off. He's all right and give good food. People sho' would rare off from
him, 'cause he too good. He was de Methodist preacher and furnish us
church. Sometimes he has camp meeting and dey cook out doors with de
skillicks. Sometimes he has corn shucking time and we has hawg meat and
meal bread and whiskey and eggnog and chicken.
"De books he brung us didn't do us no good, 'cause us wouldn't larn
nothin'. Us too busy playin' and huntin' good berries in de wood, de
huckleberry and grape and muscadine and chinquapins. All dis time de war
was fixin' and I seed two, three soldiers round spyin'. When peace
'clared missy's two boys come back from de war. We stays with Marse
Frazier two year and den I goes and gits married to de man call Baker.
"I done been blind like dis over 40 year. One Sunday I stay all night
with a man and he wife and I was workin' as woodchopper on de Santa Fe
route up Beaumont to Tyler County. After us git up and I starts 'way, I
ain't gone but 15, 16 yard when I hear somethin' say, 'Rose, you done
somethin' you ain't ought.' I say, 'No, Lawd, no.' Den de voice say,
'Somethin' gwine happen to you,' and de next mornin' I's blind as de bat
and I ain't never seed since.
"Some try tell me snow or sweat or smoke de reason. Dat ain't de reason.
Dey a old, old, slowfooted somethin' from Louisiana and dey say he de
conjure man, one dem old hoodoo niggers. He git mad at me de last
plum-ripenin' time and he make up powdered rattlesnake dust and pass dat
through my hair and I sho' ain't seed no more.
"Dat not de onliest thing dem old conjure men do. Dey powder up de
rattle offen de snake and tie it up in de little old rag bag and dey do
devilment with it. Day git old scorpion and make bad medicine. Dey git
dirt out de graveyard and dat dirt, after dey speak on it, would make
you go crazy.
"When dey wants conjure you, dey sneak round and git de hair combin' or
de finger or toenail, or anything natural 'bout your body, and works de
hoodoo on it.
"Dey make de straw man or de clay man and dey puts de pin in he leg and
you leg gwineter git hurt or sore jus' where dey puts de pin. Iffen dey
puts de pin through de heart you gwineter die and ain't nothin' kin save
you.
"Dey make de charm to wear round de neck or de ankle and dey make de
love powder, too, out de love vine, what grow in de woods. Dey biles de
leaves and powders 'em. Dey sho' works, I done try 'em.
420097
[Illustration: Priscilla Gibson]
PRISCILLA GIBSON is not sure of her age, but thinks she was born
about 1856, in Smith County, Mississippi, to Mary Puckett and her
Indian husband. They belonged to Jesse Puckett, who owned a
plantation on the Strong River. Priscilla now lives in Jasper,
Texas.
"Priscilla Gibson is my name, and I's bo'n in Smith County, way over in
Mis'ippi, sometime befo' de War. I figger it was 'bout 1856, 'cause I's
old enough to climb de fence and watch dem musterin' in de troops when
de war began. Dey tol' me I's nine year ole when de War close, but dey
ain' sure of dat, even. My neighbor, Uncle Bud Adams, he 83, and I's
clippin' close at he heels.
"Mammy's name was Mary Puckett, but I never seed my father as I knows
of. Don' know if he was a whole Injun or part white man. Never seed but
one brother and his name was Jake. Dey took him to de War with de white
boys, to cook and min' de camp and he took pneumony and die.
"Massa's name was Jesse Puckett, and Missus' name Mis' Katie. Dey hab
big fam'ly and dey live in a big wooden-beam house with a big up-stair'.
De house was right on de highway from Raleigh to Brandon, with de Strong
River jis' below us. Dey took in and 'commadated travelers 'cause dey
warn' hotels den.
