lak. Dey caught diseases an’ died by de hund’eds, jus’ lak flies. Dey had been fooled into thinkin’ it would be good times, but it was de wors’ times dey ever seen. Twant no place for ’em to go; no bed to sleep on; an’ no roof over dey heads. Dem what could git back home set out wid dey min’s made up to stay on de lan’. Mos’ of dey mistis’ took ’em back so dey wuked de lan’ ag’in. I means dem what lived to git back to dey folks was more’n glad to wuk! Dey done had a sad lesson. Some of ’em was worse’n slaves after de War.

“Dem Ku Kluxes was de debbil. De Niggers sho’ was scared of ’em, but dey was more after dem carpet-baggers dan de Niggers. I lived right in ‘mongst ’em, but I wouldn’ tell. No Ma’m! I knowed ’em, but I dasn’ talk. Sometimes dey would go right in de fiel’s an’ take folks out an’ kill ’em. Aint none of ’em lef’ now. Dey is all dead an’ gone, but dey sho’ was rabid den. I never got in no trouble wid ’em, ’cause I tended my business an’ kep’ out o’ dey way. I’d-a been kilt if I’d-a run ‘roun’ an’ done any big talkin’.

“I never knowed Marse Linc’um, but I heard he was a pow’ful good man. I ‘members plain as yesterd’y when he got kilt an’ how all de flags hung at ha’f mas’. De Nawth nearly went wil’ wid worryin’ an’ blamed ever’body else. Some of ’em even tried to blame de killin’ on Marse Davis. I fit wid de Yankees, but I thought a mighty heap o’ Marse Davis. He was quality.

“I guess slav’ry was wrong, but I ‘members us had some mighty good times. Some marsters was mean an’ hard but I was treated good all time. One thing I does know is dat a heap of slaves was worse off after de War. Dey suffered ’cause dey was too triflin’ to work widout a boss. Now dey is got to work or die. In dem days you worked an’ rested an’ knowed you’d be fed. In de middle of de day us rested an’ waited for de horn to blow to go back to de fiel’. Slaves didn’ have nothin’ turrible to worry ’bout if dey acted right. Dey was mean slaves de same as dey was mean marsters.

“Now-a-days folks don’ live right. In slav’ry times when you got sick a white docter was paid to git you well. Now all you gits is some no-count paten’ medicine. You is ‘fraid to go to de horspital, ’cause de docters might cut on yo’ stummick. I think slav’ry was a lot easier dan de War. Dat was de debbil’s own business. Folks what hankers for war don’ know what dey is askin’ for. Dey ain’ never seen no bloodshed. In war-times a man was no more dan a varmint.

“When my white folks tol’ us us was free, I waited. When de sojers come dey turnt us loose lak animals wid nothin’. Dey had no business to set us free lak dat. Dey gimme 160 acres of lan’, but twant no ‘count. It was in Mt. Bayou, Arkansas, an’ was low an’ swampy. Twant yo’ lan’ to keep lessen you lived on it. You had to clear it, dreen it, an’ put a house on it.

“How I gwine-a dreen an’ clear a lot o’ lan’ wid nothin’ to do it wid? Reckon somebody livin’ on my lan’ now.

“One of de rights of bein’ free was dat us could move ‘roun’ and change bosses. But I never cared nothin’ ’bout dat.

“I hear somebody say us gwine-a vote. What I wanta vote for? I don’ know nothin’ ’bout who is runnin’.

“I draws a Federal pension now. If I lives’ til nex’ year I’ll git $125 a mont’. It sho’ comes in handy. I paid $800 for my house an’, if I’d-a thought, I’d-a got one wid mo’ lan’. I don’ wan’ to plant nothin’. I do want to put a iron fence a-roun’ it an’ gild it wid silver paint. Den when I’s gone, dar it will be.

“Yes’m. I’se raised a big fambly. Dem what aint dead, some of’ em looks as old as I does. I got one gran-chil’ I loves jus’ lak my own chillun. I don’ rightly ‘member dis minute how many chillun I had, but I aint had but two wives. De firs’ one died long ’bout seventeen years ago, an’ I done what de Good Book say. It say, ‘when you goes to de graveyard to bury yo’ firs’ wife, look over de crowd an’ pick out de nex’ one.’

“Dat’s jus’ what I done. I picked Janie McCoy, ’cause she aint never been married b’fore. She’s a good cook, even if she does smoke a pipe, an’ don’ know much’ bout nothin’.

“I sho’ don’ live by no rules. I jus’ takes a little dram when ever I wants it, an’ I smokes a pipe ‘ceptin when de Mistis give me a seegar[FN: cigar]. I can’t chew tobacco on ‘count my teeth is gone. I aint been sick in bed but once in seventy years.

“I is five feet, five inches tall. I used to weigh 150 pounds, but dis old carcass o’ mine done los’ fifty pounds of meat.

“Now-a-days I has a heap of misery in my knee, so I can’t ride ‘roun’ no mo’. Durin’ de War I got a muskit ball in my hip an’ now dat my meat’s all gone, it jolts a-roun’ an’ hurts me worse. I’s still right sprightly though. I can jump dat drainage ditch in front of de house, an’ I sho’ can walk. Mos’ every day I walks to de little sto’ on Union Street. Dar I rests long enough to pass de time-o-day wid my neighbors. My eyes is still good, but I wears glasses for show an’ for seein’ close.

“De longer I lives de plainer I see dat it ain’ right to want mo’ dan you can use. De Lawd put a-plenty here for ever’body, but shucks! Us don’ pay no min’ to his teachin’. Sometimes I gits lonesome for de frien’s I used to know, ’cause aint nobody lef’ but me. I’s sho’ been lef a fur piece[FN: long way] b’hin’. De white folks say, ‘Old Jim is de las’ leaf on de tree,’ an’ I ‘spec dey’s ’bout right.”

Sam McAllum, Ex-slave, Lauderdale County FEC
Marjorie Woods Austin
Rewrite, Pauline Loveless
Edited, Clara E. Stokes

SAM McALLUM
Meridian, Mississippi

To those familiar with the history of “Bloody Kemper” as recorded, the following narrative from the lips of an eye-witness will be heresy. But the subject of this autobiography, carrying his ninety-five years more trimly than many a man of sixty, is declared sound of mind as well as of body by the Hector Currie family, prominent in Mississippi, for whom he has worked in a position of great trust and responsibility for fifty years or more.

While this old Negro may be mistaken at some points (the universal failing of witnesses), his impressions are certainly not more involved than the welter of local records. Mrs. Currie states that if Sam said he saw a thing happen thus, it may be depended upon that he is telling exactly what he really saw.

Sam McAllum, ex-slave, lives in Meridian, Lauderdale County. Sam is five feet three inches tall and weighs 140 pounds.

“De firs’ town I ever seen were DeKalb in Kemper County. De Stephenson Plantation where I were born warnt but ’bout thirteen miles north o’ DeKalb. I were born de secon’ o’ September in 1842. My mammy b’longed to de Stephensons an’ my pappy b’longed to Marster Lewis Barnes. His plantation wasn’t so very far from Stephenson. De Stephensons an’ Barneses were kin’ white people. My pappy were a old man when I were born–I were de baby chil’. After he died, my mammy marry a McAllum Nigger.

“Dey were ’bout thirty slaves at Stephenson. My mammy worked in de fiel’, an’ her mammy, Lillie, were de yard-woman. She looked after de little cullud chillun.

“I don’t recollec’ any playthings us had ‘cept a ball my young marster gimme. He were Sam Lewis Stephenson, ’bout my age. De little cullud chillun’ ud play ‘Blin’ Man’, ‘Hidin”, an’ jus’ whatever come to han’.

“My young marster learned me out o’ his speller, but Mistis whupped me. She say I didn’ need to learn nothin’ ‘cept how to count so’s I could feed de mules widout colicin’ ’em. You give’ em ten years[FN: ears] o’ corn to de mule. If you give’ em more, it ‘ud colic’ ’em an’ dey’d die. Dey cos’ more’n a Nigger would. Dat were de firs’ whuppin’ I ever got–when me an’ my young marster were a-spellin’.

“I stayed wid him special, but I waited on all de white folk’s chillun at Stephenson. I carried de foot tub in at night an’ washed dey foots, an’ I’d pull de trun’le bed out from under de other bed. All de boys slep’ in de same room.

“Den I were a yard boy an’ waited on de young marster an’ mistis. Hadn’ been to de fiel’ den–hadn’ worked yet.

