Dat morning we all go to de cotton field early, and den a house nigger
come out from old Mistress on a hoss and say she want de overseer to
come into town, and he leave and go in. After while de old horn blow
up at de overseer's house, and we all stop and listen, 'cause it de
wrong time of day for de horn.
We start chopping again, and dar go de horn again.
De lead row nigger holler "Hold up!" And we all stop again. "We better
go on in. Dat our horn," he holler at de head nigger, and de head
nigger think so too, but he say he afraid we catch de devil from de
overseer iffen we quit widout him dar, and de lead row man say maybe
he back from town and blowing de horn hisself, so we line up and go
in.
When we git to de quarters we see all de old ones and de chillun up in
de overseer's yard, so we go on up dar. De overseer setting on de end
of de gallery wid a paper in his hand, and when we all come up he say
come and stand close to de gallery. Den he call off everybody's name
and see we all dar.
Setting on de gallery in a hide-bottom chair was a man we never see
before. He had on a big broad black hat lak de Yankees wore but it
din't have no yaller string on it lak most de Yankees had, and he was
in store clothes dat wasn't homespun or jeans, and dey was black. His
hair was plumb gray and so was his beard, and it come way down here on
his chest, but he didn't look lak he was very old, 'cause his face was
kind of fleshy and healthy looking. I think we all been sold off in a
bunch, and I notice some kind of smiling, and I think they sho' glad
of it.
De man say, "You darkies know what day dis is?" He talk kind, and
smile.
We all don't know of course, and we jest stand dar and grin. Pretty
soon he ask again and de head man say, No, we don't know.
"Well dis de fourth day of June, and dis is 1865, and I want you all
to 'member de date, 'cause you allus going 'member de day. Today you
is free, Jest lak I is, and Mr. Saunders and your Mistress and all us
white people," de man say.
"I come to tell you", he say, "and I wants to be sho' you all
understand, 'cause you don't have to git up and go by de horn no more.
You is your own bosses now, and you don't have to have no passes to go
and come."
We never did have no passes, nohow, but we knowed lots of other
niggers on other plantations got 'em.
"I wants to bless you and hope you always is happy, and tell you got
all de right and lief [TR: sic] dat any white people got", de man say,
and den he git on his hoss and ride off.
We all jest watch him go on down de road, and den we go up to Mr.
Saunders and ask him what he want us to do. He jest grunt and say do
lak we dam please, he reckon, but git off dat place to do it, less'n
any of us wants to stay and make de crop for half of what we make.
None of us know whar to go, so we all stay, and he split up de fields
and show us which part we got to work in, and we go on lak we was, and
make de crop and git it in, but dey ain't no more horn after dat day.
Some de niggers lazy and don't git in de field early, and dey git it
took away from 'em, but dey plead around and git it back and work
better de rest of dat year.
But we all gits fooled on dat first go-out! When de crop all in we
don't git half! Old Mistress sick in town, and de overseer was still
on de place and he charge us half de crop for de quarters and de mules
and tools and grub!
Den he leave, and we gits another white man, and he sets up a book,
and give us half de next year, and take out for what we use up, but we
all got something left over after dat first go-out.
Old Mistress never git well after she lose all her niggers, and one
day de white boss tell us she jest drap over dead setting in her
chair, and we know her heart jest broke.
Next year de chillun sell off most de place and we scatter off, and I
and mammy go into Little Rock and do work in de town. Grandmammy done
dead.
I git married to John White in Little Rock, but he died and we didn't
have no chillun. Den in four, five years I marry Billy Rowe. He was a
Cherokee citizen and he had belonged to a Cherokee name Dave Rowe, and
lived east of Tahlequah before de War. We married in Little Rock, but
he had land in de Cherokee Nation, and we come to east of Tahlequah
and lived 'til he died, and den I come to Tulsa to live wid my
youngest daughter.
Billy Rowe and me had three chillun, Ellie, John, and Lula. Lula
married a Thomas, and it's her I lives with.
Lots of old people lak me say dat dey was happy in slavery, and dat
dey had de worst tribulations after freedom, but I knows dey didn't
have no white master and overseer lak we all had on our place. Dey
both dead now I reckon, and dey no use talking 'bout de dead, but I
know I been gone long ago iffen dat white man Saunder didn't lose his
hold on me.
It was de fourth day of June in 1865 I begins to live, and I gwine
take de picture of dat old man in de big black hat and long whiskers,
setting on de gallery and talking kind to us, clean into my grave wid
me.
No, bless God, I ain't never seen no more black boys bleeding all up
and down de back under a cat o' nine tails, and I never go by no cabin
and hear no poor nigger groaning, all wrapped up in a lardy sheet no
more!
I hear my chillun read about General Lee, and I know he was a good
man, I didn't know nothing about him den, but I know now he wasn't
fighting for dat kind of white folks.
Maybe dey dat kind still yet, but dey don't show it up no more, and I
got lots of white friends too. All my chillun and grandchillun been to
school, and dey git along good, and I know we living in a better
world, what dey ain't nobody "cussing fire to my black heart!"