N. C. District: No. 3 [ ]
Worker: Travis Jordan
Subject: SARAH ANNE GREEN
Ex-Slave, 78 Years
Durham County
[TR: No Date Stamp]
SARAH ANNE GREEN
EX-SLAVE 78 YEARS
My mammy an' pappy wuz Anderson an' Hannah Watson. We fus' belonged to
Marse Billy an' Mis Roby Watson, but when Marse Billy's daughter, Mis'
Susie ma'ied young Marse Billy Headen, Ole Marse give her me, an' my
mammy an' my pappy for er weddin' gif'. So, I growed up as Sarah Anne
Headen.
My pappy had blue eyes. Dey wuz jus' like Marse Billy's eyes, kaze Ole
Marse wuz pappy's marster an' his pappy too. Ole Marse wuz called
Hickory Billy, dey called him dat kaze he chewed hickory bark. He
wouldn' touch 'bacca, but he kept er twis' of dis bark in his pocket
mos' all de time. He would make us chillun go down whare de niggers wuz
splittin' rails an' peel dis bark off de logs befo' dey wuz split. De
stuff he chewed come off de log right under de bark. After dey'd skin de
logs we'd peel off dis hickory 'bacca in long strips an' make it up in
twis's for Ole Marse. It wuz yellah an' tas' sweet an' sappy, an' he'd
chew an' spit, an' chew an' spit. Mis' Roby wouldn' 'low no chewin' in
de house, but Ole Marse sho done some spittin' outside. He could stan'
in de barn door an' spit clear up in de lof'.
Ole Marse an' Mis Roby lived on er big plantation near Goldston an' dey
had 'bout three hundred slaves. Hannah, my mammy, wuz de head
seamstress. She had to 'ten' to de makin' of all de slaves clothes. De
niggers had good clothes. De cloth wuz home woven in de weavin' room.
Ten niggers didn' do nothin' but weave, but every slave had one Sunday
dress a year made out of store bought cloth. Ole Marse seed to dat. Ole
Marse made de niggers go to chu'ch too. He had er meetin' house on
plantation an' every Sunday we wuz ma'ched to meetin'. Dey wuz preachin'
every other Sunday an' Sunday School every Sunday. Marse Billy an' Mis'
Roby teached de Sunday School, but dey didn' teach us to read an' write,
no suh, dey sho didn'. If dey'd see us wid er book dey'd whip us. Dey
said niggers didn' need no knowledge; dat dey mus' do what dey wuz tole
to do. Marse Billy wuz er doctor too. He doctored de slaves when dey got
sick, an' if dey got bad off he sen' for er sho nuff doctor an' paid de
bills.
Every Chris'mas Marse Billy give de niggers er big time. He called dem
up to de big house an' give dem er bag of candy, niggertoes, an' sugar
plums, den he say: 'Who wants er egg nog, boys?' All dem dat wants er
dram hol' up dey han's.' Yo' never seed such holdin' up of han's. I
would hol' up mine too, an' Ole Marse would look at me an say, 'Go 'way
from hear, Sarah Anne, yo' too little to be callin' for nog.' But he
fill up de glass jus' de same an' put in er extra spoon of sugar an'
give it to me. Dat sho wuz good nog. 'Twuz all foamy wid whipped cream
an' rich wid eggs. Marse Billy an' Mis' Roby served it demselves from
dey Sunday cut glass nog bowl, an' it kept Estella an' Rosette busy
fillin' it up. Marse Billy wuz er good man.
When de war come on Marse Billy was too ole to go, but young Marse Billy
an' Marse Gaston went. Dey wuz Ole Marse's two boys. Young Marse Billy
Headen, Mis' Susie's husban' went too.
De day Ole Marse heard dat de Yankees wuz comin' he took all de meat
'cept two or three pieces out of de smoke house, den he got de silver
an' things an' toted dem to de wood pile. He dug er hole an' buried dem,
den he covered de place wid chips, but wid dat he wuzn' satisfied, so he
made pappy bring er load of wood an' throw it on top of it, so when de
Yankees come dey didn' fin' it.