“Mr. Stephenson were a surveyor an’ he fell out wid Mr. McAllum an’ had a lawsuit. He had to pay it in darkies. Mr. McAllum had de privilege o’ takin’ me an’ my mammy, or another woman an’ her two. He took us. So us come to de McAllum plantation to live. It were in Kemper, too, ’bout eight miles from Stephenson. Us come dere endurin’ of de war. Dat were when my mammy marry one of de McAllum Niggers. My new pappy went to de war wid Mr. McAllum an’ were wid ‘im when he were wounded at Mamassas Gab Battle. He brung ‘im home to die–an’ he done it.

“Den de Yankees come th’ough DeKalb huntin’ up cannons an’ guns an’ mules. Dey sho’ did eat a heap. Us hid all de bes’ things lak silver, an’ driv'[FN: drove] de stock to de swamp. Dey didn’ burn nothin’, but us hear’d tell o’ burnin’s in Scooba an’ Meridian. I were a-plowin’ a mule an’ de Yankees made me take him out. De las’ I seen o’ dat mule, he were headed for Scooba wid three Yankees a-straddle of ‘im.

“Times were tight–not a grain o’ coffee an’ not much else. When us clo’es[FN: clothes] were plumb wore out, de mistis an’ de Nigger wimmins made us some out o’ de cotton us had raised. My granny stayed de loom-room all de time. De other winmins done de spinnin’ an’ she done de weavin’. She were a’ good’n’.

“De M & O (Mobile & Ohio Railroad) were a-burnin’ wood, den. Dey couldn’ git coal. Dey used taller[FN: tallow] pots ‘stead o’ oil. De engineer had to climb out on de engine hisse’f an’ ‘tend to dam taller pots. Dey do diffe’nt now.

“Dey were such a sca’city of men, dey were a-puttin’ ’em in de war at sixty-five. But de war end ‘fore dey call dat list.

“Mistis didn’ have nobody to he’p her endurin’ de war. She had to do de bes’ she could.

“When she hear’d de Niggers talkin’ ’bout bein’ free, she wore ’em out wid a cowhide. She warnt a pow’ful-built woman, neither. She had to do it herse’f, ’cause twant nobody to do it for ‘er. Dey warnt nothin’ a Nigger could do but stan’ up an’ take it.

“Some folks treated dey slaves mighty bad–put Nigger dogs on ’em. All my white folks were good to dey slaves, ‘cordin’ to how good de Niggers b’haved deyse’fs. Course, you couldn’ leave no plantation widout a pass, or de pateroller’d git you. I aint countin’ dat, ’cause dat were somthin’ ever’body knowed ‘forehan’.

“Dey were a heap o’ talk ’bout de Yankees a-givin’ ever’ Nigger forty acres an’ a mule. I don’t know how us come to hear ’bout it. It jus’ kinda got aroun’. I picked out my mule. All o’ us did.

“Times were mighty tough. Us thought us knowed trouble endurin’ de war. Um-m-m! Us didn’ know nothin’ ’bout trouble.

“Dey were so many slaves at McAllum’s, dey had to thin ’em out. Mistis put us out[FN: hired us out]. She sent me to Mr. Scott close to Scooba. I were mos’ a grown boy by den an’ could plow pretty good. Come de surrender, Mr. Scott say, ‘Sambo, I don’t have to pay yo’ mistis for you no more. I have to pay you if you stay. Niggers is free. You is free.’ I didn’ b’lieve it. I worked dat crop out, but I didn’ ask for no pay. Dat didn’ seem right. I didn’ un’erstan’ ’bout freedom, so I went home to my old mistis. She say, ‘Sambo, you don’t b’long to me now.’

“Dey bound us young Niggers out. Dey sent me an’ my brother to a man dat were goin’ to give us some learnin’ ‘long wid farmin’. His name were Overstreet. Us worked dat crop out, but us aint never seen no speller, nor nothin’.

“Den us went back to Stephenson’s, where us were born, to git us age. Old mistis say, ‘Sambo, you aint twenty-one yet.’

“She cried, ’cause I had to go back to Mr. Overstreet. But I didn’. My mammy an’ me went back to McAllum’s an’ stayed until a man give us a patch in turn[FN: return] for us he’pin’ him on his farm.

“I know ’bout de Kloo Kluxes[FN: Klu Kluxes]. I seen ’em. ‘Bout de firs’ time I seen ’em were de las’. Aint nobody know zackly[FN: exactly] ’bout dem Kloo Kluxes. Some say it were a sperrit dat hadn’ had no water since de war. One rider would drink fo’ or five gallons at one time–kep’ us a-totin’ buckets fas’ as us could carry ’em. It were a sperrit, a evil sperrit.

“But folks dat aint acted right liable to be found mos’ anytime tied up some’r’s: De Niggers were a-havin’ a party one Satu’d’y night on Hampton’s plantation. Come some men on horses wid some kin’ o’ scare-face on ’em. Dey were all wropped[FN: wrapped] up, disguised. De horses were kivered[FN: covered] up, too. Dey call for Miler Hampton. He were one o’ de Hampton Niggers. He been up to somethin’. I don’t know what he done, but dey say he done somethin’ bad. Dey didn’ have no trouble gittin’ him, ’cause us were all scared us’d git kilt, too. Dey carried ‘im off wid ’em an’ kilt him dat very night.

“Us went to DeKalb nex’ day in a drove an’ ask de white folks to he’p us. Us buy all de ammunition us could git to take de sperrit, ’cause us were a-havin’ ‘nother party de nex’ week. Dey didn’ come to dat party.

“I don’t know why dey don’t have no Kloo Kluxes now. De sperrit still have de same power.

“Den I go to work for Mr. Ed McAllum in DeKalb–when I aint workin’ for de Gullies. Mr. Ed were my young marster, you know, an’ now he were de jailor in DeKalb.

“I knowed de Chisolms, too. Dat’s how come I seen all I seen an’ know what aint never been tol’. I couldn’ tell you dat. Maybe I’s de only one still livin’ dat were grown an’ right dere an’ seen it happen. I aint scared now nothin’ ‘ud happen to me for tellin’–Mr. Currie’d see to dat–I jus’ aint never tol’. Dem dat b’longed to my race were scared to tell. Maybe it were all for de bes’. Dat were a long time ago. Dey give out things den de way dey wanted ’em to soun’, an’ dat’s de way dey done come down:

“‘It started wid Mr. John Gully gittin’ shot. Now Mr. Gully were a leadin’ man ‘mong de white democratic people in Kemper, but dey aint had much chance for ’bout seven years (I disremember jus’ how long) on ‘count o’ white folks lak de Chisolms runnin’ ever’thing. Ever’body were sho’ it were some’ o’ de Chisolm crowd, but some folks knowed it were dat Nigger, Walter Riley, dat shot Mr. Gully. (But aint nobody ever tol’ de sho’ ‘nough reason why Walter shot Mr. John Gully.)

“‘De Chisolms warnt Yankees, but dey warnt white democratic people. Dey do say de Chisolms an’ folks lak’ em used to run ‘roun’ wid de Yankees. Maybe dat’s how come dey was diffe’nt. Even ‘fore de Yankees come a-tall, when Mr. Chisolm were on us side, he were loud moufed[FN: mouthed] ’bout it.

“‘Mr. John Gully he’p Mr. Chisolm git to be judge, but he turnt out to be worse dan dem he had to judge. Mr. Gully an’ de others made ‘im resign. I reckon maybe dat’s why he quit bein’ a Democratic an’ started ructions wid Mr. Gully.

“‘Come de surrender, Mr. Chisolm, he got to be a big leader on de other side. An’ he seen to it dat a lot o’ de white democratic men got he’p from votin’ an’ a lot o’ Niggers step up an’ vote lak he tol’ ’em (dey were scared not to). So de Chisolms kep’ gittin’ all de big places.

“‘A lot o’ widders an’ folks lak dat what couldn’ he’p deyse’fs los’ dey homes an’ ever’thing dey had. De papers de gran’ jury make out ’bout it were stored in de sheriff’s office. De sheriff give out dat his office done been broke open an’ all dem papers stole.

“‘Den Mr. Chisolm’s brother got hisse’f p’inted[FN: appointed] sheriff an’ make Mr. Chisolm deputy. Dat’s when he started runnin’ things, sho’ ‘nough. Nex’ thing you know, Mr. Chisolm is de sho’ ‘nough sheriff, hisse’f.