"Massa have hunner's of acres. You could walk all day and you never git
offen his lan'. An' he have gran' furniture and other things in de
house. I kin remember dem, 'cause I use' to he'p 'round de house, run
errands and fan Mis' Katie and sich. I 'members chairs with silk
coverin's on 'em and dere was de gran' lights, big lamps with de roses
on de shades. And eve'ywhere de floors with rugs and de rugs was pretty,
dey wasn' like dese thin rugs you sees nowadays. No, ma'am, dey has big
flowers on 'em and de feets sinks in 'em. I useter lie down on one of
dem rugs in Mis' Katie's room when she's asleep and I kin stop fannin.'
"Massa Puckett was tol'able good to de slaves. We has clothes made of
homespun what de nigger women weaved, and de little boys wo' long-tail
shirts, with no pants till they's grown. Massa raised sheep and dey make
us wool clothes for winter, but we has no shoes.
"De white folks didn' larn us read and write but dey was good to us
'cep' when some niggers try to run away and den dey whips 'em hard. We
has plenty to eat and has prayer meetin's with singin' and shoutin', and
we chilluns played marbles and jump de rope.
"After freedom come all lef' but me 'cause Missus say she have me boun'
to her till I git my age. But I's res'less one night and my sister,
Georgy Ann, come see me, and I run off with her, but dey never comes
after me. I was scart dey would, 'cause I 'membered 'bout our neighbor,
ole Means, and his slave, Sylvia, and she run away and was in de woods,
and he'd git on de hoss, take de dogs and set 'em on her, and let dem
bite her and tear her clothes.
420303
GABRIEL GILBERT was born in slavery on the plantation of Belizare
Brassard, in New Iberia Parish, Louisiana. He does not know his
age, but appears to be about eighty. He has lived in Beaumont,
Texas, for sixteen years.
"My old massa was Belizare Broussard. He was my mom's massa. He had a
big log house what he live in. De places 'tween de logs was fill with
dirt. De quarters de slaves live in was make out of dirt. Dey put up
posties in de ground and bore holes in de posts and put in pickets
'cross from one post to the other. Den dey build up de sides with mud.
De floor and everything was dirt. Dey had a schoolhouse built for de
white chillen de same way. De cullud chillen didn't have no school.
"Dem was warm healthy houses us grew up in. Dey used to raise better men
den in dem houses dan now. My pa name was Joseph Gilbert. He old massa
was Belleau Prince.
"I didn't know what a store was when I was growin' up. Us didn't have
store things like now. Us had wooden pan and spoon dem times. I never
see no iron plow dem days. Nothin' was iron on de plow 'cept de share. I
tell dese youngsters, 'You in hebben now from de time I come up.' When a
man die dem days, dey use de ox cart to carry de corpse.
"Massa have 'bout four hundred acres and lots of slaves. He raise sugar
cane. He have a mill and make brown sugar. He raise cotton and corn,
too. He have plenty stock on de place. He give us plenty to eat. He was
a nice man. He wasn't brutish. He treat he slaves like hisself. I never
'member see him whip nobody. He didn't 'low no ill treatment. All de
folks round he place say he niggers ruint and spoiled.
"De li'l white folks and nigger folks jus' play round like brudder and
sister and us all eat at de white table. I slep' in de white folks
house, too. My godfather and godmother was rich white folks. I still
Cath'lic.
"I seed sojers but I too li'l to know nothin' 'bout dem. Dey didn't
worry me a-tall. I didn't git close to de battle.
"My mammy weave cloth out cotton and wool. I 'member de loom. It go
'boom-boom-boom.' Dat de shuttle goin' cross. My daddy, he de smart man.
I'll never be like him long as I live in dis world. He make shoes. He
build house. He do anything. He and my mammy neither one ever been
brutalize'.
"De first work I done was raisin' cotton and sugar cane and sweet and
Irish 'taters. I used to cook sugar.
"I marry on twenty-second of February. My wife was Medora Labor. She
been dead thirty-five year now. I never marry no second woman. I love my
wife so much I never want nobody else. Us had six chillen. Two am
livin'.
