*Interview with Peter Corn,*
*Herculaneum, Missouri.*
_Peter Tells How Slavery Began_
"I'se 83 years old and was born in Ste. Genevieve County and my old
slave-time place was in New Tennessee about 14 miles west of de town of
Ste. Genevieve. My master had only my mother, my mother's brother, and
an old lady by de name of Malinda. My mother had six children but only
four of us lived to be grown. Father was owned by a Mr. Aubushon right
dere at Coffman. Mother come from way south in Kentucky and she was
owned by a Master Calvin dere and when him and de mistress died de
slaves had to be divided up among de children. Den my mother's mistress
left Louisville and brought her here to Missouri. When mother come to
Missouri she was only 9 years old.
"My old mistress, I can't say a hard word about her. Before I was borned
she was left a widow and she treated us almost like white folks. She
took care of us and raised us up. Mother died after she had six children
and we was left in de care of dis old mistress. The Catholic people
treated us like as if we was free. My mother and father was married by
de priest and it was lawful. But dese other ones was married by de
master hisself. When dey married de master could pick up any old kind of
paper and call it lawfully married. An almanac or anything would do. But
what was it? The colored people didn't know A from B and wasn't allowed
to learn to read. If my master or mistress would see me readin' a paper
dey would come up and say, 'What you know about reading a paper? Throw
dat down.' Dis was done to keep us from learnin' to read anything.
"After we got free what did we do to get lawfully married to our
slave-time wife? Understand good now. Den de squire came around and we
had to get married all over again under de new constitution. It would
cost $5. When de master first married us he would say in de ceremony
something like dis:
"'Now, by God, if you ain't treatin' her right, by God, I'll take you up
and whip you.' The girl's mistress would chastise her de same way. I
would choose who I wanted to marry but I had to talk to my master about
it. Den him and de owner of de girl I wanted would get together and talk
it over.
"Dere is lots of people right today who can't tell you how de new
constitution come up. In slave time, young man, we was stock, like
cattle and hogs. If I killed 50 men nothin' was said about jail, but we
got whipped den. Dat was your sufferin' for what you done done. Man, I
never got but one whippin' from my master. I can tell you just how it
come. It was done through takin' care of an old cow. Now, in dem times,
son, dere was not gates like dere is now. You called dem 'slip bars',
and would let down a rail fence called bars to let the cattle in.
Understand, listen at it good now. Every mornin' I had to go up to de
straw stack and drive de cows to de barn. To milk dem we had to drive
dem down a lane to de house for de old cook woman to milk. As I drove
dese cows dey all got through de gate but when de last cow come through
she fell over de bottom rail and de master was standin' at de window and
saw dis happen. De snow was about three feet deep. Now listen good. De
old master was crippled and so here he come with a walkin' stick in one
hand and a cowhide in de other.
"He said, 'By God, I'm goin' to learn you, by God, how to let down
bars'. I said, 'Marster Jim, I let down every bar 'cept dat one on de
bottom'. He jumped on me and got me down in dat snow till I couldn't see
him at all. Every time he raised up an' come down with dat cowhide it
cut through de snow and hit me. I didn't had nuthin' on 'cept an old
pair of socks around my feet. You know if you was raised from birth like
dis you could stand it. It come to me, I thought dat if I ever get to be
a man I would pay de marster back for dat.
"And so after dat when we got free I was growin' on 13 years of age. My
aunt and brothers come and got me. My old master was a shoemaker, and
one day my uncle told me to take a pair of boots and take dem over to
have half-soled. I taken dem over. I had not come across the old master
since de time we was free until dis day. But when I went in de house de
family was around dere and I forgot about payin' him back for de way he
done treated me. Jim's mother who was dere said, 'Well, Peter, don't you
wish you was back here livin' with us again?' I said, 'No, mam.' Den I
went in de kitchin and talked to Jim's wife. She was a Republican and
said, 'Wasn't dat hateful what she said about you bein' back here
again?' De next time I met my old master, Mr. Galvin, was on de road. He
was walkin' and could hardly drag. I was ridin' my horse and thought
about gettin' down and whippin' him but when I looked at him I thought I
might as well be whippin' a year old child. I let him go.