“‘Den he gather all his kin’ o’ folks ‘roun’ ‘im an’ dey make out a black lis’. De folkses names dat were on it were de ones de Chisolms didn’ need. It were talked ‘roun’ dat de firs’ name on dat lis’ were Mr. John Gully’s name. A heap o’ Kloo Kluxes’ names were on it, too. Mr. Chisolm send de Kloo Kluxes’ names to de Gov’nor an’ spec’ him to do somethin’ ’bout runnin’ ’em out. But, course, he couldn’ do nothin’ ’bout dat, ’cause it were a sperrit. But ever’ now an’ den somebody what’s name were on dat lis’ ‘ud git shot in de back.

“‘Afore de ‘lection come in November (it mus’ a-been in ’75) de Niggers had been a-votin’ an’ doin’ ever’thing de Chisolms say. Dey were still a-harpin’ back to dat forty acres an’ a mule dey were promised what dey aint never got. It were turnin’ out to be jus’ de same wid ever’thing else Mr. Chisolm had been a-promisin’ to give ’em. Dey aint never got none of it. De white democratic folks won dat ‘lection.

“‘Soon Mr. Chisolm run for somthin’ or ‘nother an’ got beat bad. Den he were mad sho’ ‘nough. He went to Jackson to see de Gov’nor ’bout it. Soon a heap o’ white democratic men in Kemper got arrested for somethin’ or nother.

“‘Den Mr. John Gully got shot an’ ever’body were sho’ de Chisolms done it. Ever’body were dat mad. Chisolm an’ dem had to go to court. But dey were slippery as eels an’ Walter Riley’s name come out. (He were a Nigger.) Dey give out at de trial dat Walter were hired to shoot ‘im by de Chisolm folks. Dat were not de reason, but dey was blood ‘fore folks’ eyes by dat time.

“‘It got worse dat Satu’d’y when Mr. Gully were buried. Folks all over Kemper done hear’d ’bout it by now, an’ by nine o’clock Sund’y mornin’, people were a-comin’ in over ever’ road dat led to DeKalb. Dey all had loaded guns. It were on a Sund’y when all de killin’ happened–I mean, de windin’-up killin’. I were dere ‘fore a gun were fired. I were dere when de firs’ man were wounded.

“‘De cullud people had gathered in DeKalb at de Methodis’ Church. Dey hadn’ a gun fired yet. Mr. Henry Gully goes to de cullud people’s church. He walked in at de front door an’ took his hat off his head. Dey were a-packed in de house for preachin’. He walked down de aisle ’til he got in front o’ de preacher an’ he turn sideways an’ speak: “I want to ask you to dismiss yo’ congregation. Dey is goin’ to be some trouble take place right here in DeKalb an’ I don’t want any cullud person to git hurt.” De preacher rise to his feet, ever’ Nigger in de house were up, an’ he dismiss ’em. (Mr. Henry Gully were Mr. John Gully’s brother an’ a leadin’ man o’ de right.)

“‘De town were a-millin’ wid folks from ever’where. Chisolm an’ dem done got in de jail for safety an’ Miss Cornelia Chisolm went back’ards an’ for’ards to de jail. Dey thought she were a-carryin’ ammunition in her clo’es[FN: clothes] to her father. Mr. McClendon–he were one of’ em–were wid her twict. He were on de right-hand side. Some b’lieved he were de one dat killed Mr. John Gully. Dey tol’ ‘im dey’d burn his house down if he stay in it, but if he’d go on to jail, dey’d give ‘im a fair trial.

“‘Well, Mr. McClendon were shot down ‘side Miss Cornelia. I seen him when he fell on his face. De man dat fired de gun turn him over an’ say, “Well, us got’ im.” Miss Cornelia run on to de jail where de bounce[FN: balance] o’ de fam’ly were.

“‘Dem outside say, “Boys, it’ll never do! Dey aint all in dere yet. Let’s sen’ to Scooba an’ git Charlie Rosenbaum an’ John Gilmore to come help dey frien’s. Dey b’longs to dat Chisolm crowd an’ we want dem, too.”

“‘So dey come. Somebody say, “Let’s commence right here.” I never seen a battle b’fore, but I sho’ seen one den. It were lak dis: Mr. Cal Hull was de only democratic white frien’ Mr. Rosenbaum had. He stood’ twixt his white democratic frien’s an’ Mr. Rosenbaum. He put his arms over Mr. Rosenbaum an’ say, “Boys, he’s a frien’ o’ mine. If you kill him, you kill me.” Mr. Rosenbaum crawled over to de courthouse wall, an’ squatted down, an’ stayed dere. Mr. Hull stood over ‘im, pertectin’ ‘im. But Mr. John Gilmore make for de jail an’, when dey open de door for ‘im, de shootin’ start. Right den were when Mr. Gilmore got his. Miss Cornelia were struck in de wris’. It mortified an’ after ‘while she died from it.’

“I know I aint tol’ de sho’ ‘nough reason Mr. John Gully got killed. Maybe de time done come for de truf to be tol’. Hope won’t nobody think hard o’ me for tellin’:

“Mr. John Gully had a bar-room an’ a clerk. A white man by de name o’ Bob Dabbs walked[FN: clerked] b’hin’ dat counter. Dis Nigger, Walter Riley, I was a-tellin’ you ’bout awhile ago, were a-courtin’ a yaller[FN: yellow] woman. (Dey warnt so many of ’em in dem days.) Mr. Dabbs say, “Walter, if I ever kotch[FN: catch] you walkin wid (he called dat yaller woman’s name) I’ll give you de worst beatin’ ever was.” Walter were kotch wid ‘er ag’in. Dat Frid’y night he come a-struttin’ into de bar-room. Mr. Dabbs say, “Come he’p move dese boxes here in de nex’ room.” Walter walked in lak a Nigger will when you ask ‘im to do somethin’, an’ Mr. Dabbs turnt de key. “Git ‘crost dat goods box,” he say. “I’ll give you what I promised you.” Mr. Dabbs got ‘im a piece o’ plank an’ burnt Walter up.

“All dis here were a-goin’ on ’bout de time Niggers were a-votin’ an’ doin’ things ‘roun’ white folks. Dey thought dey were pertected by de Chisolm crowd.

“De nex’ Frid’y night Walter walked right into dat bar-room ag’in. Mr. Dabbs say, “What you doin’ here, Nigger?” Walter say, “You ‘member what you done to me tonight one week?” An’ he say, “Well, what’s to it?” Den Walter say, “Well, I come to settle wid you.” Mr. Dabbs say, “Let me see if I can’t hurry you up some,” an’ he retch[FN: reached] his han’ back his han’ to his hip. But ‘fore he could draw[FN: draw his gun] out, Walter done run back to de door. Dey were a chinaberry tree close to de door an’ Walter got b’hin’ it an’ fired a pistol. Mr. Dabbs were hit wid his arm a-layin’ ‘crost de counter wid his pistol in his han’.

“‘Me an’ Mr. Ed (’cause he were de jailor), we put him on a mattress in de room back o’ de bar. An’ he died dat night. De word jus’ kinda got’ roun’ dat some of de Chisolm crowd done killed Mr. Gully’s clerk.

“‘Walter run off to Memphis. Mr. Gully were pursuin’ after ‘im to ketch ‘im. Walter sho’ got tired of him pursuin’ after ‘im. Dat were de evidence Walter give out ‘fore dey put de rope on his neck an’ start him on his way to de gallows, but twant nobody dere to put it down jus’ lak it were.

“‘Mr. Sinclair were sheriff by dis time, an’ my young marster an’ me went wid ‘im to git Walter to take ‘im to de gallows. Mr. Sinclair say, “Ed, you goin’ to de jail-house now? Here’s a ha’f pint o’ whiskey. Give it to Walter, make ‘im happy, den if he talk too much, nobody will b’lieve it.” Mr. Ed say, “Come on, Sambo, go wid me.” He retched down an’ got a han’ful o’ goobers an’ put ’em in his pocket. We were eatin’ ’em on de way down to de jail-house. He say, “Walter, Mr. Sinclair done sent you a dram.” Walter say, “Mr. McAllum, I see you an’ Sam eatin’ peanuts comin’ along. Jus’ you give me a han’ful an’ I’ll eat dem on de way to de gallows. I don’t want no whiskey.”

“‘Den us got on de wagon. (I can see Walter now, standin’ dere wid his cap on de back o’ his head ready to pull down over his eyes after he git dere.) Dey were a pow’ful crowd ‘roun’ dat wagon.

“‘Den come a rider from Scooba, pull a paper from his pocket, an’ han’ it to Mr. Sinclair. He read it an’ say,” Let de people go on to de gallows. De wagon turn ‘roun’ an’ go back to de jail.” De Gov’nor had stopped de hangin’ ’til de case were ‘vestigated. (De people standin’ dere a-waitin’ for Walter to be hung didn’ know what were de matter.)

