TARKAR LIFE IN AMERICA
Magazine Point--the site of Meaher’s mill and ship-yard--though but
three miles from Mobile, was inaccessible, except by water or a
circuitous route of some miles by land. Between the two places lay an
impenetrable swamp and forest. Red clay hills rolled away from the
northern border of this jungle, diversifying the strip of country
between Three Mile Creek and Chickasabogue. This extensive area was
known as Meaher’s hummock and was thickly wooded by a suburb forest
of native trees--pine, cypress, bays, magnolias, beech, junipers,
gums, and oaks. These had sheltered the goings and comings of many
peoples. This place had been beloved by the Indians; some still
lingered on among what the Tarkars called the “high trees,” living
in their pine-bark tepees. During the Spanish régime it had been
included in the grant of land known as the St. Louis tract, and Dr.
Charles Mohr points out in his _Plant Life in Alabama_ that it must
have been a feeding place for migratory birds, for tropical plants are
found there which are not known to other parts of the coast. Near the
mouth of Chickasabogue, overlooking the river, there is a prehistoric
shell-mound, overgrown by patriarchal live-oaks, hundreds of years old,
and on this the Tarkars had their first dwellings. Much has been told
and written by casual visitors of the queer rites and superstitions of
“Africa-Town”--the little cluster of huts which have long since been
abandoned--none of which is substantiated by fact or by the actual
knowledge of those who have known and appreciated the Tarkars. But
nothing has been told of the other superstitions with which this region
fairly reeks.
Until the saw-mills became so active there were old beeches near
Chickasabogue and Hog Bayou, bearing seventeenth, eighteenth, and
early nineteenth century dates and curious signs which substantiated
the belief of the credulous and imaginative that through this district
there was much hidden treasure--treasure buried by early adventurers,
by the pirates, and in later times by members of the Copeland gang--and
safely guarded by the spirits of those who had concealed it. Though
this tract is now largely cleared and settled, these traditions and
ghost stories are still told and believed by the negroes, creoles, and
ignorant whites. Poinquinette, an old creole fisherman and a repository
of interesting lore, has related some of his personal encounters with
the Magazine Point ghosts, and so real are they to him, and so vivid
his narrative, that his listeners are thrilled with a sort of belief.
By a dream it was once made known to him and several companions
(Nelson, Sales, Moody, Ebernezar Fisher, and a man named Robinson)
that there was a treasure buried just below Turner & Oats’s mill. The
spot was thickly wooded--high trees and low shrubs--yet not so dense
that they could not see about them--even a bird was visible as it flew
through the brush. They went early one Friday morning and began digging
at seven o’clock. Almost as soon as their spades touched the earth, the
woods began to resound with voices--child voices--and they wondered
where children’s voices could come from, but went on with their
digging. As the excavation progressed, the sounds came nearer--there
were calling and crying and hissing--until finally the voices were
right at them and surrounding them. They could hear the voices but
could see nothing. Then the voices passed by them with a whirr and back
again into the bushes where they were still heard. By this time the
hole was some ten feet deep. Nelson Sales, who had had more experience
with spirits than the others, offered to go back into the woods and
talk to the voices. He was confronted by a fearful apparition--a great
blue bull with eyes of fire and a tail as large as a hogshead. It
dashed passed him, charged across the hole, and as it went over threw
all the earth back, completely filling the excavation. They were all
thoroughly frightened and would not go back until they could get the
negress Clara Randall, from Charleston. Poinquinette was loud in his
praises of this woman, who could see and talk to spirits and was not
afraid of them.
She built a tent and camped alone for three days and nights at the
scene of their labor. She set a table, provided with milk from a white
cow, wine, and honey--inveigling the invisible ones and tempting them
by food to give up the secret of the buried treasure. At the end of
the third day her persuasions prevailed, and the spirits reluctantly
made known the place. Next morning she walked to the spot and placed
her foot where the men should dig. They fell to work and had not dug
more than twenty minutes, before the top of the treasure-box was
uncovered. They rapidly cleared the earth from around it and there lay
before their eager wondering eyes a cedar chest which measured five
feet in length, two and a half feet wide, and two and a half feet deep.