When de Yankees come up in de yard Marse Billy took Mis' Roby an' locked
her up in dey room, den he walk 'roun' an' watched de Yankees, but dey
toted off what dey wanted. I wuzn' skeered of de Yankees; I thought dey
wuz pretty mens in dey blue coats an' brass buttons. I followed dem all
'roun' beggin' for dey coat buttons. I ain't never seed nothin' as
pretty as dem buttons. When dey lef' I followed dem way down de road
still beggin', 'twell one of dem Yankees pull off er button an' give it
to me. 'Hear, Nigger,' he say, 'take dis button. I's givin' it to you
kaze yo's got blue eyes. I ain't never seed blue eyes in er black face
befo'.' I had blue eyes like pappy an' Marse Billy, an' I kept dat
Yankee button 'twell I wuz ma'ied, den I los' it.
De wus' thing I know dat happened, in de war wuz when Mis' Roby foun' de
Yankee sojer in de ladies back house.
Down at de back of de garden behin' de row of lilac bushes wuz de two
back houses, one for de mens an' one for de ladies. Mis' Roby went down
to dis house one day, an' when she opened de door, dare lay er Yankee
sojer on de floor. His head wuz tied up wid er bloody rag an' he look
like he wuz dead.
Mammy say she seed Mis' Roby when she come out. She looked skeered but
she didn' scream nor nothin'. When she seed mammy she motioned to her.
She tole her 'bout de Yankee. 'He's jus' er boy, Hannah,' she say, 'he
ain't no older den Marse Gaston, an' he's hurt. We got to do somethin'
an' we can't tell nobody.' Den she sen' mammy to de house for er pan of
hot water, de scissors an' er ole sheet. Mis' Roby cut off de bloody ran
an' wash dat sojer boy's head den she tied up de cut places. Den she
went to de house an' made mammy slip him er big milk toddy. 'Bout dat
time she seed some ho'seman comin' down de road. When dey got closer she
seed dey wuz 'Federate sojers. Dey rode up in de yard an' Marse Billy
went out to meet dem. Dey tole him dat dey wuz lookin' for er Yankee
prisoner dat done got away from dey camp.
After Ole Marse tole dem dat he ain't seed no Yankee sojer, dey tole him
dat dey got to search de place kaze dat wuz orders.
When Mis Roby heard dem say dat she turned an' went through de house to
do back yard. She walk 'roun' 'mong de flowers, but all de time she
watchin' dem 'Federates search de barns, stables, an' everywhare. But,
when dey start to de lilac bushes, Mis' Roby lif' her head an' walk
right down de paf to de ladies back house, an' right befo' all dem mens,
wid dem lookin' at her, she opened de door an' walk in. She sholy did.
Dat night when 'twuz dark Mis' Roby wrap' up er passel of food an' er
bottle of brandy an' give it to dat sojer Yankee boy. She tole him dey
wuz ho'ses in de paster an' dat de Yankee camp wuz over near Laurinburg
or somewhare like dat.
Nobody ain't seed dat boy since, but somehow dat ho'se come back an' in
his mane wuz er piece of paper. Marse Billy foun' it an' brung it to
Mis' Roby an' ax her what it meant.
Mis' Roby took it an' 'twuz er letter dat sojer boy done wrote tellin'
her dat he wuz safe an' thankin' her for what she done for him.
Mis' Roby tole Marse Billy she couldn' help savin' dat Yankee, he too
much of er boy.
Marse Billy he look at Mis' Roby, den he say: 'Roby, honey, yo's braver
den any sojer I ever seed.'
N. C. District: No. 2 [320356]
Worker: T. Pat Matthews
No. Words: 624
Subject: DORCAS GRIFFETH
Person Interviewed: Dorcas Griffeth
Editor: Daisy Bailey Waitt
[TR: Date Stamp "JUN 26 1937"]
DORCAS GRIFFETH
602 E. South Street
You know me every time you sees me don't you? Who tole you I wus Dorcas
Griffith? I seed you up town de other day. Yes, yes, I is old. I is 80
years old. I remember all about dem Yankees. The first biscuit I ever et
dey give it to me. I wus big enough to nus de babies when de Yankees
came through. Dey carried biscuits on dere horses, I wus jist thinkin'
of my young missus de other day. I belonged to Doctor Clark in Chatham
County near Pittsboro. My father wus named Billy Dismith, and my mother
wus named Peggy Council. She belonged to the Councils. Father, belonged
to the Dismiths and I belonged to the Clarks. Missus wus named Winnie.