“‘Dey placed Walter back in jail an’ his coffin ‘long wid’ im. De lawyers would visit ‘im to git his testimony. Dey’d show ‘im his coffin all ready an’ ask him did he do dis killin’ or not. Dey want ‘im to say he were hired to do it. Dey fixed it all up. Twant nobody to tell jus’ how it were.’

“I were married by dis time to Laura. She were de nurse maid to Mr. J.H. Currie. She’s been dead twenty years, now. When de Curries come to Meridian to live, dey give me charge o’ dey plantation. I were de leader an’ stayed an’ worked de plantation for’ em. Dey been livin’ in Meridian twelve years. I’s married now to dey cook.

“Mr. Hector tol’ me if I’d come an’ live wid’ em here, he’d gimme dis house here in de back yard an’ paint it an’ fix it all up lak you see it. It’s mighty pleasant in de shade. Folks used to always set dey houses in a grove, but now dey cuts down more trees dan dey keeps. Us don’t cut no trees. Us porches is always nice an’ shady.

“I’se got fo’ boys livin’. One son were in de big strike in de automobile plant in Detroit an’ couldn’ come to see me las’ Chris’mus. He’ll come to see me nex’ year if I’s still here.

“Maybe folks goin’ a-think hard o’ me for tellin’ what aint never been tol’ b’fore. I been asked to tell what I seen an’ I done it.

“Dat’s tellin’ what I never thought to tell.”

Charlie Moses, Ex-slave, Lincoln County FEC
Esther de Sola
Rewrite, Pauline Loveless
Edited, Clara E. Stokes

CHARLIE MOSES
Brookhaven, Mississippi

Charlie Moses, 84 year old ex-slave, lives at Brookhaven. He possesses the eloquence and the abundant vocabulary of all Negro preachers. He is now confined to his bed because of the many ailments of old age. His weight appears to be about 140 pounds, height 6 feet 1 inch high.

“When I gits to thinkin’ back on them slavery days I feels like risin’ out o’ this here bed an’ tellin’ ever’body ’bout the harsh treatment us colored folks was given when we was owned by poor quality folks.

“My marster was mean an’ cruel. I hates him, hates him! The God Almighty has condemned him to eternal fiah. Of that I is certain. Even the cows and horses on his plantation was scared out o’ their minds when he come near ’em. Oh Lordy! I can tell you plenty ’bout the things he done to us poor Niggers. We was treated no better than one o’ his houn’ dogs. Sometimes he didn’ treat us as good as he did them. I prays to the Lord not to let me see him when I die. He had the devil in his heart.

“His name was Jim Rankin an’ he lived out on a plantation over in Marion County. I was born an’ raised on his place. I spec I was ’bout twelve year old at the time o’ the war.

“Old man Rankin worked us like animals. He had a right smart plantation an’ kep’ all his Niggers, ‘cept one house boy, out in the fiel’ a-workin’. He’d say, ‘Niggers is meant to work. That’s what I paid my good money for ’em to do.’

“He had two daughters an’ two sons. Them an’ his poor wife had all the work in the house to do, ’cause he wouldn’ waste no Nigger to help ’em out. His family was as scared o’ him as we was. They lived all their lives under his whip. No Sir! No Sir! There warnt no meaner man in the world than old man Jim Rankin.

“My pappy was Allen Rankin an’ my mammy was Ca’line. There was twelve o’ us chillun, nine boys an’ three girls. My pa was born in Mississippi an’ sol’ to Marster Rankin when he was a young man. My mammy was married in South Carolina an’ sol’ to Marster Rankin over at Columbia. She had to leave her family. But she warnt long in gittin’ her another man.

“Oh Lordy! The way us Niggers was treated was awful. Marster would beat, knock, kick, kill. He done ever’thing he could ‘cept eat us. We was worked to death. We worked all Sunday, all day, all night. He whipped us ’til some jus’ lay down to die. It was a poor life. I knows it aint right to have hate in the heart, but, God Almighty! It’s hard to be forgivin’ when I think of old man Rankin.

“If one o’ his Niggers done something to displease him, which was mos’ ever’ day, he’d whip him’ til he’d mos’ die an’ then he’d kick him ‘roun in the dust. He’d even take his gun an’, before the Nigger had time to open his mouth, he’d jus’ stan’ there an’ shoot him down.

“We’d git up at dawn to go to the fiel’s. We’d take our pails o’ grub with us an’ hang’ em up in a row by the fence. We had meal an’ pork an’ beef an’ greens to eat. That was mos’ly what we had. Many a time when noontime come an’ we’d go to eat our vittals the marster would come a-walkin’ through the fiel with ten or twelve o’ his houn’ dogs. If he looked in the pails an’ was displeased with what he seen in ’em, he took ’em an’ dumped ’em out before our very eyes an’ let the dogs grab it up. We didn’ git nothin’ to eat then ’til we come home late in the evenin’. After he left we’d pick up pieces of the grub that the dogs left an’ eat ’em. Hongry–hongry–we was so hongry.

“We had our separate cabins an’ at sunset all of us would go in an’ shut the door an’ pray the Lord Marster Jim didn’ call us out.

“We never had much clothes ‘ceptin’ what was give us by the marster or the mistis. Winter time we never had ‘nough to wear nor ‘nough to eat. We wore homespun all the time. The marster didn’ think we needed anything, but jus’ a little.

“We didn’ go to church, but Sundays we’d gather ‘roun’ an’ listen to the mistis read a little out o’ the Bible. The marster said we didn’ need no religion an’ he finally stopped her from readin’ to us.

“When the war come Marster was a captain of a regiment. He went away an’ stayed a year. When he come back he was even meaner than before.

“When he come home from the war he stayed for two weeks. The night ‘fore he was a-fixin’ to leave to go back he come out on his front porch to smoke his pipe. He was a-standin’ leanin’ up ag’in’ a railin’ when somebody sneaked up in the darkness an’ shot him three times. Oh my Lord! He died the nex’ mornin’. He never knowed who done it. I was glad they shot him down.

“Sometimes the cavalry would come an’ stay at the house an’ the mistis would have to ‘tend to ’em an’ see that they got plenty to eat an’ fresh horses.

“I never seen no fightin’. I stayed on the plantation ’til the war was over. I didn’ see none o’ the fightin’.

“I don’t ‘member nothin’ ’bout Jefferson Davis. Lincoln was the man that set us free. He was a big general in the war.

“I ‘member a song we sung, then. It went kinda like this:

‘Free at las’,
Free at las’,
Thank God Almighty
I’s free at las’.
Mmmmm, mmmmm, mmmmm.’

“I only seen the Klu Klux Klan onct. They was a-paradin’ the streets here in Brookhaven. They had a Nigger that they was a-goin’ to tar an’ feather.

“When the mistis tol’ us we was free (my pappy was already dead, then) my mammy packed us chillun up to move. We travelled on a cotton wagon to Covington, Louisiana. We all worked on a farm there ’bout a year. Then all ‘cept me moved to Mandeville, Louisiana an’ worked on a farm there. I hired out to Mr. Charlie Duson, a baker. Then we moved to a farm above Baton Rouge, Louisiana an’ worked for Mr. Abe Manning. We jus’ travelled all over from one place to another.

“Then I got a letter from a frien’ o’ mine in Gainesville, Mississippi. He had a job for me on a boat, haulin’ lumber up the coast to Bay St. Louis, Pass Christian, Long Beach, Gulfport, an’ all them coast towns. I worked out o’ Gainesville on this boat for ’bout two year. I lost track o’ my family then an’ never seen ’em no more.

“In the year 1870 I got the call from the Lord to go out an’ preach. I left Gainesville an’ travelled to Summit, Mississippi where another frien’ o’ mine lived. I preached the words of the Lord an’ travelled from one place to another.

“In 1873 I got married an’ decided to settle in Brookhaven. I preached an’ all my flock believed in me. I bought up this house an’ the two on each side of it. Here I raised seven chillun in the way o’ the Lord. They is all in different parts of the country now, but I sees one of ’em ever’ now an’ then. Las’ April the Lord seen fit to put me a-bed an’ I been ailin’ with misery ever since.

“The young folks now-a-days are happy an’ don’t know’ bout war an’ slavery times, but I does. They don’t know nothin’ an’ don’t make the mark in the worl’ that the old folks did. Old people made the first roads in Mississippi. The Niggers today wouldn’ know how to act on a plantation. But they are happy. We was miserable.

