* * * * *
The ranks of negro ex-slaves are rapidly thinning out, but, scattered
here and there among the ante-bellum families of the South, may be found
a few of these picturesque old characters. Three miles north of
Bethania, the second oldest settlement of the "Unitas Fratrum" in
Wachovia, lies the 1500 acre Jones plantation. It has been owned for
several generations by the one family, descendants of Abraham Conrad.
Conrad's daughter, Julia, married a physician of note, Dr. Beverly
Jones, whose family occupied the old homestead at the time of the Civil
War.
Here, in 1856, was born a negro girl, Betty, to a slave mother. Here,
today, under the friendly protection of this same Jones family,
surrounded by her sons and her sons' sons, lives this same Betty in her
own little weather-stained cottage. Encircling her house are lilacs,
althea, and flowering trees that soften the bleak outlines of unpainted
out-buildings. A varied collection of old-fashioned plants and flowers
crowd the neatly swept dooryard. A friendly German-shepherd puppy rouses
from his nap on the sunny porch to greet visitors enthusiastically. In
answer to our knock a gentle voice calls, "Come in." The door opens
directly into a small, low-ceilinged room almost filled by two double
beds. These beds are conspicuously clean and covered by homemade
crocheted spreads. Wide bands of hand-made insertion ornament the
stiffly starched pillow slips. Against the wall is a plain oak dresser.
Although the day is warm, two-foot logs burn on the age-worn andirons of
the wide brick fire place. From the shelf above dangles a leather bag
of "spills" made from twisted newspapers.
In a low, split-bottom chair, her rheumatic old feet resting on the warm
brick hearth, sits Aunt Betty Cofer. Her frail body stoops under the
weight of four-score years but her bright eyes and alert mind are those
of a woman thirty years younger. A blue-checked mob cap covers her
grizzled hair. Her tiny frame, clothed in a motley collection of
undergarments, dress, and sweaters, is adorned by a clean white apron.
Although a little shy of her strange white visitors, her innate dignity,
gentle courtesy, and complete self possession indicate long association
with "quality folks."
Her speech shows a noticeable freedom from the usual heavy negro dialect
and idiom of the deep south. "Yes, Ma'am, yes, Sir, come in. Pull a
chair to the fire. You'll have to 'scuse me. I can't get around much,
'cause my feet and legs bother me, but I got good eyes an' good ears an'
all my own teeth. I aint never had a bad tooth in my head. Yes'm, I'm
81, going on 82. Marster done wrote my age down in his book where he
kep' the names of all his colored folks. Muh (Mother) belonged to Dr.
Jones but Pappy belonged to Marse Israel Lash over yonder. (Pointing
northwest.) Younguns always went with their mammies so I belonged to the
Joneses.
"Muh and Pappy could visit back and forth sometimes but they never lived
together 'til after freedom. Yes'm, we was happy. We got plenty to eat.
Marster and old Miss Julia (Dr. Jones' wife, matriarch of the whole
plantation) was mighty strict but they was good to us. Colored folks on
some of the other plantations wasn't so lucky. Some of' em had
overseers, mean, cruel men. On one plantation the field hands had to
hustle to git to the end of the row at eleven o'clock dinner-time
'cause when the cooks brought their dinner they had to stop just where
they was and eat, an' the sun was mighty hot out in those fields. They
only had ash cakes (corn pone baked in ashes) without salt, and molasses
for their dinner, but we had beans an' grits an' salt an' sometimes
meat.
"I was lucky. Miss Ella (daughter of the first Beverly Jones) was a
little girl when I was borned and she claimed me. We played together an'
grew up together. I waited on her an' most times slept on the floor in
her room. Muh was cook an' when I done got big enough I helped to set
the table in the big dinin' room. Then I'd put on a clean white apron
an' carry in the victuals an' stand behind Miss Ella's chair. She'd fix
me a piece of somethin' from her plate an' hand it back over her
shoulder to me (eloquent hands illustrate Miss Ella's making of a
sandwich.) I'd take it an' run outside to eat it. Then I'd wipe my mouth
an' go back to stand behind Miss Ella again an' maybe get another snack.