"Later on Jim got poor and one day I met him at de saloon in Staabtown.
He wanted to get some leather from another store. He asked me if he
could have my horse. I said rather sharp, 'No, I won't.' Den I thought
and said, 'Mr. Jim, I'll go and get de leather myself.' So I got de
leather and taken it to his home and set it in on de porch by his door.
Den he said, 'Peter, I thank you a thousand times. Any time you need
anything in de shoe line come to me.'
"Later on he was down and out and he come to his sisters. Dey could not
take care of him so dey put him in de asylum in Farmington. I met him in
Farmington on lots of days, and felt like payin' him back for dat
whippin'. But just looked like every time, God would say, 'No, don't do
dat. He will pay for dat. He will come down'. And he sure did pay for
it. He died in de asylum out from Farmington. I never mentioned about
dat whippin' to Jim Galvin, not a nary time.
"When I was freed I felt like I was goin' into a new world. It was de
daughter of de old mistress what told me I was as free as dey was. It
was dangerous around de house durin' of de war. So de old mistress broke
up de old place and us boys was given to our godmother. Mary was my
godmother and it was here I was told dat I was free. We was little and
didn't know which way to go. My mistress said, 'Now Peter, you are free
and de first chance we get we are going to send for your aunt to come
and get you.' Dere were four of us brothers bein' taken care of by four
sisters, when we was free. My uncle was in de army and served two years
and had come home. He asked my aunt, 'Where are dose boys?' My aunt
said, 'Dey is still with de white folks.' So my uncle come to get us.
When he come he rid up and we was so glad to see him we run out and met
him. He said, 'Boys, I've come after you.'
"We walked up to de house. Den de white folks was just as glad to see
Uncle Julius as if he had been their brother. Den Uncle Julius said to
my godmother, Mary, 'Well, Miss Evely, I come after Pete.' She said,
'Julius, I'm awful glad you've come to get him, I hate to give him up,
but take him and take good care of him.' Julius was told de same thing
by all de other godmothers of my brothers. All of dese sisters had de
winter clothes for us cut out but dey wasn't made. De white women said,
'All your aunt has to do is to make dem.' We had between nine and ten
miles to go to get down to my aunt's home.
"My aunt's husband was freed at least 15 years before de war started.
His master died and he was freed by a will when the master went to de
court house in Ste. Genevieve. Now, just listen good. Dis master willed
800 acres to his slaves who divided up de farm. Before he died, he put
it down in a way dat his daughters and sons-in-laws could not break it
'cepting dey would raise several thousand dollars. De old slaves would
sit down and tell us about it. De master turns in and pays de taxes up
for 100 years. One of de trustees for de will was a Dr. Herdick and
Henry Rozier both of Ste. Genevieve. My uncle's part was 40 acres and it
was dis farm where I went when I come out from under de shelter of de
white folks. De colored would sell 2 or 3 acres at a time and all dis
farm is now sold. I was 13 when I got free and went to dis farm and
there was my home until I was right at a grown man. De only taxes we had
to pay was on household goods and stock. Every year when de personal
taxes come due I would go into Ste. Genevieve to pay de taxes. As long
as Dr. Herdick and Henry Rozier lived as overseers we was well protected
on de farm. But Ed Rozier, a lawyer, tried to get us to pay de other
kind of taxes.
"I was goin' on 20 or 21 before I left de farm. De old lady and Uncle
died about de same time. Dey took de old lady to de River Aux Vases
Catholic Church to bury her and I stayed with de old man and he died
before dey got back from de funeral. We sold our forty acres and dere
was six heirs. Den I went to work on a farm of Mr. Aubushon for $10 a
month for 15 years. When I quit Aubushon I went den out in Washington
County at Potosi and stayed with my two uncles out dere. I served in a
iron factory dere for about two years. Sometimes I would get $5 a day.
Den when de price would fall off I would get less. Den I come back to
Ste. Genevieve County and worked by de day and den went to St. Louis. I
worked dere from one iron factory to another and so den I quit dat.