“Slavery days was bitter an’ I can’t forgit the sufferin’. Oh, God! I hates ’em, hates ’em. God Almighty never meant for human beings to be like animals. Us Niggers has a soul an’ a heart an’ a _min’_. We aint like a dog or a horse. If all marsters had been good like some, the slaves would all a-been happy. But marstars like mine ought never been allowed to own Niggers.

“I didn’ spec nothin’ out of freedom ‘ceptin’ peace an’ happiness an’ the right to go my way as I pleased. I prays to the Lord for us to be free, always.

“That’s the way God Almighty wants it.”

Henri Necaise, Ex-Slave, Pearl River County FEC
Mrs. C.E. Wells
Rewrite, Pauline Loveless
Edited, Clara E. Stokes

HENRI NECAISE
Nicholson, Mississippi

Henri Necaise, ex-slave, 105 years old, lives a half-mile south of Nicholson on US 11. Uncle Henri lives in a small plank cabin enclosed by a fence. He owns his cabin and a small piece of land. He is about five feet ten inches tall and weighs 120 pounds. His sight and hearing are very good.

“I was born in Harrison County, 19 miles from Pass Christian, ‘long de ridge road from de swamp near Wolf River. My Marster was Ursan Ladnier. De Mistis’ name was Popone. Us was all French. My father was a white man, Anatole Necaise. I knowed he was my father, ’cause he used to call me to him an’ tell me I was his oldes’ son.

“I never knowed my mother. I was a slave an’ my mother was sol’ from me an’ her other chilluns. Dey tol’ me when dey sol’ ‘er my sister was a-holdin’ me in her arms. She was standin’ behin’ da Big House peekin’ ‘roun’ de corner an’ seen de las’ of her mother. I seen her go, too. Dey tell me I used to go to de gate a-huntin’ for my mammy. I used to sleep wid my sister after dat.

“Jus’ lemme study a little, an’ I’ll tell you ’bout de Big House. It was ’bout 60 feet long, built o’ hewed logs, in two parts. De floors was made o’ clay dey didn’ have lumber for floors den. Us lived right close to de Big House in a cabin. To tell de truf, de fac’ o’ de business is, my Marster took care o’ me better’n I can take care o’ myse’f now.

“When us was slaves Marster tell us what to do. He say, ‘Henri, do dis, do dat.’ An’ us done it. Den us didn’ have to think whar de nex’ meal comin’ from, or de nex’ pair o’ shoes or pants. De grub an’ clo’es give us was better’n I ever gits now.

“Lemme think an’ counts. My Marster didn’ have a lot o’ slaves. Dere was one, two, three, fo’, yes’m, jus’ fo’ o’ us slaves. I was de stockholder. I tended de sheep an’ cows an’ such lak. My Marster didn’ raise no big crops, jus’ corn an’ garden stuff. He had a heap o’ cattle. Dey could run out in de big woods den, an’ so could de sheeps. He sol’ cattle to N’awlins[FN: New Orleans] an’ Mobile, where he could git de bes’ price. Dat’s de way folks does now, aint it? Dey sells wherever dey can git de mos’ money.

“Dey didn’ give me money, but, you see, I was a slave. Dey sho’ give me ever’thing else I need, clo’es an’ shoes. I always had a-plenty t’eat, better’n I can git now. I was better off when I was a slave dan I is now, ’cause I had ever’thing furnished me den. Now I got to do it all myse’f.

“My Marster was a Catholic. One thing I can thank dem godly white folks for, dey raise’ me right. Dey taught me out o’ God’s word, ‘Our Father which art in Heaven.’ Ever’body ought-a know dat prayer.”

(Note. In this Wolf River territory in Harrison County, where Uncle Henri was born and raised, all the settlers were French Catholics, and it was the scene of early Catholic missions.)

“I was rais’ a Catholic, but when I come here twant no church an’ I joined de Baptis’ an’ was baptised. Now de white folks lemme go to dey church. Dey aint no cullud church near ‘nough so’s I can go. I spec’ its all right. I figgers dat God is ever’where.

“My Mistis knowed how to read an’ write. I don’ know ’bout de Marster. He could keep sto’ anyway. Us all spoke French in dem days. I near ’bout forgit all de songs us used to sing. Dey was all in French anyway, an’ when you don’ speak no French for ’bout 60 years, you jus’ forgit it.

“I’se knowed slaves to run away, an’ I’se seen ’em whupped. I seen good marsters an’ mean ones. Dey was good slaves an’ mean ones. But to tell de truf, if dey tol’ a slave to do anything, den he jus’ better do it.

“I was big’ nough in de Civil War to drive five yoke o’ steers to Mobile an’ git grub to feed de wimmins an’ chilluns. Some o’ de mens was a-fightin’ an’ some was a-runnin’ an’ hidin’. I was a slave an’ I had to do what dey tol’ me. I carried grub into de swamp to men, but I never knowed what dey was a-hidin’ from.”

(This may be explained by the fact that Uncle Henri was owned by and lived in a settlement of French People, many of whom probably had no convictions or feeling of loyalty, one way or the other, during the War Between the States.)

“My old Marster had fo’ sons, an’ de younges’ one went to de war an’ was killed.

“De Yankees come to Pass Christian, I was dere, an’ seen ’em. Dey come up de river an’ tore up things as dey went along.

“I was 31 years old when I was set free. My Marster didn’ tell us’ bout bein’ free. De way I foun’ it out, he started to whup me once an’ de young Marster up an’ says, ‘You aint got no right to whup him now, he’s free.’ Den Marster turnt me loose.

“It was dem Carpetbaggers dat ‘stroyed de country. Dey went an’ turned us loose, jus’ lak a passel o’ cattle, an’ didn’ show us nothin’ or giv’ us nothin’. Dey was acres an’ acres o’ lan’ not in use, an’ lots o’ timber in dis country. Dey should-a give each one o’ us a little farm an’ let us git out timber an’ build houses. Dey ought to put a white Marster over us, to show us an’ make us work, only let us be free ‘stead o’ slaves. I think dat would-a been better ‘n turnin’ us loose lak dey done.

“I lef’ my Marster an’ went over to de Jordon River, an’ dere I stayed an’ worked. I saved my money an’ dat giv’ me a start. I never touched it’ til de year was winded up. To tell da truf, de fac’s o’ de matter is, it was my Marstars kinfolks I was workin’ for.

“I bought me a schooner wid dat money an’ carried charcoal to N’awlins. I done dis for ’bout two years an’ den I los’ my schooner in a storm off o’ Bay St. Louis.

“After I los’ my schooner, I come here an’ got married. Dis was in 1875 an’ I was 43 years old. Dat was my firs’ time to marry. I’se got dat same wife today. She was born a slave, too. I didn’ have no chillun, but my wife did. She had one gal-chil’. She lives at Westonia an’ is de mammy o’ ten chillun. She done better’n us done. I’se got a lot o’ gran’-chillun. What does you call de nex’ den? Lemme see, great gran’-chillun, dat’s it.

“I never did b’lieve in no ghos’ an’ hoodoos an’ charms.

“I never did look for to git nothin’ after I was free. I had dat in my head to git me 80 acres o’ lan’ an’ homestead it. As for de gov’ment making me a present o’ anything, I never thought ’bout it. But jus’ now I needs it.

“I did git me dis little farm, 40 acres, but I bought it an’ paid for it myse’f. I got de money by workin’ for it. When I come to dis country I dug wells an’ built chimneys on’ houses. (Once I dug a well 27 feet an’ come to a coal bed. I went through de coal an’ foun’ water. Dat was on de Jordon River.) Dat clay chimney an’ dis here house has been built 52 years. I’s still livin’ in’ em. Dey’s mine. One acre, I giv’ to de Lawd for a graveyard an’ a churchhouse. I wants to be buried dere myse’f.

“A white lady paid my taxes dis year. I raises a garden an’ gits de Old Age ‘Sistance. It aint ‘nough to buy grub an’ clo’es for me an’ de old woman an’ pay taxes, so us jus’ has to git ‘long de bes’ us can wid de white folks he’p.

“It aint none o’ my business’ bout whether de Niggers is better off free dan slaves. I dont know ‘cept ’bout me, I was better off den. I did earn money after I was free, but after all, you know _money is de root o’ all evil_. Dat what de Good Book say. When I was a slave I only had to obey my Marster an’ he furnish me ever’thing. Once in a while he would whup me, but what was dat? You can’t raise nary chile, white or black, widout chastisin’. De law didn’ low dem to dominize over us, an’ dey didn’ try.