"Yes'm, there was a crowd of hands on the plantation. I mind 'em all an'
I can call most of their names. Mac, Curley, William, Sanford, Lewis,
Henry, Ed, Sylvester, Hamp, an' Juke was the men folks. The women was
Nellie, two Lucys, Martha, Nervie, Jane, Laura, Fannie, Lizzie, Cassie,
Tensie, Lindy, an' Mary Jane. The women mostly, worked in the house.
There was always two washwomen, a cook, some hands to help her, two
sewin' women, a house girl, an' some who did all the weavin' an'
spinnin'. The men worked in the fields an' yard. One was stable boss an'
looked after all the horses an' mules. We raised our own flax an'
cotton an' wool, spun the thread, wove the cloth, made all the clothes.
Yes'm, we made the mens' shirts an' pants an' coats. One woman knitted
all the stockin's for the white folks an' colored folks too. I mind she
had one finger all twisted an' stiff from holdin' her knittin' needles.
We wove the cotton an' linen for sheets an' pillow-slips an' table
covers. We wove the wool blankets too. I use to wait on the girl who did
the weavin' when she took the cloth off the loom she done give me the
'thrums' (ends of thread left on the loom.) I tied 'em all together with
teensy little knots an' got me some scraps from the sewin' room and I
made me some quilt tops. Some of 'em was real pretty too! (Pride of
workmanship evidenced by a toss of Betty's head.)
"All our spinnin' wheels and flax wheels and looms was hand-made by a
wheel wright, Marse Noah Westmoreland. He lived over yonder. (A thumb
indicates north.) Those old wheels are still in the family'. I got one
of the flax wheels. Miss Ella done give it to me for a present. Leather
was tanned an' shoes was made on the place. 'Course the hands mostly
went barefoot in warm weather, white chillen too. We had our own mill to
grind the wheat and corn an' we raised all our meat. We made our own
candles from tallow and beeswax. I 'spect some of the old candle moulds
are over to 'the house' now. We wove our own candle wicks too. I never
saw a match 'til I was a grown woman. We made our fire with flint an'
punk (rotten wood). Yes'm, I was trained to cook an' clean an' sew. I
learned to make mens' pants an' coats. First coat I made, Miss Julia
told me to rip the collar off, an' by the time I picked out all the
teensy stitches an' sewed it together again I could set a collar right!
I can do it today, too! (Again there is manifested a good workman's
pardonable pride of achievement)
"Miss Julia cut out all the clothes herself for men and women too. I
'spect her big shears an' patterns an' old cuttin' table are over at the
house now. Miss Julia cut out all the clothes an' then the colored girls
sewed 'em up but she looked 'em all over and they better be sewed right!
Miss Julia bossed the whole plantation. She looked after the sick folks
and sent the doctor (Dr. Jones) to dose 'em and she carried the keys to
the store-rooms and pantries. [HW: paragraph mark here.] Yes'm, I'm
some educated. Muh showed me my 'a-b-abs' and my numbers and when I was
fifteen I went to school in the log church built by the Moravians. They
give it to the colored folks to use for their own school and church.
(This log house is still standing near Bethania). Our teacher was a
white man, Marse Fulk. He had one eye, done lost the other in the war.
We didn't have no colored teachers then. They wasn't educated. We
'tended school four months a year. I went through the fifth reader, the
'North Carolina Reader'. I can figger a little an' read some but I can't
write much 'cause my fingers 're--all stiffened up. Miss Julia use to
read the bible to us an' tell us right an' wrong, and Muh showed me all
she could an' so did the other colored folks. Mostly they was kind to
each other.
"No'm, I don't know much about spells an' charms. Course most of the
old folks believed in 'em. One colored man use to make charms, little
bags filled with queer things. He called 'em 'jacks' an' sold 'em to the
colored folks an' some white folks too.
"Yes'm, I saw some slaves sold away from the plantation, four men and
two women, both of 'em with little babies. The traders got 'em. Sold 'em
down to Mobile, Alabama. One was my pappy's sister. We never heard from
her again. I saw a likely young feller sold for $1500. That was my Uncle
Ike. Marse Jonathan Spease bought him and kept him the rest of his life.