"Goin' back when I a slave, massa have a store. When de priest come dey
hold church in dat store. Old massa have sev'ral boys. Dey went after
some de slave gals. Dey have chillen by dem. Dem gals have dere cabins
and dere chillen, what am half white.
"After while dem boys marry. But dey allus treat dey chillen by de slave
womens good. Dey white wife treat dem good, too, most like dey dere own
chillen.
"Old massa have plenty money. Land am only two bits de acre. Some places
it cost nothing. Dey did haulin' in ox-carts. A man what had mules had
something extra.
"Us have plenty wild game, wild geese and ducks. Fishin' am mighty good.
Dey was 'gaters, too. I seed dem bite a man's arm off.
"If a slave feelin' bad dey wouldn't make him work. My uncle and my
mammy dey never work nothing to speak of. Dey allus have some kind
complaint. Ain't no tellin' what it gwine be, but you could 'low
something ailin' dem!
"I 'member dey a white man. He had a gif'. I don't care what kind of
animal, a dog or a hoss, dat man he work on it and it never leave you or
you house. If anybody have toothache or earache he take a brand new nail
what ain't never work befo' and work dat round you tooth or ear. Dat
break up de toothache or earache right away. He have li'l prayer he say.
I don't know what it was.
"I's seed ghosties. I talk with dem, too. Sometimes dey like people.
Sometimes dey like animal, maybe white dog. I allus feel chilly when dey
come round me. I talk with my wife after she dead. She tell me, 'Don't
you forgit to pray.' She say dis world corrupt and you got to fight it
out."
420230
MATTIE GILMORE lives in a little cabin on E. Fifth Avenue, in
Corsicana, Texas. A smile came to her lips, as she recalled days
when she was a slave in Mobile, Alabama. She has no idea how old
she is. Her master, Thomas Barrow, brought his slaves to Athens,
Texas, during the Civil War, and Mattie had two children at that
time, so she is probably about ninety.
"I's born in Mobile, Alabama, and I don't have no idea when. My white
folks never did tell me how old I was. My own dear mammy died 'fore I
can remember and my stepma didn't take no time to tell me nothin'. Her
name was Mary Barrow and papa's name was Allison Barrow, and I had
sisters, Rachel and Lou and Charity, and a brother, Allison.
"My master sold Rachel when she was jus' a girl. I sho' did cry. They
put her on a block and sold her off. I heared they got a thousand
dollars for her, but I never seed her no more till after freedom. A man
named Dick Burdon, from Kaufman County, bought her. After freedom I
heared she's sick and brung her home, but she was too far gone.
"We lived in a log house with dirt floors, warm in winter but sho' hot
in summer, no screens or nothin', jus' homemade doors. We had homemade
beds out of planks they picked up around. Mattresses nothin', we had
shuck beds. But, anyway, you takes it, we was better off den dan now.
"I worked in the fields till Rachel was sold, den tooken her place,
doin' kitchen work and fannin' flies off de table with a great, long
limb. I liked dat. I got plenty to eat and not so hot. We had jus' food
to make you stand up and work. It wasn't none the good foolish things we
has now. We had cornbread and blackeyed peas and beans and sorghum
'lasses. Old master give us our rations and iffen dat didn't fill us up,
we jus' went lank. Sometimes we had possum and rabbits and fish, iffen
we cotched dem on Sunday. I seed Old Missy parch coffee in a skittle,
and it good coffee, too. We couldn't go to the store and buy things,
'cause they warn't no stores hardly.
"When dey's hoein' cotton or corn, everybody has to keep up with de
driver, not hurry so fast, but workin' steady. Some de women what had
suckin' babies left dem in de shade while dey worked, and one time a
big, bald eagle flew down by one dem babies and picked it up and flew
away with it. De mama couldn't git it and we never heared of dat baby
'gain.
"I 'member when we come from Mobile to Texas. By time we heared de
Yankees was comin' dey got all dere gold together and Miss Jane called
me and give me a whole sack of pure gold and silver, and say bury it in
de orchard. I sho' was scart, but I done what she said. Dey was more
gold in a big desk, and de Yanks pulled de top of dat desk and got de
gold. Miss Jane had a purty gold ring on her finger and de captain
yanked it off. I said, 'Miss Jane, is dey gwine give you ring back?' All
she said was, 'Shet you mouth,' and dat's what I did.