"Den I 'run the river' three straight years from St. Louis to Cairo and
Memphis, and Baton Rouge, and New Orleans. I den quit de down trade and
rested up and made de northern trip from St. Louis to St. Paul.
Everything had to be sent from de South out to California. Dat boat had
nothin' on it 'cept eatin' things. So my aim was to get out to
California to dig gold. I got defeated in dis way.
"De river got so low dat we would be tied up for 3 or 4 days before we
could unload it. And we never made it to de port where we could unload
it to send it to California. From dese ports you went by land with a
covered wagon and oxen or mules. It would sometimes take 6 months to get
to California from de time we left de river. My way would have been free
because I could drive a team out to California. But I never got to go
'cause de river got so low. I quit de river work and done some farming
for first one den another down in Ste. Genevieve County for a couple of
years.
"Dey was just startin' up at Crystal City. Dere was lots in de paper
about it. Now and den William Kimer, who was livin' in Jefferson County,
wrote me to work for him. I would work for him from May to December
durin' de wheat cuttin', thrashing, corn pullin' and wheat sowin'. Den
dere was no more summer work, so Crystal City was just startin' up and
dere was no railroad and dey got everything by boat and teams hauled de
things from de river up to de plant. Sometimes there was from 50 to 60
farm teams down at de river haulin' de coal, brick, etc. for de company.
Sometimes we would make $15 a day for de farmer man and he would pay me
$10 a month and board. Den I went to Crystal City and worked 13 straight
years. De most dat ever I got dere was five or six dollars a day. Dis
would be about every three months w'en we tore down de furnace and built
it back. At other times I would get about $4.50 a day. I done
everything. Made mortar, carried de hod and brick and when quittin' time
come you was tired. After I quit Crystal City I went down in Ste.
Genevieve County and farmed and got married and had two children. My
wife and one child, a little girl, is dead. I live here with my son and
his wife. My son has been workin' for de St. Joe here for 12 or 13
years. I had to quit work when I lost my eye-sight.
"I was grubbin' hazel-nut bushes in dem rich bottoms in Ste. Genevieve
County; and one day I was runnin' and fell down on a stob and it went
through my left eye. Dis happened about 40 years ago. De other eye was
good till I was 45 and den I had de loss of both eyes and been blind
ever since. I'se been gettin' a blind pension for 22 years. It is $75
every three months.
"Dere is only one colored family here dat owns their house. All de
others rent from the company. I vote at every presidential election, but
dat's about all I ever do vote. I been votin' for every president
election since I was 21 years old. From de beginning to de end it's
always the same, the Republican ticket. Dey joke me a good deal around
here 'bout voting one way.
"As I look back on it, people ought never to have been slaves. Dat was
the low downest thing dat ever was. De first startin' of slavery was
when a white man would go over to Africa and de people over dere was
ignorant and de white man would hold up a pretty red handkerchief and
trade it for one of de Negro women's children. De Negroes in Africa was
too ignorant to know better and dis is de way slavery started. I always
said like dis, when de older ones that knowed de things, dey ought have
learned de slaves their names as dey was in Africa. Lots of us don't
know what our grandparents was in Africa. Slavery didn't teach you
nothin' but how to work and if you didn't work your back would tell it.
Slavery taught you how to lie, too. Just like your master would tell you
to go over and steal dat hog. Den de other master from who I stole de
hog would say, 'Peter, why I've lost a hog; did you ever see him
anywhere?' I would say, 'No, suh'. Of course if I did not lie I would
get a whippin'.
"De white people did not want to put us in a state to ourselves after de
freedom 'cause dey couldn't do without us. De colored people done come
up too high now to back 'em and dey got a better chance. De conditions
now of de colored people is of course better now 'cause dey is somebody.
But every day dey is tryin' to starve us out and give de white man a job
on de state road. Dey do dat to keep us down. Dat's done more now dan
ever before. It's been worse since Roosevelt got in dere. When Highway
61 was put in from St. Louis down to Festus de colored man had a part to
do. Since Roosevelt got in dey won't even let a colored man walk down de
highway."