"Yes'm, we saw Yankee soldiers. (Stoneman's Cavalry in 1865.) They come
marchin' by and stopped at 'the house. I wasn't scared 'cause they was
all talkin' and laughin' and friendly but they sure was hongry. They
dumped the wet clothes out of the big wash-pot in the yard and filled it
with water. Then they broke into the smokehouse and got a lot of hams
and biled 'em in the pot and ate 'em right there in the yard. The women
cooked up a lot of corn pone for 'em and coffee too. Marster had a
barrel of 'likker' put by an' the Yankees knocked the head in an' filled
their canteens. There wasn't ary drop left. When we heard the soldiers
comin' our boys turned the horses loose in the woods. The Yankees said
they had to have 'em an' would burn the house down if we didn't get 'em.
So our boys whistled up the horses an' the soldiers carried 'em all off.
They carried off ol' Jennie mule too but let little Jack mule go. When
the soldiers was gone the stable boss said,'if ol' Jennie mule once gits
loose nobody on earth can catch her unless she wants. She'll be back!'
Sure enough, in a couple of days she come home by herself an' we worked
the farm jus' with her an' little Jack.
"Some of the colored folks followed the Yankees away. Five or six of our
boys went. Two of 'em travelled as far as Yadkinville but come back. The
rest of 'em kep' goin' an' we never heard tell of' em again.
"Yes'm, when we was freed Pappy come to get Muh and me. We stayed around
here. Where could we go? These was our folks and I couldn't go far away
from Miss Ella. We moved out near Rural Hall (some 5 miles from
Bethania) an' Pappy farmed, but I worked at the home place a lot. When I
was about twenty-four Marse R. J. Reynolds come from Virginia an' set up
a tobacco factory. He fotched some hands with 'im. One was a likely
young feller, named Cofer, from Patrick County, Virginia. I liked 'im
an' we got married an' moved back here to my folks.(the Jones family) We
started to buy our little place an' raise a family. I done had four
chillen but two's dead. I got grandchillen and great-grandchillen close
by. This is home to us. When we talk about the old home place (the Jones
residence, now some hundred years old) we just say 'the house' 'cause
there's only one house to us. The rest of the family was all fine folks
and good to me but I loved Miss Ella better'n any one or anythin' else
in the world. She was the best friend I ever had. If I ever wanted for
anythin' I just asked her an she give it to me or got it for me somehow.
Once when Cofer was in his last sickness his sister come from East
Liverpool, Ohio, to see 'im. I went to Miss Ella to borrow a little
money. She didn't have no change but she just took a ten dollar bill
from her purse an' says 'Here you are, Betty, use what you need and
bring me what's left'.
"I always did what I could for her too an' stood by her--but one time.
That was when we was little girls goin' together to fetch the mail. It
was hot an' dusty an' we stopped to cool off an' wade in the 'branch'.
We heard a horse trottin' an' looked up an' there was Marster switchin'
his ridin' whip an' lookin' at us. 'Git for home, you two, and I'll
'tend to you,' he says, an' we got! But this time I let Miss Ella go to
'the house' alone an' I sneaked aroun' to Granny's cabin an' hid. I was
afraid I'd git whupped! 'Nother time, Miss Ella went to town an' told me
to keep up her fire whilst she was away. I fell asleep on the hearth and
the fire done burnt out so's when Miss Ella come home the room was cold.
She was mad as hops. Said she never had hit me but she sure felt like
doin' it then.
"Yes'm, I been here a right smart while. I done lived to see three
generations of my white folks come an' go, an' they're the finest folks
on earth. There use to be a reg'lar buryin' ground for the plantation
hands. The colored chillen use to play there but I always played with
the white chillen. (This accounts for Aunt Betty's gentle manner and
speech.) Three of the old log cabins (slave cabins) is there yet. One of
'em was the 'boys cabin'. (house for boys and unmarried men) They've got
walls a foot thick an' are used for store-rooms now. After freedom we
buried out around our little churches but some of th' old grounds are
plowed under an' turned into pasture cause the colored folks didn't get
no deeds to 'em. It won't be long 'fore I go too but I'm gwine lie near
my old home an' my folks.
"Yes'm, I remember Marse Israel Lash, my Pappy's Marster. He was a low,
thick-set man, very jolly an' friendly. He was real smart an' good too,
'cause his colored folks all loved 'im. He worked in the bank an' when
the Yankees come, 'stead of shuttin' the door 'gainst 'em like the
others did, he bid 'em welcome. (Betty's nodding head, expansive smile
and wide-spread hands eloquently pantomime the banker's greeting.) So
the Yankees done took the bank but give it back to 'im for his very own
an' he kep' it but there was lots of bad feelin' 'cause he never give
folks the money they put in the old bank. (Possibly this explains the
closing of the branch of the Cape Fear Bank in Salem and opening of
Israel Lash's own institution, the First National Bank of Salem, 1866.)