“I’s gittin’ mighty old now, but I used to be pretty spry. I used to go 60 miles out on de Gulf o’ Mexico, as ‘terpreter on dem big ships dat come from France. Dat was ‘fore I done forgot my French talk what I was raised to speak.

“De white folks is mighty good to me. De riches’ man in Picayune, he recognizes me an’ gives me two bits or fo’ bits. I sho’ has plenty o’ good frien’s. If I gits out o’ grub, I catches me a ride to town, an’ I comes back wid de grub.

“De good Lawd, he don’t forgit me.”

Mississippi Federal Writers
Slave Autobiographies

[REV. JAMES SINGLETON
Simpson, Mississippi]

“My name’s James Singleton. I’se a Baptist preacher. I was born in 1856, but I doan know zactly what date. My mammy was Harr’et Thompson. Her marster was Marse Daniel Thompson over in Simpson County on Strong River at a place called Westville. My pappy, he come from South Ca’lina–Charleston–an’ was give to do old folks’ darter. His name was John Black an’ he was owned by Mr. Frank Smith over in Simpson. He was brought down frum South Ca’lina in a wagon ‘long wid lots mo’.

“Me, I was sol’ to Marse Harrison Hogg over in Simpson when I was ’bout six years old, and Marse Hogg, he turn right ‘roun’, and sol’ me an’ sister Harr’et an’ brother John nex’ day for fo’ thousan’. Two thousan’ fo’ John, ’cause he’s older an’ bigger, an’ a thousan’ fo’ Harr’et an’ me. Miss Annie an’ Marse Elbert Bell bought us.

“Marse Elbert had three mo’ sides us–makin’ six. Us slep’ on pallets on de flo’, an’ all lived in one long room made out of logs, an’ had a dirt flo’ an’ dirt chimbly. There was a big old iron pot hangin’ over de hearth, an’ us had ‘possum, greens, taters, and de lak cooked in it. Had coon sometimes, too.

“Marse Elbert, he lived in jes a plain wood house made Califo’nia style, wid a front room an’ a shed room where de boys slep’. Dey had two boys, Jettie an’ William.

“I reckin dere was ’bout a hun’erd an’ sixty acres planted in taters an’ corn, an’ dey made whiskey too. Yessum, dey had a ‘stillery[FN: distillery] hid down in de woods where dey made it.

“My mammy an’ pappy was fiel’ han’s, an’ I was mighty little to do so much. I jes minded de cow pen, made fires in de Big House, an’ swep’ de house. When I made de fires, iffen dere wa’nt any live coale lef’, we had to use a flint rock to git it sta’ted.

“Dere was a bell ringin’ every mornin’ ’bout fo’ ‘clock, fer to call de slaves tar git up an’ go to de fiel’s. Day wuked ’til sundown. Dey was fed in de white folks’ kitchen, and Cook cooked fer us jes lak she done fer de whites. De kitchen was built off a piece frum de hous’, y’know.

“Marse never did whup any of us li’l chullun. Miss Annie, she tried once to whup me ’cause I chunked rocks at her li’l chickens, but mighty little whuppin’ she done. Dere wa’nt no overseer.

“Chris’mas time, we had two or three days to play, an’ had extry food.

“I seen ‘pattyrollers’ ridin’ ’bout to keep de darkies from runnin’ ‘roun’ widout passes. I never seen ’em whup none but dey tol’ us we’d git twen’y-nine licks iffen we got caught by ’em. I seen darkies git whuppin’s on other plantations–whup ’em half a day sometimes, gen’ly when dey tried to run away.

“We didn’ have no dancin’ dat I ‘member, but had plen’y log rollin’s. Had fiddlin’, an’ all would jine in singin’ songs, lak, “Run nigger run, pattyrollers ketch you, run nigger run, it’s breakin’ days.” I still fiddle dat chune[FN: tune]. Well, you see, dey jes rolled up all de old dead logs an’ trees in a big pile, and burned it at night.

“I seen de Yankee sojers when dey passed our house but dey didn’ bother us none. None didn’ even stop in. Dey was wearin’ blue jackets an’ had gold buttons on caps an’ jackets. But when de Confed’rate sojers come along, dey stopped an’ killed a fat cow er two, an’ taken de fat hoss an’ lef’ a lean one, an’ taken ever’thing else dey seen dey wanted.

“No’m, didn’ none of de slaves run off wid dem dat I knows of, an’ de Yankees didn’ try to bother us none. Well, afte’ de War, Marse Elbert tol’ us dat we was free now, an’ pappy come an’ got us an’ taken us to live wid de cook on Mr. Elisha Bishop’s place, an’ he paid Mr. Barren Bishop to teach us. He taught us out of Webster’s Blue Back Spellin’ Book.

“My pappy, he had a stolen ejucation–‘at was cause his mistress back in South Ca’Line hoped him to learn to read an’ write ‘fo he lef’ there. You see, in dem days, it was ag’inst de law fer slaves to read.

“I was glad to be free ’cause I don’t b’lieve sellin’ an’ whuppin’ peoples is right. I certainly does think religion is a good thing, ’cause I’se a Baptist preacher right now, and I live ’bout six miles from Crystal Springs. I farm too.”

Berry Smith, Ex-slave, Scott County
FEC
W.B. Allison
Rewrite, Pauline Loveless
Edited, Clara E. Stokes

BERRY SMITH
Forest, Mississippi

“Uncle Berry” Smith is five feet two or three inches tall. He is scrupulously neat. He is very independent for his age, which is calculated at one hundred and sixteen years. He believes the figure to be correct. His mind is amazingly clear.

“I was born an’ bred in Sumpter County, Alabama, in de prairie lan’, six miles from Gainesville. Dat’s where I hauled cotton. It was close to Livingston, Alabama, where we lived.

“I was twelve years old when de stars fell. Dey fell late in de night an’ dey lighted up de whole earth. All de chaps was a-runnin’ ‘roun’ grabbin’ for ’em, but none of us ever kotched[FN: caught] one. It’s a wonder some of’ em didn’ hit us, but dey didn’. Dey never hit de groun’ atall.

“When dey runned de Injuns out de country, me an’ another chap kotched one o’ dem Injun’s ponies an hung him up[FN: tied him up] in de grape vines. He said it was his pony an’ I said it was mine.

“Marse Bob’s boy tol’ us his daddy was gwine a-whup us for stealin’ dat pony, so we hid out in de cane for two nights. Marse Bob an’ his brother whupped us’ til we didn’ want to see no more Injuns or dey ponies, neither.

“I was born a slave to Old Marse Jim Harper an’ I fell to Marse Bob. Marse Jim bought my pa an’ ma from a man by de name o’ Smith, an’ Pa kep’ de name. Dat’s how come I is Berry Smith.

“Dey didn’ have no schools for us an’ didn’ teach us nothin’ but work. De bull-whip an’ de paddle was all de teachin’ we got. De white preachers used to preach to de Niggers sometimes in de white folks’ church, but I didn’ go much.

“We had fun in dem days in spite o’ ever’thing. De pranks we used to play on dem paterollers! Sometimes we tied ropes ‘crost de bridge an’ de paterollers’d hit it an’ go in de creek. Maybe we’d be fiddlin’ an’ dancin’ on de bridge (dat was de grown folks, but de chaps ‘ud come, too) an’ dey’d say, ‘Here come de paterollers!’ Den we’d put out. If we could git to de marster’s house, we was all right. Marse Bob wouldn’ let no pateroller come on his place. Marse Alf wouldn’, neither. Dey said it was all right if we could git home widout bein’ kotched, but we have to take dat chance.

“At de Big House dey had spinnin’ wheels an’ a loom. Dey made all de clo’es[FN: clothes] on de place. Homespun was what dey called de goods. My ma used to spin an’ weave in de loom room at de Big House.

“Dey was two plantations in de marster’s lan’ an’ dey worked a heap o’ Niggers. I was a house boy an’ didn’ go to de fiel’ much.

“We had overseers on de place, but dey was jus’ hired men. Dey was po’ white folks an’ only got paid ’bout three or fo’ hund’ed dollars a year.

“When we lef’ Alabama we come to Mississippi. We went to de Denham place near Garlandsville. We brought eighteen Niggers. We walked a hund’ed miles an’ it took five days an’ nights. De women an’ little chaps rid[FN: rode] on de wagons (dey had five mules to de wagon) an’ de men an’ de big chaps walked. My pa an’ ma come along.

“We stayed on de Denham place ’bout three years. Den we moved to Homewood an’ stayed five years. I hung de boards for Marse Bob’s house in Homewood.