Dey had tolerable fine food for de white folks, but I did not get any of
it. De food dey give us wus mighty nigh nuthin'. Our clothes wus bad and
our sleepin' places wus not nuthin' at all. We had a hard time. We had a
hard time then and we are havin' a hard time now. We have a house to
live in now, and de chinches eat us up almos, and we have nuthin' to
live on now, jist a little from charity. I fares mighty bad. Dey gives
me a half peck of meal and a pound o' meat, a little oat meal, and
canned grape juice, a half pound o' coffee and no sugar or lard and no
flour. Dey gives us dat for a week's eatin'.
De Yankees called de niggers who wus plowin' de mules when dey came
through an' made 'em bring 'em to 'em an' dey carried de mules on wid
em. De niggers called de Yankees Blue Jackets.
I had two brothers, both older dan me. George de oldest and Jack. Let
me see I had four sisters 1, 2, 3, 4; one wus named Annie, one named
Rosa, Annie, and Francis and myself Dorcas. All de games I played wus de
wurk in de field wid a hoe. Dere wus no playgrounds like we has now. No,
no, if you got your work done you done enough. If I could see how to
write like you I could do a lot o' work but I can't see. I kin write. I
got a good education acording to readin', spellin, and writin'. I kin
say de 2nd chapter of Matthey by heart, the 27 chapter of Ezelial by
heart, or most of Ezekial by heart.
I learned it since I got free. I went to school in Raleigh to de
Washington School. Dey wouldn't let us have books when I wus a slave. I
wus afraid ter be caught wid a book. De patterollers scared us so bad in
slavery time and beat so many uv de slaves dat we lef' de plantation
jus' as soon as we wus free. Dat's de reason father lef' de plantation
so quick. I also remember de Ku Klux. I wus afraid o' dem, and I did not
think much of 'em. I saw slaves whupped till de blood run down dere
backs. Once dey whupped some on de plantation and den put salt on de
places and pepper on 'em. I didn't think nuthin in de world o' slavery.
I think de it wus wrong. I didn't think a thing o' slavery.
All my people are dead, and I am unable to work. I haven't been able to
work in six years. I thought Abraham Lincoln wus a good man. He had a
good name.
I don't know much about Mr. Roosevelt but I hopes he will help me,
cause I need it mighty bad.
[TR: No Header Page]
SARAH GUDGER [320005]
Ex-slave, 121 years
Investigation of the almost incredible claim of Aunt Sarah Gudger,
ex-slave living in Asheville, that she was born on Sept. 15, 1816,
discloses some factual information corroborating her statements.
Aunt Sarah's father, Smart Gudger, belonged to and took his family name
from Joe Gudger, who lived near Oteen, about six miles east of Asheville
in the Swannanoa valley, prior to the War Between the States. Family
records show that Joe Gudger married a Miss McRae in 1817, and that
while in a despondent mood he ended his own life by hanging, as vividly
recounted by the former slave.
John Hemphill, member of the family served by Aunt Sarah until
"freedom," is recalled as being "a few y'ars younge' as me," and indeed
his birth is recorded for 1822. Alexander Hemphill, mentioned by Aunt
Sarah as having left to join the Confederate army when about 25 years of
age, is authentic and his approximate age in 1861 tallies with that
recalled by the ex-slave. When Alexander went off to the war Aunt Sarah
was "gettin' t' be an ol' woman."