"I saw General Robert E. Lee, too. After the war he come with some
friends to a meeting at Five Forks Baptist Church. All the white folks
gathered 'round an' shook his hand an' I peeked 'tween their legs an'
got a good look at' im. But he didn't have no whiskers, he was
smooth-face! (Pictures of General Lee all show him with beard and
mustache)
"Miss Ella died two years ago. I was sick in the hospital but the doctor
come to tell me. I couldn't go to her buryin'. I sure missed her.
(Poignant grief moistens Betty's eyes and thickens her voice). There
wasn't ever no one like her. Miss Kate an' young Miss Julia still live
at 'the house' with their brother, Marse Lucian (all children of the
first Beverly Jones and 'old Miss Julia',) but it don't seem right with
Miss Ella gone. Life seems dif'rent, some how, 'though there' lots of my
young white folks an' my own kin livin' round an' they're real good to
me. But Miss Ella's gone!
"Goodday, Ma'am. Come anytime. You're welcome to. I'm right glad to have
visitors 'cause I can't get out much." A bobbing little curtsy
accompanies Betty's cordial farewell.
Although a freed woman for 71 years, property owner for half of them,
and now revered head of a clan of self respecting, self-supporting
colored citizens, she is still at heart a "Jones negro," and all the
distinguished descendants of her beloved Marse Beverly and Miss Julia
will be her "own folks" as long as she lives.
N. C. District: No. 2 [320188]
No. Words: 340
Worker: Mary A. Hicks
Subject: Ex-slave Story
Story Teller: John Coggin
Editor: Daisy Bailey Waitt
[TR: No Date Stamp]
JOHN COGGIN.
Ex-Slave Story.
An interview with John Coggin 85, of Method, N. C.
When the interviewer first visited Uncle John he was busy cutting hay
for a white family nearby, swinging the scythe with the vigor of a young
man. In late afternoon he was found sitting on the doorsteps of his
granddaughter's house after a supper which certainly had onions on the
menu and was followed by something stronger than water.
"I was borned on March 1, 1852 in Orange County. My mammy wuz named
Phillis Fenn an' she wuz from Virginia. I ain't neber had no paw an' I
ain't wanted none, I ain't had no brothers nar sisters nother."
"We 'longed ter Doctor Jim Leathers, an' de only whuppin' I eber got wuz
'bout fightin' wid young Miss Agnes, who wuz sommers long' bout my age.
Hit wuz jist a little whuppin' but I' members hit all right."
"We wucked de fiel's, I totin' water fer de six or seben han's that
wucked dar. An' we jist wucked moderate like. We had plenty ter eat an'
plenty ter w'ar, do' we did go barefooted most of de year. De marster
shore wuz good ter us do'."
"I 'members dat de fust I hyard of de Yankees wuz when young marster
come in an' says, 'Lawd pa, de Yankees am in Raleigh.'"
"Dat ebenin' I wuz drawin' water when all of a sudden I looks up de
road, an' de air am dark wid Yankees. I neber seed so many mens, hosses
an' mules in my life. De band wuz playin' an' de soldiers wuz hollerin'
an' de hosses wuz prancin' high. I done what all of de rest o' de slaves
done, I run fer de woods."
"Atter de surrender we moved ter a place nigh Dix Hill hyar in Raleigh
an' my mammy married a Coggin, dar's whar I gits my name. All of us
slaves moved dar an' farmed."
"Way long time atter dat ole Marster Jim come ter visit his niggers, an'
we had a big supper in his honor. Dat night he died, an' 'fore he died
his min' sorta wanders an' he thinks dat hit am back in de slave days
an' dat atter a long journey he am comin' back home. Hit shore wuz
pitiful an' we shore did hate it."
"Yes 'um honey, we got 'long all right atter de war. You knows dat
niggers ain't had no sense den, now dey has. Look at dese hyar seben
chilluns, dey am my great gran'chillun an' dey got a heap mo' sense dan
I has right now."