“Den we come to Forest. Dey brought all de fam’ly over here–all my brothers an’ sisters. Dey was five of’ em–Wash an’ East is de two I ‘members. All o’ us b’longed to de Harper fam’ly. Marse Bob owned us. My ma an’ pa both died here in Forest.

“I he’ped to build dis house for Marse Bob. I cleaned de lan’ an’ lef de trees where he tol’ me. He lived in a little old shack whilst we built de Big House.

“Mr. M.D. Graham put up de firs’ store here an’ de secon’ was put up by my marster.

“I worked in de fiel’ some, but mos’ly I was a house servant. I used to go all over de country a-huntin’ eggs an’ chickens for de fam’ly on’ count dey was so much comp’ny at de house.

“A heap o’ white folks was good to dey Niggers, jus’ as good as dey could be, but a heap of’ em was mean, too. My mistis was good to us an’ so was Marse Jim Harper. He wouldn’ let de boys ‘buse us while he lived, but when he died dey was wild an’ cruel. Dey was hard taskmasters. We was fed good three times a day, but we was whupped too much. Dat got me. I couldn’ stan’ it. De old marster give us good dinners at Chris’mus, but de young ones stopped all dat.

“De firs’ train I ever seen was in Brandon. I went dere to carry some horses for my marster. It sho’ was a fine lookin’ engine. I was lookin’ at it out of a upstairs window an’ when it whistled I’d a-jumped out dat window if Captain Harper hadn’ a-grabbed me.

“I didn’ see no fightin’ in de war. When Gen’l Sherman come th’ough here, he come by Hillsboro. Marse Bob didn’ go to de war. He ‘listed[FN: enlisted], but he come right back an’ went to gittin’ out cross ties for de railroad. He warnt no sojer. Colonel Harper, dat was Marse Alf, _he_ was de sojer. He warnt scared o’ nothin’ or nobody.

“De Yankees ask me to go to de war, but I tol’ ’em, ‘I aint no rabbit to live in de woods. My marster gives me three good meals a day an’ a good house an’ I aint a-goin’.’ Marse Bob used to feed us fine an’ he was good to us. He wouldn’ let no overseer touch his Niggers, but he whupped us, hisse’f.

“Den de Yankees tol’ me I was free, same as dey was. I come an’ tol’ Marse Bob I was a-goin’. He say, ‘If you don’t go to work, Nigger, you gwine a-git whupped.’ So I run away an’ hid out in de woods. De nex’ day I went to Meridian. I cooked for de sojers two months, den I come back to Forest an’ worked spikin’ ties for de railroad.

“I hear’d a heap of talk ’bout Jeff Davis an’ Abe Lincoln, but didn’ know nothin’ ’bout ’em. We hear’d ’bout de Yankees fightin’ to free us, but we didn’ b’lieve it ’til we hear’d ’bout de fightin’ at Vicksburg.

“I voted de ‘publican ticket after de surrender, but I didn’ bother wid no politics. I didn’ want none of ’em.

“De Kloo Kluxers[FN: Ku Klux’s] was bad up above here, but I never seen any. I hear’d tell of ’em whuppin’ folks, but I don’t know nothin’ ’bout it, much.

“Mos’ all de Niggers dat had good owners stayed wid ’em, but de others lef’. Some of ’em come back an’ some didn’.

“I hear’d a heap o’ talk ’bout ever’ Nigger gittin forty acres an’ a mule. Dey had us fooled up ’bout it, but I never seen nobody git nothin’.

“I hope dey won’t be no more war in my time. Dat one was turrible. Dey can all go dat wants to, but I aint a-goin’.

“I seen Gen’l Grant at Vicksburg after de war. (He was a little short man.) All de Niggers went dere for somethin’–me ‘mongst ’em. I don’t know what we went for.

“I took to steamboatin’ at Vicksburg ’cause I could cut[FN: place for storage or shipment] cotton so good. (I could cut cotton now wid a cotton hook if I warnt so old.)

“I steamboated twixt New Orleans an’ St. Louis on de ‘Commonwealth,’ a freight packet, way up yonder in St. Louis. I don’t know what country dat was in. But de rousters had a big fight one night in New Orleans, shootin’ an’ cuttin’, so I lef’. When I got back to Vicksburg, I quit.

“I picked cotton in de Delta awhile, but de folks, white an’ black, is too hard. Dey don’t care ’bout nothin! I was in Greenville when de water come. I hear’d a noise like de wind an’ I asked dem Niggers, ‘Is dat a storm?’ Dey said, ‘No, dat’s de river comin’ th’ough an’ you better come back ‘fore de water ketch[FN: catch] you.’ I say, ‘If it ketch me it gwine a-ketch me on my way home.’ I aint been back since.

“Den I come back here an’ went to farmin’ an’ I been here ever since. I bought forty-seven acres an’ a nice little house. De house burnt down, but de white folks built me a better one. Dey’s good an’ kin’ to me. Dey say I’s a good man.

“My wife was six year old at de surrender. She b’longed to Marse Alf, but we was free when we married. We had sixteen chillun. Mos’ of ’em lives ‘roun ‘here. Some in Newton, some in Scott, an’ some in Texas. My wife died two years ago las’ March.

“Marse Bob died right here in dis here house. He died a po’ man. If my old mistis had a-been here she wouldn’ a-let’ em treat him like dey done. If I’d a-been here I wouldn’ a-let’ em done like dat, neither.

“I been a-livin’ by myse’f since my wife died. My son, Oscar, lives on de lan’ an’ rents it from me.

“I don’t know what’s gwine a-happen to de young folks now-a-days. Dey know better, but dey’s wild an’ don’t care ’bout nothin’. I aint got no time to fool wid ’em. Looks like dey don’t care ’bout workin’ at nothin’.

“I been a-workin’ all my life, an’ I’se seen good times an’ bad times. I loves to work yet. I’s gwine out now soon’s I git my dinner an’ he’p finish pickin’ dat patch o’ cotton. I can pick two hund’ed pounds a day an’ I’s one hund’ed an’ sixteen year old. I picks wid both han’s an’ don’t have to stoop much. My back don’t never ache me atall. My mammy teached me to pick cotton. She took a pole to me if I didn’ do it right. I been a-pickin ever since. I’d ruther pick cotton dan eat, any day.

“But I’se seen enough. I’s jus’ a-waitin’ for de call to meet all my folks in Heaven. Dey’s a better place dan dis an’ I’s a-tryin’ to treat ever’body right so’s I can git to go to it.

“I’s listenin’ hard for dat call an’ I know it won’t be long a-comin’.”

Susan Snow, Ex-slave, Lauderdale County FEC
W.B. Allison
Rewrite, Pauline Loveless
Edited, Clara E. Stokes

SUSAN SNOW
Meridian, Mississippi

“Aunt Sue” Snow, a rather small and profusely wrinkled 87-year-old ex-slave, lives in the Negro quarters of the South Side in Meridian.

In spite of her wild escapades, her reputation for honesty and reliability is high and she carries and exhibits with pride numerous letters attesting that fact.

She often finds it necessary to stand and act the story she is telling. Her memory is amazing and she turns with equal readiness to copious quotations from the Scripture and other pious observations to amusing but wholly unprintable anecdotes of her somewhat lurid past.

“I was born in Wilcox County, Alabama, in 1850. W.J. Snow was my old marster. He bought my ma from a man named Jerry Casey. Venus was her name, but dey mos’ly called her ‘Venie.’

“I’s workin’ now for one o’ my old folks. I can’t work much–jus’ carries things to ‘er an’ such. She’s my old mistis’ own daughter an’ she’s got gran’chillun grown an’ married. All de chillun dat’s livin’ is older’n me.

“When her pa bought my mammy, I was a baby. Her pa owned a heap o’ Niggers. I’s de only one still hangin’ aroun’.

“My ma was a black African an’ she sho’ was wild an’ mean. She was so mean to me I couldn’ b’lieve she was my mammy. Dey couldn’ whup her widout tyin’ her up firs’. Sometimes my marster would wait ’til de nex’ day to git somebody to he’p tie her up, den he’d forgit to whup ‘er. Dey used to say she was a cunger an’ dey was all scared of ‘er. But my ma was scared o’ cungers, too.

“All de Niggers on de place was born in de fam’ly an’ was kin, ‘cept my ma. She tol’ me how dey brought her from Africa. You know, like we say ‘President’ in dis country, well dey call him ‘Chief’ in Africa. Seem like de Chief made ‘rangements wid some men an’ dey had a big goober grabbin’ for de young folks. Dey stole my ma an’ some more an’ brung ’em to dis country.