Aunt Sarah lives with distant cousins in a two-story frame house,
comfortably furnished, at 8 Dalton street in South Asheville (the Negro
section lying north of Kenilworth). A distant male relative, 72 years of
age, said he has known Aunt Sarah all his life and that she was an old
woman when he was a small boy. Small in stature, about five feet tall,
Aunt Sarah is rathered rounded in face and body. Her milk-chocolate face
is surmounted by short, sparse hair, almost milk white. She is somewhat
deaf but understands questions asked her, responding with animation. She
walks with one crutch, being lame in the right leg. On events of the
long ago her mind is quite clear. Recalling the Confederate "sojers,
marchin', marchin'" to the drums, she beat a tempo on the floor with her
crutch. As she described how the hands of slaves were tied before they
were whipped for infractions she crossed her wrists.
Owen Gudger, Asheville postmaster (1913-21), member of the Buncombe
County Historical Association, now engaged in the real estate business,
says he has been acquainted with Aunt Sarah all his life; that he has,
on several occasions, talked to her about her age and early
associations, and that her responses concerning members of the Gudger
and Hemphill families coincide with known facts of the two families.
Interviewed by a member of the Federal Writers' Project, Aunt Sarah
seemed eager to talk, and needed but little prompting.
SARAH GUDGER
(born September 15, 1816)
Interview with Mrs. Marjorie Jones, May 5, 1937
I wah bo'n 'bout two mile fum Ole Fo't on de Ole Mo'ganton Road. I sho'
has had a ha'd life. Jes wok, an' wok, an' wok. I nebbah know nothin'
but wok. Mah boss he wah Ole Man Andy Hemphill. He had a la'ge
plantation in de valley. Plenty ob ebbathin'. All kine ob stock: hawgs,
cows, mules, an' hosses. When Marse Andy die I go lib wif he son,
William Hemphill.
I nebbah fo'git when Marse Andy die. He wah a good ole man, and de
Missie she wah good, too. She usta read de Bible t' us chillun afoah she
pass away.
Mah pappy, he lib wif Joe Gudgah (Gudger). He ole an' feeble, I
'membahs. He 'pend on mah pappy t' see aftah ebbathin' foah him. He
allus trust mah pappy. One mo'nin' he follah pappy to de field. Pappy he
stop hes wok and ole Marse Joe, he say: "Well, Smart (pappy, he name
Smart), I's tard, wurried, an' trubble'. All dese yeahs I wok foah mah
chillun. Dey nevah do de right thing. Dey wurries me, Smart. I tell yo',
Smart, I's a good mind t' put mahself away. I's good mind t' drown
mahself right heah. I tebble wurried, Smart."
Pappy he take hole Ole Marse Joe an' lead him t' de house. "Now Marse
Joe, I wudden talk sich talk effen I's yo'. Yo' ben good t' yo' fambly.
Jest yo' content yo'self an' rest."
But a few days aftah dat, Ole Marse Joe wah found ahangin' in de ba'n by
de bridle. Ole Marse had put heself away.
No'm, I nebbah knowed whut it wah t' rest. I jes wok all de time f'om
mawnin' till late at night. I had t' do ebbathin' dey wah t' do on de
outside. Wok in de field, chop wood, hoe cawn, till sometime I feels lak
mah back sholy break. I done ebbathin' 'cept split rails. Yo' know, dey
split rails back in dem days. Well, I nevah did split no rails.
Ole Marse strop us good effen we did anythin' he didn' lak. Sometime he
get hes dandah up an' den we dassent look roun' at him. Else he tie yo'
hands afoah yo' body an' whup yo', jes lak yo' a mule. Lawdy, honey, I's
tuk a thousand lashins in mah day. Sometimes mah poah ole body be soah
foah a week.
Ole Boss he send us niggahs out in any kine ob weathah, rain o' snow, it
nebbah mattah. We had t' go t' de mountings, cut wood an' drag it down
t' de house. Many de time we come in wif ouh cloes stuck t' ouh poah ole
cold bodies, but 'twarn't no use t' try t' git 'em dry. Ef de Ole Boss
o' de Ole Missie see us dey yell: "Git on out ob heah yo' black thin',
an' git yo' wok outen de way!" An' Lawdy, honey, we knowed t' git, else
we git de lash. Dey did'n cah how ole o' how young yo' wah, yo' nebbah
too big t' git de lash.