It contained three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in gold, and
Ebernezar Fisher, over-zealous and over-anxious, bored two holes in it
with an auger. While he was boring the second, the woman warned him to
stop--that the spirits were regretting their revelation--but Ebernezar,
who was of stubborn temperament, bored on unheedful of her warning. It
was a bright day--not a cloud in the sky--the sunlight filtered through
the trees and fell in strong beams upon the auger. The other men,
standing to one side, watched it glinting on the steel. Again the woman
warned Fisher, and as she spoke his arm was wrenched from the auger.
Almost at the same instant a black cloud swept across the sky, an awful
gust of wind bent the great trees until they looked as if they would
break, a crash of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning and the
box disappeared! Then all was clear and bright again. It was a spirit
storm--purely local, and seen only by the searchers after treasure.
“Then all of us had to come away like sick cats and with aching hearts,
because we hated to see a treasure like that disappear. It’s there
somewhere to-day--and wherever it is, Ebernezar Fisher’s auger is still
sticking in it.”
Another time they received intimation that they should go to Meaher’s
hummock and hunt a mound and some trees bearing marks like an inverted
E; then walk so many feet in a certain direction and dig. On this
occasion they took old Adam Boone, a negro who was supposed to have
found many hidden treasures. They found the marked trees and the mound,
which was six or seven feet high and looked as if it had been built
by man. They had just arrived, identified the spot, and were grouped
around it talking. Ebernezar Fisher, who was tall, stood with the butt
of his gun resting on the ground, and held it with one hand near the
end of the barrel. Both hammers were down. Old Adam Smith was saying,
“I’ve been hearin’ of this place a long time. They say several men were
killed and buried here.” As the last words were uttered, one barrel of
Fisher’s gun went off, and he was so startled that he threw it from
him; Charlie Tell who was sitting on the ground near him caught it
and as he did so the other barrel went off. Needless to add that the
seekers for gold left the spot as quickly as they could and have never
gone back again.
[Illustration: Charlee.]
There are places in the woods and among the hills where no one can
go--unless very brave and then not to stay long--for there are sounds
as of the march of soldiers, the clank of their swords, and the orders
of the captains. Whoever goes to these places will have to fight the
spirits and there is no hope of overpowering them, for they change
their forms into those of many “varmints” and especially do they affect
the ones that the intruder most fears.
Some of these superstitions were repeated to the Tarkars with the
hope of drawing them out and learning just what they believed. They
accepted them and Olouala offered the solution of the spirits’ faithful
guardianship as it had been explained to him by American negroes. To
make this guardianship effective the promise must be obtained during
the life of the body. “Suppose some one has a treasure he wishes to
conceal--perhaps to bury. He may pick out you who he has never seen
before. Perhaps he asks, ‘Do you want to earn ten dollars?’ Of course
you do, so you go with him. After he gets to the place where he wishes
to bury the gold, he says, ‘I have a treasure here which I wish to
bury. But I have to go away--will you promise to watch it until I come
back?’ You unsuspectingly promise and as you do so you are killed
and your body buried with the treasure that your spirit may guard
it forever.” Instead of a person a faithful and intelligent dog or
horse may be sacrificed. This, however, is not a Tarkar superstition,
but is common to our negro and creole population. The Tarkars during
their long residence have explored every foot of this region in their
searches for game, berries, fruits, and herbs and they have never
had any encounters with the Magazine Point ghosts or any intimation
of their presence. Kazoola, however, naïvely intimated that he would
prefer not to know where they were located, as he might have occasion
to go to these places, and if he did not know where these ghosts were
supposed to be, he would not be annoyed or frightened by seeing them.