"Dat night dey digs up de buried gold and we left out. We jus' traveled
at night and rested in daytime. We was scart to make a fire. Dat was
awful times. All on de way to de Mississip', we seed dead men layin'
everywhere, black and white.
"While we's waitin' to go cross de Mississip' a white man come up and
asks Marse Barrow how many niggers he has, and counts us all. While we's
waitin' de guns 'gins to go boom, boom, and you could hear all dat
noise, it so close. When we gits on de boat it flops dis way and dat
scart me. I sho' don't want to see no more days like dat one, with war
and boats.
"We fixes up a purty good house and quarters and gits settled up round
Athens. And it ain't so long 'fore a paper come make us free. Some de
slaves laughin' and some cryin' and it a funny place to be. Marse Barrow
asks my stepma to stay cook and he'd pay her some money for it. We
stayed four or five years. Marse Barrow give each he slaves somethin'
when dey's freed. Lots of master put dem out without a thing. But de
trouble with most niggers, dey never done no managin' and didn't know
how. De niggers suffered from de war, iffen dey did git freedom from it.
"I's already married de slave way in Mobile and had three chillen. My
husband died 'fore war am over and I marries Las Gilmore and never has
no more chillen. I has no livin' kinfolks I knows of. When we come here
Las done any work he could git and bought this li'l house, but I can't
pay taxes on it, but, sho', de white folks won't put me out. I done git
my leg cut off in a train wreck, so I can't work, and I's too old,
noways. I don't has no idea how old I is.
420245
[Illustration: Andrew Goodman]
ANDREW GOODMAN, 97, was born a slave of the Goodman family, near
Birmingham, Alabama. His master moved to Smith County, Texas, when
Andrew was three years old. Andrew is a frail, kindly old man, who
lives in his memories. He lives at 2607 Canton St., Dallas, Texas.
"I was born in slavery and I think them days was better for the niggers
than the days we see now. One thing was, I never was cold and hongry
when my old master lived, and I has been plenty hongry and cold a lot of
times since he is gone. But sometimes I think Marse Goodman was the
bestes' man Gawd made in a long time.
"My mother, Martha Goodman, 'longed to Marse Bob Goodman when she was
born, but my paw come from Tennessee and Marse Bob heired him from some
of his kinfolks what died over there. The Goodmans must have been fine
folks all-a-way round, 'cause my paw said them that raised him was good
to they niggers.
"Old Marse never 'lowed none of his nigger families separated. He 'lowed
he thought it right and fittin' that folks stay together, though I heard
tell of some that didn't think so.
"My Missus was just as good as Marse Bob. My maw was a puny little woman
that wasn't able to do work in the fields, and she puttered round the
house for the Missus, doin' little odd jobs. I played round with little
Miss Sallie and little Mr. Bob, and I ate with them and slept with them.
I used to sweep off the steps and do things, and she'd brag on me and
many is the time I'd git to noddin' and go to sleep, and she'd pick me
up and put me in bed with her chillun.
"Marse Bob didn't put his little niggers in the fields till they's big
'nough to work, and the mammies was give time off from the fields to
come back to the nursin' home to suck the babies. He didn't never put
the niggers out in bad weather. He give us something to do, in out of
the weather, like shellin' corn and the women could spin and knit. They
made us plenty of good clothes. In summer we wore long shirts, split up
the sides, made out of lowerings--that's same as cotton sacks was made
out of. In winter we had good jeans and knitted sweaters and knitted
socks.
"My paw was a shoemaker. He'd take a calfhide and make shoes with the
hairy sides turned in, and they was warm and kept your feet dry. My maw
spent a lot of time cardin' and spinnin' wool, and I allus had plenty
things.