De rich white folks nebbah did no wok; dey had da'kies t' do it foah
dem. In de summah we had t' wok outdoo's, in de wintah in de house. I
had t' ceard an' spin till ten o'clock. Nebbah git much rest, had t' git
up at foah de nex' mawnin' an' sta't agin. Didn' get much t' eat,
nuthah, jes a lil' cawn bread an' 'lasses. Lawdy, honey, yo' caint know
whut a time I had. All cold n' hungry. No'm, I aint tellin' no lies. It
de gospel truf. It sho is.
I 'membah well how I use t' lie 'wake till all de folks wah sleepin',
den creep outen de do' and walk barfoot in de snow, 'bout two mile t'
mah ole Auntie's house. I knowed when I git dar she fix hot cawn pone
wif slice o' meat an' some milk foah me t' eat. Auntie wah good t' us
da'kies.
I nebbah sleep on a bedstead till aftah freedom, no'm till [HW:
asterisk] aftah freedom. Jes' an ole pile o' rags in de conah. Ha'dly
'nuf t' keep us from freezin'. Law, chile, nobuddy knows how mean
da'kies wah treated. Wy, dey wah bettah t' de animals den t' us'ns. Mah
fust Ole Marse wah a good ole man, but de las'n, he wah rapid--- he sho
wah rapid. Wy, chile, times aint no mo' lak dey usta be den de day an'
night am lak. In mah day an' time all de folks woked. Effen dey had no
niggahs dey woked demselves. Effen de chillun wah too small tuh hoe, dey
pull weeds. Now de big bottom ob de Swannano (Swannanoa) dat usta grow
hunners bushels ob grain am jest a playgroun'. I lak t' see de chillun
in de field. Wy, now dey fight yo' lak wilecat effen it ebben talked
'bout. Dat's de reason times so ha'd. No fahmin'. Wy, I c'n 'membah Ole
Missie she say: "Dis gene'ation'll pass away an' a new gene'ation'll cum
'long." Dat's jes' it--ebbah gene'ation gits weakah an' weakah. Den dey
talk 'bout goin' back t' ole times. Dat time done gone, dey nebbah meet
dat time agin.
Wahn't none o' de slaves offen ouh plantation ebbah sold, but de ones on
de othah plantation ob Marse William wah. Oh, dat wah a tebble time! All
de slaves be in de field, plowin', hoein', singin' in de boilin' sun.
Ole Marse he cum t'ru de field wif a man call de specalater. Day walk
round jes' lookin', jes'lookin', All de da'kies know whut dis mean. Dey
didn' dare look up, jes' wok right on. Den de specalater he see who he
want. He talk to Ole Marse, den dey slaps de han'cuffs on him an' tak
him away to de cotton country. Oh, dem wah awful times! When de
specalater wah ready to go wif de slaves, effen dey wha enny whu didn'
wanta go, he thrash em, den tie em 'hind de waggin an' mek em run till
dey fall on de groun', den he thrash em till dey say dey go 'thout no
trubble. Sometime some of dem run 'way an cum back t' de plantation, den
it wah hardah on dem den befoah. When de da'kies wen' t' dinnah de ole
niggah mammy she say whar am sich an' sich. None ob de othahs wanna tell
huh. But when she see dem look down to de groun' she jes' say: "De
specalater, de specalater." Den de teahs roll down huh cheeks, cause
mebbe it huh son o' husban' an' she know she nebbah see 'em agin. Mebbe
dey leaves babies t' home, mebbe jes' pappy an' mammy. Oh, mah Lawdy,
mah ole Boss wah mean, but he nebbah sen' us to de cotton country.
Dey wah ve'y few skules back in day day an time, ve'y few. We da'kies
didn' dah look at no book, not ebben t' pick it up. Ole Missie, dat is,
mah firs' Ole Missie, she wah a good ole woman. She read to de niggahs
and t' de white chillun. She cum fum cross de watah. She wahn't lak de
sma't white folks livin' heah now. When she come ovah heah she brung
darky boy wif huh. He wah huh pussonal su'vant. Co'se, dey got diffent
names foah dem now, but in dat day dey calls 'em ginney niggahs. She wah
good ole woman, not lak othah white folks. Niggahs lak Ole Missie.