The life of the Tarkars in America has not been characterized by the
superstitions ascribed to them; instead their history has been one of
hard work, coöperation, self-sacrifice, and a deep longing for home.
Their progress has been deeply interesting. Almost entirely cut off
from white influence--and that with which they came in contact during
their early years in this country could scarcely inspire them with
confidence, for they are keenly watchful and observed the advantage
which one white took over another--yet protected by our laws, they have
worked out their destiny with much more success and honor to themselves
than the generality of American-born negroes or of the free blacks who
were carried by the American Colonization Society back to Africa, and
whose interests have been guarded and furthered by philanthropists.
When the Tarkars first came to Magazine Point all days were alike to
them; they went about doing on Sundays as on other days. Some American
negroes who had become interested in them and who were really their
friends requested them not to work on Sundays but to gather all their
women and children and go with them. They were thus introduced to a
church. There they were told that the God who lived in the sky had
sent a book to the people of the earth, telling them how they must
live. Simple and believing, they readily accepted what was told. The
Old Testament and the dualistic dogma of a God and a Devil made the
same appeal to them that it had to the American negro--there was the
ready response of the primitive imagination to a primitive story. In
them they found an amplification of the gropings of their own minds
into the spiritual. It soothed their sorrows and gave them hope.
Their faith became a simple one, and that of the few old survivors
is one of resignation, hope, and a perfect trust. Poleete has said:
“We know not why these troubles came upon us, but we are all God’s
children--we not always see the way, but his hands guide us and
shape our ends.” Kazoola, in speaking of the death of his wife and
of all his children, likened God to the doctor who “gives us bad
medicine--it’s hard to swallow, but the doctor gives it to us to do us
good. We don’t understand why.” Though Kazoola has an intense longing
for home, he regards his advent to America as a part of the goodness
of God and enjoys telling how after Foster had bought him at Whydah,
he was stolen by one of Dahomey’s men and hidden under the white
house. While concealed, he heard the surf upon the beach. Urged by
an innate curiosity about the mechanism of things, he stole from his
hiding-place and climbed upon the stockade fence; “I hear the noise
of the sea on shore, an’ I wanta see what maka dat noise, an’ how dat
water worka--how it fell on shore an’ went back again. I saw some of
my people in a little boat and I holler to them. Then Captain Foster
spied me, an’ he say, ‘Oh hee! Oh hee!’ an’ pulla me down. An’ I was
the last to go. Supposy I been lef’ behind--what become of Kazoola? Or
supposy de ship turna over, an’ de sharks eat us. Oh Lor’! God is good!”
Mrs. Foster, who always lived near the Tarkars, said they have always
been gentle, amiable, and honest and much better than the average
American negro; that it was their perseverance and religious zeal which
built the several churches which are now at Magazine Point. There
was only one among them who proved unregenerate--old Zooma who still
lives--but she belonged to another tribe, the Tarkbar, and presents
totally different characteristics; also different color, physical
development, and tribal marks. She has been seen to make a cross and
spit in the middle of it. The others do not seem to understand her
motive.
After the surrender the Tarkars wished to go back to their own country
but had no money. They concluded to save. They worked in the mills for
a dollar a day, but could not save without help, so they said to their
wives, “Now we want to go home and it takes a lot of money. You must
help us save. You see fine clothes--you must not crave them.” The
wives promised and replied: “_You_ see fine clothes and new hats--now
don’t you crave them either. We will work together.” They made six
dollars a week. Of this they could save two dollars, sometimes three,
but they had rent to pay and found they could not get ahead that way,
for it would take a lot of money to get home. Among themselves they
talked over the injustice of their position--how Meaher had brought
them from their native land and how they now had neither home nor
country. Kazoola, who seems to have always been a spokesman, concluded
he would present their case to Meaher. Soon after he was cutting timber
(just back of where the schoolhouse now stands), Captain Tim Meaher
came along and sat upon a felled tree. Kazoola recognized this to be
his opportunity, stopped work, and stood looking at Meaher, all his
emotion speaking through his expressive face. The captain looked up
from the stick he was whittling and struck by the sorrow in the man’s
face asked:
“Kazoola, what makes you so sad?”