"Life was purty fine with Marse Bob. He was a man of plenty. He had a
lot of land and he built him a big log house when he come to Texas. He
had sev'ral hundred head of cattle and more than that many hawgs. We
raised cotton and grain and chickens and vegetables, and most anything
anybody could ask for. Some places the masters give out a peck of meal
and so many pounds of meat to a family for them a week's rations, and if
they et it up that was all they got. But Marse Bob allus give out
plenty, and said, 'If you need more you can have it, 'cause ain't any
going to suffer on my place.'
"He built us a church, and a old man, Kenneth Lyons, who was a slave of
the Lyon's family nearby, used to git a pass every Sunday mornin' and
come preach to us. He was a man of good learnin' and the best preacher I
ever heard. He baptised in a little old mudhole down back of our place.
Nearly all the boys and gals gits converted when they's 'bout twelve or
fifteen year old. Then on Sunday afternoon, Marse Bob larned us to read
and write. He told us we oughta git all the learnin' we could.
"Once a week the slaves could have any night they want for a dance or
frolic. Mance McQueen was a slave 'longing on the Dewberry place, what
could play a fiddle, and his master give him a pass to come play for us.
Marse Bob give us chickens or kilt a fresh beef or let us make 'lasses
candy. We could choose any night, 'cept in the fall of the year. Then we
worked awful hard and didn't have the time. We had a gin run by
horsepower and after sundown, when we left the fields, we used to gin a
bale of cotton every night. Marse allus give us from Christmas Eve
through New Year's Day off, to make up for the hard work in the fall.
"Christmas time everybody got a present and Marse Bob give a big hawg to
every four families. We had money to buy whiskey with. In spare time
we'd make cornshuck horse collars and all kinds of baskets, and Marse
bought them off us. What he couldn't use, he sold for us. We'd take post
oak and split it thin with drawin' knives and let it git tough in the
sun, and then weave it into cotton baskets and fish baskets and little
fancy baskets. The men spent they money on whiskey, 'cause everything
else was furnished. We raised our own tobacco and hung it in the barn to
season, and a'body could go git it when they wanted it.
"We allus got Saturday afternoons off to fish and hunt. We used to have
fish fries and plenty game in them days.
"Course, we used to hear 'bout other places where they had nigger
drivers and beat the slaves. But I never did see or hear tell of one of
master's slaves gittin' a beatin'. We had a overseer, but didn't know
what a nigger driver was. Marse Bob had some nigger dogs like other
places, and used to train them for fun. He'd git some the boys to run
for a hour or so and then put the dogs on the trail. He'd say, 'If you
hear them gittin' near, take to a tree.' But Marse Bob never had no
niggers to run off.
"Old man Briscoll, who had a place next to ours, was vicious cruel. He
was mean to his own blood, beatin' his chillen. His slaves was afeared
all the time and hated him. Old Charlie, a good, old man who 'longed to
him, run away and stayed six months in the woods 'fore Briscoll cotched
him. The niggers used to help feed him, but one day a nigger 'trayed
him, and Briscoe put the dogs on him and cotched him. He made to Charlie
like he wasn't goin' to hurt him none, and got him to come peaceful.
When he took him home, he tied him and beat him for a turrible long
time. Then he took a big, pine torch and let burnin' pitch drop in spots
all over him. Old Charlie was sick 'bout four months and then he died.
"Marse Bob knowed me better'n most the slaves, 'cause I was round the
house more. One day he called all the slaves to the yard. He only had
sixty-six then, 'cause he had 'vided with his son and daughter when they
married. He made a little speech. He said, 'I'm going to a war, but I
don't think I'll be gone long, and I'm turnin' the overseer off and
leavin' Andrew in charge of the place, and I wants everything to go on,
just like I was here. Now, you all mind what Andrew says, 'cause if you
don't, I'll make it rough on you when I come back home.' He was jokin',
though, 'cause he wouldn't have done nothing to them.