“I don’t ‘member nothin’ ’bout havin’ no pa. You know, honey, in dem days husbands an’ wives didn’ b’long to de same folks. My ma say her husband was so mean dat after us lef’ Alabama she didn’ want to marry no more.

“A man didn’ git to see his wife ‘cept twict a week. Dat was Wednesday an’ Satu’d’y night.

“De women had to walk a chalk line. I never hear’d tell o’ wives runnin’ ‘roun’ wid other men in dem days.

“I was raised in Jasper County. Marster bought lan’ from ever’body ‘roun’ ’til he had a big plantation. He had Niggers, horses, mules, cows, hogs, an’ chickens. He was a rich man, den.

“Ever’ Nigger had a house o’ his own. My ma never would have no board floor like de res’ of’ em, on’ count she was a African–only dirt. (Dey say she was 108 year old when she died.)

“Us went to church wid de white folks if us wanted to. Dey didn’ make us. I didn’ go much, ’cause I didn’ have ‘ligion, den. Us didn’ have no schoolin’. Us could go to school wid de white chillun if us wanted to, but didn’ nobody teach us. I’s educated, but I aint educated in de books. I’s educated by de licks an’ bumps I got.

“My white folks was good people an’ didn’ whup nobody, ‘less dey needed it. Some o’ de Niggers was sho’ ‘nough bad. Dey used to take de marster’s horses out at night an’ ride ’em down. One Nigger, Sam, got dat mad at a mule for grabbin’ at cotton he cut his tongue out. Course, Marster whupped him, but when he went to look for ‘im ’bout a hour after, he foun’ ‘im soun’ asleep. Said he ought to kill ‘im, but he didn’.

“When we was sick dey had a doctor for us jus’ like dey done for deyse’ves. Dey called ‘im in to ‘scribe for us. I was snake-bit when I was eight year old. Dey used to be a medicine named ‘lobelia.’ De doctor give me dat an’ whiskey. My ma carried me up to de Big House ever’ mornin’ an’ lef’ me, an’ carried me home at night. Old Mis’ ‘ud watch over me in de day time.

“My young marster tol’ me dat when I got to be ten year old, I’d have a snake coiled up on my liver. Dat scared me mos’ to death ’til I was past ten year old.

“Dey made all de Niggers’ clo’es[FN: clothes] on de place. Homespun, dey called it. Dey had spinnin’ wheels an’ cards an’ looms at de Big House. All de women spinned in de winter time.

“I never knowed what it was to wear more dan one garment, ’til I was mos’ grown. I never had a pair o’ shoes o’ my own. Old Mis’ let me wear her’n sometimes. Dey had shoes for de old folks, but not for de chillun.

“I got more whuppin’s dan any other Nigger on de place, ’cause I was mean like my mammy. Always a-fightin’ an’ scratchin’ wid white an’ black. I was so bad Marster made me go look at de Niggers dey hung to see what dey done to a Nigger dat harm a white man.

“I’s gwine tell dis story on myse’f. De white chillun was a-singin’ dis song:

‘Jeff Davis, long an’ slim,
Whupped old Abe wid a hick’ry limb.

Jeff Davis is a wise man, Lincoln is a fool, Jeff Davis rides a gray, an’ Lincoln rides a mule.’

I was mad anyway, so I hopped up an’ sung dis one:

‘Old Gen’l Pope had a shot gun,
Filled it full o’ gum,
Killed ’em as dey come.

Called a Union band,
Make de Rebels un’erstan’
To leave de lan’,
Submit to Abraham.’

“Old Mis’ was a-standin’ right b’hin’ me. She grabbed up de broom an’ laid it on me. She made _me_ submit. I caught de feathers, don’t you forgit it.

“I didn’ know it was wrong. I’d hear’d de Niggers sing it an’ I didn’ know dey was a-singin’ in dey sleeves. I didn’ know nothin’ ’bout Abe Lincoln, but I hear’d he was a-tryin’ to free de Niggers an’ my mammy say she want to be free.

“De young folks used to make up a heap o’ songs, den. Dey’d decompose[FN: compose] dey own songs an’ sing’ em. I never will forgit one song dey sung when dey buried anybody. It made Old Marster, Mistis, an’ all of’ em cry. Us chillun cried, too. It went like dis:

‘My mother prayed in de wilderness,
In de wilderness,
In de wilderness.
My mother prayed in de wilderness. An’ den I’m a-goin’ home.

Chorus:

Den I’m a-goin’ home,
Den I’m a-goin’ home.

We’ll all make ready, Lawd,
An’ den I’m a-goin’ home.

She plead her cause in de wilderness, In de wilderness,
In de wilderness.
She plead her cause in de wilderness. An’ den I’m a-goin’ home.’

(Repeat chorus)

“Old Aunt Hannah fell to my marster from his daddy. She had twelve chillun a-workin’ on de place. De oldes’ was named Adam an’ de littlest was named Eve. She had two twins what was named Rachel an’ Leah. Dey nussed my mistis’ two twins. Dey kep’ one a-nussin’ mos’ all de time.

“My ma was de cause o’ my marster a-firin’ all de overseers. (Dey blamed ever’thing on her ’cause she was de only bought Nigger.) Marster say she was a valuable Nigger, but she was so mean he was afraid dey’d kill her. He say, ‘She’ll work widout no watchin’ an’ overseers aint nothin’, nohow.’

“Dey was a white man–I aint lyin’–I know him an’ I seen him. He had Nigger houn’s an’ he made money a-huntin’ runaway Niggers. His own Niggers kilt ‘im. Dey hung ’em for it. Two was his Niggers an’ one b’long to somebody else.

“My young marster used to work in de fiel’ wid us. He’d boss de Niggers. Dey called ‘im Bud, but us all called ‘im ‘Babe.’ Honey, I sho’ did love dat boy.

“When de war come dey used to tease him an’ say, ‘Bud, why don’t you go to de war?’ Dey laughed an’ teased ‘im when he went. But twant no laughin’ when he come home on a furlough an’ went back. Dey was cryin’ den. An’ well dey mought[FN: might] cry, ’cause he never come back no more’. He was kilt in de war.

“Endurin’ de war, de white folks made dey clo’es same as de Niggers. Old Mis’ made dye an’ dyed de thread. She made pretty cloth.

“My ma was de firs’ to leave de plantation after de surrender. All de other Niggers had a contrac’ to stay, but she didn’. She went to Newton County an’ hired out. She never wanted to stay in one place, nohow. If she had a crop ha’f made an’ somebody made her mad, she’d up an’ leave it an’ go some’r’s else.

“You know, dey was mighty strict, ’bout den, wid cullud folks, an’ white people, too. De Kloo Kluxes was out nights. I hear’d tell ’bout ’em whuppin’ people. But dey never bothered me.

“Dey was speakers gwine aroun’, tellin’ de Niggers what dey was gwine a-git. Dey never got nothin’ to my knowledge, ‘cept de gov’ment let ’em homestead lan’. My ma homesteaded a place close to Enterprise, Scott County, but she got mad an’ lef’ it like she always done.

“She was a-gittin’ long in years afore she got ‘ligion. (She was good to me after dat.) She couldn’ learn de Lawd’s Prayer, but she used to pray, ‘Our Father, which are in Heaven; Hallowed be Thy name. Thy mercy, Lawd, You’ve showed to others; That mercy show to me. Amen.’ She went to res’ in it, too.

“I went to Enterprise, den to Meridian, nussin’ (wet-nussin’ when I could) an’ workin’ out. I never worked in de fiel’, if I could he’p it. (Old Mis’ hired me out as a nuss firs’ when I was eight year old.)

“When I come to Meridian, I cut loose. I’s tellin’ de truf! I’s a woman, but I’s a prodigal. I used to be a old drunkard. My white folks kep’ tellin’ me if I got locked up one more time dey wouldn’ pay my fine. But dey done it ag’in an’ ag’in.

“De Niggers called me ‘Devil.’ I was a devil ’til I got ‘ligion. I warnt baptized ’til 1887. Den I foun’ peace. I had a vision. I tol’ it to a white lady an’ she say, ‘Susie, dat’s ‘ligion a-callin’ you.’ (But you know, honey, white folks’ ‘ligion aint like Niggers’ ‘ligion. I know a woman dat couldn’ ‘member de Lawd’s Prayer, an’ she got ‘ligion out o’ prayin’, ‘January, February, March’.) I didn’ join de church ’til 1891, after I had a secon’ vision. I’s a member in good standin’ now. I done put all my badness b’hin’ me, ‘cept my temper. I even got dat under more control.