“I grieve for my home.”
“But you’ve got a good home.”
“Captain Tim, how big is Mobile?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never been to the four corners.”
“If you give Kazoola all Mobile, that railroad, and the banks of Mobile
Kazoola does not want them for this is not home.”
When the old man tells this his face reflects overwhelming grief--in
his eyes there is the far-away vision of home, and in a low voice he
moans, “Oh Lor’! Oh Lor’!” Then he regains himself and goes on with his
narrative.
“Captain Tim, you brought us from our country where we had land and
home. You made us slaves. Now we are free, without country, land, or
home. Why don’t you give us a piece of this land and let us build for
ourselves an African Town?”
Kazoola relates Meaher’s reply very dramatically.
“Thou fool! Thinkest thou I will give you property upon property? You
do not belong to me now!”
The Tarkars concluded to buy. When one reached this conclusion, the
others said: “If you are going to buy, we will too.” They bought
property from Meaher, who made them no concessions. They worked and
saved, going half clad and living upon half rations. Though accustomed
in their own country to Nature’s luxuries, they now lived on molasses
and corn-bread or mush (boiled corn-meal). The men worked in the mills
and their wives helped by planting gardens and fruit trees and becoming
venders of fruit and vegetables. Their Tarkar home began to be a
chimera; day after day new ties pushed it farther away.
[Illustration: Drawn by Emma Roche.
Olouala.]
Having no head of the tribe, and understanding that in a country of
different institutions a king would be incongruous, they selected
Charlee (Orsey, in Tarkar), Gumpa (African Peter), and Jaybee as judges
to preside over the colony, to arbitrate their differences, and direct
their lives. When disagreements came up, word would be sent each member
that there would be a meeting at a certain place after dark--their only
leisure time--possibly at the home of one of the judges.[22]
The offenders would be given a hearing before the whole colony--each
side would be weighed and each reprimanded with a warning to “go
and keep the peace.” If they again broke it, or renewed their
disagreements, they were punished--Jaybee, Gumpa, or Charlee
administering a whipping to the culprits. Of these judges, there
lives to-day only Charlee, who has passed the century mark and is[23]
tottering on the brink of the grave. Yet the nine surviving Tarkars,
and each of these has seen his three-score years and ten, look upon
him as the head, observe his admonitions, and never disobey him. His
face is one of the most kindly and he is known among his people as
never having disputed or disagreed with any one. As old as they are, if
Charlee told them they could not do a thing, no matter how strong the
desire, they would not disobey. The judges were not considered above
reproach. If any of the colony saw one of them doing that which was
wrong, he would be rebuked: “We saw you do this thing. It is not right.
How do you expect us to do right if you do not show us the way?”
About ten years after the close of the Civil War, when the South was
still largely under carpetbag régime, interest in elections was intense
and the outcome of vital importance to the community. Opposing parties
used almost any means at their command to obtain votes. Meaher went
among the Tarkars, explaining the methods and significance of voting
and urging them to vote the Democratic ticket. He was followed by some
Republicans who promised them great rewards. They talked this new thing
over among themselves and concluded that by voting the Republican
ticket they would gain much good. On election day, Olouala, Poleete,
and Kazoola walked, one behind the other (a Tarkar custom), to the
polls at Whistler. Meaher was there; he pointed them out, “See those
Africans? Don’t let them vote--they are not of this country.” They
were refused so walked to McGuire’s, but Meaher who had been watching
them and knew their persistency, had ridden ahead and forestalled
them; they were again refused. This only whetted their desire and
their determination, and they walked on down St. Stephen’s Road to the
next voting place. Arriving there, Meaher was just getting off his
horse. “Don’t let those Africans vote--they have no right--they are
not of this country.” Defeated again, the three now wanted to vote so
badly, that they put their hands together, raised them to the sky,
and prayed God that He would permit them to vote. Strengthened, they
walked on to Mobile and at the polls on St. Francis Street told their
experience. They were informed that by paying one dollar they could
vote. This they did and received a paper which they still treasure. It
was their one experience in politics, and it was satisfying for they
accomplished what they had set out to do, though the great promises
never materialized.