When de da'kies git sick, dey wah put in a lil' ole house close t' de
big house, an' one of the othah da'kies waited on 'em. Dey wah ve'y few
doctahs den. Ony three in de whole section. When dey wanted med'cine dey
went t' de woods an' gathahed hoahhound, slipperelm foah poltices an'
all kinds ba'k foah teas. All dis yarbs bring yo' round. Dey wah ve'y
few lawyers den too, but lawsy me, yo' cain't turn round fer dem now.
I 'membahs when mah ole mammy die. She live on Rims (Reems) Crick with
othah Hemphills. She sick long time. One day white man cum t' see me. He
say: "Sarah, did yo' know yo' manmy wah daid?" "No," I say, "but I wants
t' see mah mothah afoah dey puts huh away."
I went t' de house and say t' Ole Missie: "Mah mothah she die tofay. I
wants t' see mah mothah afoah dey puts huh away," but she look at me
mean an' say: "Git on outen heah, an' git back to yo' wok afoah I wallup
yo' good." So I went back t' mah wok, with the tears streamin' down mah
face, jest awringin' mah hands, I wanted t' see mah manmy so. 'Bout two
weeks latah, Ole Missie she git tebble sick, she jes' lingah 'long foah
long time, but she nebbah gits up no mo'. Wa'nt long afoah dey puts huh
away too, jes' lak mah mammy.
I 'membahs de time when mah mammy wah alive, I wah a small chile, afoah
dey tuk huh t' Rims Crick. All us chilluns wah playin' in de ya'd one
night. Jes' arunnin' an' aplayin' lak chillun will. All a sudden mammy
cum to de do' all a'sited. "Cum in heah dis minnit," she say. "Jes look
up at what is ahappenin'", and bless yo' life, honey, de sta's wah
fallin' jes' lak rain.[7] Mammy wah tebble skeered, but we chillun
wa'nt afeard, no, we wa'nt afeard. But mammy she say evah time a sta'
fall, somebuddy gonna die. Look lak lotta folks gonna die f'om de looks
ob dem sta's. Ebbathin' wah jes' as bright as day. Yo' cudda pick a pin
up. Yo' know de sta's don' shine as bright as dey did back den. I wondah
wy dey don'. Dey jes' don' shine as bright. Wa'nt long afoah dey took
mah mammy away, and I wah lef' alone.
On de plantation wah an ole woman whut de boss bought f'om a drovah up
in Virginny. De boss he bought huh f'om one ob de specalaters. She laff
an' tell us: "Some ob dese days yo'all gwine be free, jes' lak de white
folks," but we all laff at huh. No, we jes' slaves, we allus hafta wok
and nevah be free. Den when freedom cum, she say: "I tole yo'all, now
yo' got no larnin', yo' got no nothin', got no home; whut yo' gwine do?
Didn' I tell yo'?"
I wah gittin along smartly in yeahs when de wah cum. Ah 'membah jes' lak
yestiddy jes' afoah de wah. Marse William wah atalkin' t' hes brothah. I
wah standin' off a piece. Marse's brothah, he say: "William, how ole
Aunt Sarah now?" Marse William look at me an' he say: "She gittin' nigh
onta fifty." Dat wah jes' a lil while afoah de wah.
Dat wah awful time. Us da'kies didn' know whut it wah all bout. Ony one
of de boys f'om de plantation go. He Alexander, he 'bout twenty-five
den. Many de time we git word de Yankees comin'. We take ouh food an'
stock an' hide it till we sho' dey's gone. We wan't bothahed much. One
day, I nebbah fo'git, we look out an' see sojers ma'chin'; look lak de
whole valley full ob dem. I thought: "Poah helpless crittahs, jes' goin'
away t' git kilt." De drums wah beatin' an' de fifes aplayin'. Dey wah
de foot comp'ny. Oh, glory, it wah a sight. Sometime dey cum home on
furlough. Sometime dey git kilt afoah dey gits th'ough. Alexander, he
cum home a few time afoah freedom.