"Then he said to me, 'Andrew, you is old 'nough to be a man and look
after things. Take care of Missus and see that none the niggers wants,
and try to keep the place going.'
"We didn't know what the war was 'bout, but master was gone four years.
When Old Missus heard from him, she'd call all the slaves and tell us
the news and read us his letters. Little parts of it she wouldn't read.
We never heard of him gittin' hurt none, but if he had, Old Missus
wouldn't tell us, 'cause the niggers used to cry and pray over him all
the time. We never heard tell what the war was 'bout.
"When Marse Bob come home, he sent for all the slaves. He was sittin' in
a yard chair, all tuckered out, and shuck hands all round, and said he's
glad to see us. Then he said, 'I got something to tell you. You is jus'
as free as I is. You don't 'long to nobody but you'selves. We went to
the war and fought, but the Yankees done whup us, and they say the
niggers is free. You can go where you wants to go, or you can stay here,
jus' as you likes.' He couldn't help but cry.
"The niggers cry and don't know much what Marse Bob means. They is sorry
'bout the freedom, 'cause they don't know where to go, and they's allus
'pend on Old Marse to look after them. Three families went to get farms
for theyselves, but the rest just stay on for hands on the old place.
"The Federals has been comin' by, even 'fore Old Marse come home. They
all come by, carryin' they little budgets, and if they was walkin'
they'd look in the stables for a horse or mule, and they jus' took what
they wanted of corn or livestock. They done the same after Marse Bob
come home. He jus' said, 'Let them go they way, 'cause that's what
they're going to do, anyway.' We was scareder of them than we was of the
debbil. But they spoke right kindly to us cullud folks. They said, 'If
you got a good master and want to stay, well, you can do that, but now
you can go where you want to, 'cause ain't nobody going to stop you.'
"The niggers can't hardly git used to the idea. When they wants to leave
the place, they still go up to the big house for a pass. They jus' can't
understand 'bout the freedom. Old Marse or Missus say, 'You don't need
no pass. All you got to do is jus' take you foot in you hand and go.'
"It seem like the war jus' plumb broke Old Marse up. It wasn't long till
he moved into Tyler and left my paw runnin' the farm on a halfance with
him and the niggers workers. He didn't live long, but I forgits jus' how
long. But when Mr. Bob heired the old place, he 'lowed we'd jus' go
'long the way his paw has made the trade with my paw.
"Young Mr. Bob 'parently done the first rascality I ever heard of a
Goodman doin'. The first year we worked for him we raised lots of grain
and other things and fifty-seven bales of cotton. Cotton was fifty-two
cents a pound and he shipped it all away, but all he ever gave us was a
box of candy and a sack of store tobacco and a sack of sugar. He said
the 'signment done got lost. Paw said to let it go, 'cause we had allus
lived by what the Goodman had said.
"I got married and lived on the old place till I was in my late fifties.
I had seven chillun, but if I got any livin' now, I don't know where
they is now. My paw and maw got to own a little piece of land not far
from the old place, and paw lived to be 102 and maw 106. I'm the last
one of any of my folks.
"For twenty years my health ain't been so good, and I can't work even
now, though my health is better'n in the past. I had hemorraghes. All my
folks died on me, and it's purty rough on a old man like me. My white
folks is all dead or I wouldn't be 'lowed to go hongry and cold like I
do, or have to pay rent.
420060
[Illustration: Austin Grant (A)]
[Illustration: Austin Grant (B)]
AUSTIN GRANT came to Texas from Mississippi with his grandfather,
father, mother and brother. George Harper owned the family. He
raised cotton on Peach Creek, near Gonzales. Austin was hired out
by his master and after the war his father hired him out to the
Riley Ranch on Seco Creek, above D'hanis. He then bought a farm in
the slave settlement north of Hondo. He is 89 or 90 years old.
"I'm mixed up on my age, I'm 'fraid, for the Bible got burned up that
the master's wife had our ages in. She told me my age, which would make
me 89, but I believe I come nearer bein' 91, accordin' to the way my
mother figured it out.