Of the one hundred and sixteen Africans who were brought to this
country in the _Clotilde_, there are only eight living: five women,
Abaché (Clara Turner), Monabee (Kitty Cooper), Shamber, Kanko (who
married Jim Dennison), and Zooma; and three men, Poleete, Kazoola
(Cudjoe Lewis), and Olouala (Orsey Kan). Their Tarkar names have been
used in this narrative at their request. They love them and with some
pathos asked that they be used, because in some way these names might
drift back to their native home, where some might remember them.
This small fragment gathers on Sundays after church at the home of
Poleete, Kazoola, or Abaché and discuss among themselves the things
pertaining to their welfare, and they never part without speaking of
their African home and telling some incident of that beloved place.
Kazoola says he often thinks that if he had wings he would fly back;
then he remembers that all he has lies in American soil--the wife who
came from his native land, who was his helpmate and companion through
the many years, and all his children. It was at some of these Sunday
afternoon gatherings that he made the parables about his wife, Albiné
(Celie), which are a solace to him in his sorrow and loneliness. The
Sunday after her death, the Tarkars were sitting with Kazoola in his
home. He sat with head bowed down, grief-stricken, and speaking no
word. They said, “Lift up your head, Kazoola, and speak with us.”
Kazoola lifted his head; “I will make a parable. Kazoola and Albiné
have gone to Mobile together. They get on the train to go home and sit
side by side. The conductor comes along and says to Kazoola, ‘Where
are you going to get off?’ and Kazoola replies, ‘Mount Vernon.’ The
conductor then asks Albiné, ‘Where are you going to get off?’ and she
replies ‘Plateau.’[24] Kazoola surprised, turns to Albiné and asks,
‘Why, Albiné! How is this? Why do you say you are going to get off at
Plateau?’ She answers, ‘I must get off.’ The train stops and Albiné
gets off. Kazoola stays on--he is alone. But old Kazoola has not
reached Mount Vernon yet--he is still journeying on.”
On the next Sunday they were again gathered at Kazoola’s house; again
he sat with bowed head, and again they asked him to lift up his head
and make another parable.
“Suppose Charlee comes to my house and wants to go on to Poleete’s. He
has an umbrella which he leaves in my care. When he comes back he asks
for his umbrella--must I give it to him or must I keep it?”
The listening Tarkars cried out, “No, Kazoola! You cannot keep it--it
is not yours!”
And Kazoola answered, “Neither could I keep Albiné; she was just left
in my care.”[25]
Kazoola never married again; he sees Albiné everywhere about the
house. Everything reminds him of her. One day he was working in his
corn-patch, weeding out superfluous stalks. He came to two growing
together--the root of one intertwined with the other. He started to
pull one out, but something within told him to stop, that thus had he
and Albiné grown together and one stalk could not be pulled up without
hurting the other. So he saved the two, giving them especial care, and
he was rewarded by each bearing four ears of corn. These he was going
to save for seed and grieves that a cow should have gotten in and
destroyed them. The old man is cheerful--even merry--possessing a keen
sense of humor and a lively imagination. To appreciate him fully he
must be surprised at his home. There he will be found probably working
in his garden barefooted, trousers rolled up above his knees; his
costume clean but a marvelous piece of patchwork, even the old derby
upon his head a much mended one. His patches need elicit no sympathy,
for patching is an accomplishment in which he takes keen delight; even
in the old days when his Albiné was alive, she would wash his clothes
and lay them aside for him to patch during the evenings when the day’s
work was done.