When de wah was ovah, Marse William he say: "Did yo'all know yo'all's
free, Yo' free now." I chuckle, 'membahin' whut ole woman tell us 'bout
freedom, an' no larnin. Lotta men want me t' go t' foreign land, but I
tell 'em I go live wif mah pappy, long as he live. I stay wif de white
folks 'bout twelve months, den I stay wif mah pappy, long as he live.
I had two brothahs, dey went t' Califonny, nebbah seed 'em no mo', no'
mah sistah, nuther. I cain't 'membah sech a lot 'bout it all. I jes'
knows I'se bo'n and bred heah [HW correction: here] in dese pa'ts,
nebbah been outten it. I'se well; nebbah take no doctah med'cine. Jes'
ben sick once; dat aftah freedom.
[Footnote 7: (One of the most spectacular meteoric showers on record,
visible all over North America, occurred in 1833.)]
N. C. District: No. 2 [320007]
Worker: T. Pat Matthews
No. Words: 734
Subject: THOMAS HALL
Person Interviewed: Thomas Hall
Editor: G. L. Andrews
[TR: Date Stamp "SEP 10 1937"]
THOMAS HALL
Age 81 years
316 Tarboro Road, Raleigh, N. C.
My name is Thomas Hall and I was born in Orange County, N. C. on a
plantation belonging to Jim Woods whose wife, our missus, was named
Polly. I am eighty one years of age as I was born Feb. 14, 1856. My
father Daniel Hall and my mother Becke Hall and me all belonged to the
same man but it was often the case that this wus not true as one man,
perhaps a Johnson, would own a husband and a Smith own the wife, each
slave goin' by the name of the slave owners, family. In such cases the
children went by the name of the family to which the mother belonged.
Gettin married an' having a family was a joke in the days of slavery,
as the main thing in allowing any form of matrimony among the slaves was
to raise more slaves in the same sense and for the same purpose as stock
raisers raise horses and mules, that is for work. A woman who could
produce fast was in great demand and brought a good price on the auction
block in Richmond, Va., Charleston, S. C., and other places.
The food in many cases that was given the slaves was not given them for
their pleasure or by a cheerful giver, but for the simple and practical
reason that children would not grow into a large healthy slave unless
they were well fed and clothed; and given good warm places in which to
live.
Conditions and rules were bad and the punishments were severe and
barbarous. Some marsters acted like savages. In some instances slaves
were burned at the stake. Families were torn apart by selling. Mothers
were sold from their children. Children were sold from their mothers,
and the father was not considered in anyway as a family part. These
conditions were here before the Civil War and the conditions in a
changed sense have been here ever since. The whites have always held the
slaves in part slavery and are still practicing the same things on them
in a different manner. Whites lynch, burn, and persecute the Negro race
in America yet; and there is little they are doing to help them in
anyway.
Lincoln got the praise for freeing us, but did he do it? He give us
freedom without giving us any chance to live to ourselves and we still
had to depend on the southern white man for work, food and clothing, and
he held us through our necessity and want in a state of servitude but
little better than slavery. Lincoln done but little for the Negro race
and from living standpoint nothing. White folks are not going to do
nothing for Negroes except keep them down.
Harriet Beecher Stowe, the writer of Uncle Tom's Cabin, did that for
her own good. She had her own interests at heart and I don't like her,
Lincoln, or none of the crowd. The Yankees helped free us, so they say,
but they let us be put back in slavery again.
When I think of slavery it makes me mad. I do not believe in giving you
my story 'cause with all the promises that have been made the Negro is
still in a bad way in the United States, no matter in what part he
lives it's all the same. Now you may be all right; there are a few white
men who are but the pressure is such from your white friends that you
will be compelled to talk against us and give us the cold shoulder when
you are around them, even if your heart is right towards us.
You are going around to get a story of slavery conditions and the
persecusions of Negroes before the civil war and the economic conditions
concerning them since that war. You should have known before this late
day all about that. Are you going to help us? No! you are only helping
yourself. You say that my story may be put into a book, that you are
from the Federal Writer's Project. Well, the Negro will not get anything
out of it, no matter where you are from. Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote
Uncle Tom's Cabin. I didn't like her book and I hate her. No matter
where you are from I don't want you to write my story cause the white
folks have been and are now and always will be against the negro.