The Tarkars range in color from light to a very dark brown. All bear
upon their faces the Tarkar tribal marks--two lines between the eyes
and three on the cheek. While quite distinct, these marks are not
disfiguring. Their teeth bear the marks of family and of kinship and
vary in each. The process of marking the teeth was by pecking with a
stone implement. The lower corners of Poleete’s two front teeth where
they meet are pecked off, forming a wedge-shaped opening like an
inverted V. When Kazoola’s teeth are closed, on one side there is a
circular opening which was formed by cutting off parts of a half-dozen
teeth. Six of Abaché’s upper front teeth are trimmed to make a convex
opening. The Tarkars differ in feature from the American negro; it
is a subtle difference but runs through the whole face. Their heads
differ structurally--the line from the forehead to the chin is nearer
straight. They have more top head and there is a fullness indicating
plenty of intelligence--a possession they have exhibited in their neat
homes and thrifty lives. Some of them have even learned to read; this
was taught them by their children who have profited by the public
schools. Poleete’s constant companion is a small, much worn New
Testament. Their countenances naturally vary with their temperaments.
Abaché’s and Kazoola’s are as open as a book--intensely emotional and
capable of expressing very deep feeling. None have gotten over the
shock of their early experience. When these are referred to there
comes into Kazoola’s and Abaché’s faces unspeakable and indescribable
anguish. Poleete’s is like a mask, unchanging, unscrutable, except for
the eyes, and these--small, deep-set, watchful--are almost uncanny.
Among themselves they speak the Tarkar language. Their English is very
broken and is not always intelligible even to those who have lived
among them for many years. It has more the sound of the dialect spoken
by Italians than that spoken by the negroes. They make almost constant
use of the “a” sound as a terminal--looka, pulla, worka, etc. Their
sentences are short and vivid. The few words of old Gumpa, “My people
sold me and your people bought me,” accompanied by his expression, told
his whole history.
They are extremely clean both about their persons and their homes,
and one of their strongest objections to the average American negro
is uncleanliness. Abaché parts her hair in the middle and combs it
neatly back. She uses face powder, because it is refreshing and leaves
a cleanly feeling. The other women are very old and feeble, except
Kanko who, though old, works as a man. Her especial occupation is the
breeding and raising of a fine strain of hogs. The Tarkars are very
considerate of each other, and their intercourse is marked by kindness,
charity, and harmony.
[Illustration: Drawn by Emma Roche.
Charlee, Head of the Tarkars.]
In strong contrast to the Tarkars is old Zooma, who is possibly the
last Tarkbar. Rendered almost helpless by a century and more of
years and many pounds of superfluous flesh, she sits for the most part
silent and brooding in her squalid hut. If near the door or window
there are no softening shadows, and the light reveals all her fat,
brutal old ugliness--an ugliness, accentuated by disfiguring tribal
marks--three deep gashes meeting at the bridge of the nose, and running
diagonally across each cheek. Her underlip hangs away as if it had
been subjected in her native land to some kind of African beautifying
process. Her hair is white and the skin of her hands and feet wrinkled,
resembling in texture that of an elephant, and bearing the curious
gray color seen in the complexions of very old negroes. It is almost
impossible to understand her broken phrases, but a daughter acts as
interpreter. Brooding, she is pathetic; aroused and speaking of home
she is tragic. She has in common with the Tarkars the same pitiful
history and the same despair, without their resignation. For each and
all, Heaven could hold no promise so rapturous as just one last vision
of home. Such a vision that comes as they sit together, which bows
their old heads, lays silent fingers upon their lips, and speaks to
their aching hearts of perpetual summer, fertile lands, abundance of
fruit--of youth, plenty, and peace--their Land of Long Ago.