hands got it worse, but den, dey was men. Mr. Swanson was good and he
was mean. He was nice one day and mean as Hades de next. You never
knowed what he gwine to do. But he never punish nobody 'cept dey done
somethin'. My father was a field hand, and Mr. Swanson work de fire out
dem. Work, work--dat all dey know from time dey git up in de mornin'
till dey went to bed at night. But he wasn't hard on dem like some
masters was. If dey sick, dey didn't habe to work and he give dem de
med'cine hisself. If he cotch dem tryin' play off sick, den he lay into
dem, or if he cotch dem loafin'. Course, I don't blame him for dat,
'cause dere ain't anythin' lazier dan a lazy nigger. Will am 'bout de
laziest one in de bunch. You ain't never find a lazier nigger dan Will.
"I was purty little den, but I done my share. I holp my mother dust and
clean up de house and peel 'tatoes. Dere some old men dat too old to
work so dey sot in de sun all day and holp with de light work. Dey carry
grub and water to de field hands.
"Somebody run 'way all de time and hide in de woods till dere gut pinch
dem and den dey have to come back and git somethin' to eat. Course, dey
got beat, but dat didn't worry dem none, and it not long till dey gone
'gain.
"My mother sold into slavery in Georgia, or round dere. She tell me
funny things 'bout how dey use to do up dere. A old white man think so
much of he old nigger when he die he free dat nigger in he will, and
lef' him a little money. He open de blacksmith shop and buy some slaves.
Mother allus say dose free niggers make de hardes' masters. One in
Palestine marry a nigger slave and buy her from her master. Den he tell
everybody he own a slave.
"Everybody talk 'bout freedom and hope to git free 'fore dey die. I
'member de first time de Yankees pass by, my mother lift me up on de
fence. Dey use to pass by with bags on de mules and fill dem with stuff
from de houses. Dey go in de barn and holp deyself. Dey go in de stables
and turn out de white folks' hosses and run off what dey don't take for
deyself.
"Den one night I 'member jes' as well, me and my mother was settin' in
de cabin gettin' ready to go to bed, when us hear somebody call my
mother. We listen and de overseer whisper under de door and told my
mother dat she free but not to tell nobody. I don't know why he done it.
He allus like my mother, so I guess he do it for her. The master reads
us de paper right after dat and say us free.
"Me and my mother lef' right off and go to Palestine. Most everybody
else go with us. We all walk down de road singin' and shoutin' to beat
de band. My father come nex' day and jine us. My sister born dere. Den
us go to Houston and Louisiana for a spell and I hires out to cook. I
works till us come to Galveston 'bout ten year ago.
420316
Dibble, Fred, P.W., Beehler, Rheba, P.W.,
Beaumont, Jefferson, Dist. #3.
ANN HAWTHORNE, Beaumont, Tex., was clad in a white dress which was
protected by a faded blue checked apron. On her feet she wore men's
bedroom slippers much too large for her, and to prevent their
falling off, were tied around the ankle by rag strings. She wore
silk hose with the heels completely worn out of them. Her figure is
generous in proportions, and her hair snow white, fixed in little
pig tails and wrapped in black string. Ann related her story in a
deep voice and a jovial manner. Although born and raised in Jasper
county, she speaks boastfully about having been to Houston.
"If you's lookin' for Ann Hawthorne, dis is me. I was bo'n in slavery,
and I was a right sizeable gal when freedom come. I was 'bout 10 or 12
year' ol' when freedom riz up."
"I was bo'n up here in Jasper. Ol' marster Woodruff Norsworthy and Miss
Ca'lina, dey was my ol' marster and mistus. Miss Ca'lina she name' me."
"My pa was Len Norsworthy. My ma was name Ca'line after ol' mistus. Dat
how come I 'member ol' mistus name so good. I got fo' brudders livin',
but nary a sister. My brudders is Newton and Silas and Willie and Frank.
I say dey's livin'. I mean dat de las' time I heard of 'em dey was
livin'."
"Yas, I 'member de house I was raise in. It was jis' a one-room log
house. Dey was a ol' Geo'gia hoss bed in it. It was up pretty high and
us chillun had to git on a box to git in dat bed. De mattress was mek
outer straw. Sometime dey mek 'em in co'n sacks and sometime dey put 'em
in a tick what dey weave on de loom. I had a aunt what was de weaver.
She weave all de time for ol' marster. She uster weave all us clo's."
"My ma she was jis' a fiel' han' but my gramma and my aunt dey hab dem
for wuk 'roun' de house. I didn' do nuthin' but chu'n (churn) and clean
de yard, and sweep 'roun' and go to de spring and tote de water. I l'arn
how to hoe, too."
"Dat was a big plantation. Fur as I kin 'member I t'ink dey was 'bout 25
or 30 slaves on de place. You see I done git ol' and childish and I
can't 'member like what I uster could. I 'member though, dat my pa uster
drive a team for ol' marster. Sometime he fiel' han' on de plantation,
too."
"Ol' marster he was good to his slaves. I heerd of slaves bein' whip'
but I ain't never see any git whip. Dey was a overseer on de place and
iffen dey was any whippin' to be did, he done it."
"Me? I never did git no lickin's when I was a li'l slave. No mam. I
allus did obey jis' like I was teached to do and dey didn' hafter whip
me. I 'members dat."
"We done our playin' 'roun' dat big house, but dat front gate, we
dassen' go outside dat. We uster jump de rope and play ring plays and
sich. You know how dey yoke dey han's togedder? Dat de way us uster do
and go 'roun' and 'roun' singin' our li'l jumped up songs. Den us jis'
play 'roun' lots of times anyt'ing what happen to come up in our min's."
"Dey feed us good back in slavery. Give us plenty of meat and bread and
greens and t'ings. Ye, dey feed us good and us had plenty. Dey give us
plenty of co'nbread. Dat's de reason I's a co'nbread eater now. I ain't
no flour-bread eater. I lubs my co'nbread. Us all eat outer one big pan.
Dey give each li'l nigger a big iron spoon and us sho' go to it. Dey
give us milk in a sep'rate vessel, and dey give eb'ryone a slice of meat
in our greens. And dey never dassent tek de other feller's piece of
meat. Eb'ryt'ing better go 'long smoove wid us chillun. We better eat
and shut our mouf. We dassent raise no squall."
"I tell dese chillun here dey ain't know nuffin'. Dey got dey glass. We
had our li'l go'ds (gourds) pretty and clean and white. I wish I had
one of dem ol' time go'ds now to drink my milk outer."
"In good wedder dey feed us under a big tree out in de yard. And us
better leave eb'ryt'ing clean and no litter 'roun'. In de winter time
dey fed us in de kitchen."
"Us gals wo' plain, long waisted dress. Dey was cut straight and wid
long waist and dey button down de back."
"Dey was a cullud man what mek shoes for de slaves to wear in de winter
time. He mek 'em outer rough red russet ledder. Dat ledder was hard and
lots of times it mek blister on us feet. I uster be glad when summer
time come so's I could go barefoot."
"Dey had cabins for de slaves to live in. Dere was jis' one room and one
family to de cabin. Some of 'em was bigger dan others and dey put a big
family in a big cabin and a li'l family in a li'l cabin."
"I never see no slaves bought and sol'. I heerd my gramma and ma say dey
ol' marster wouldn' sell none of his slaves."
"I heerd 'bout dem broom-stick marriages, but I ain't never seed none.
Dat was dey law in dem days."
"Dey didn' know nuffin' 'bout preachin' and Sunday School in dem times.
De fus' preachin' I heerd was atter dat. I hear a white preacher
preach. He uster preach to de white folks in de mornin' and de cullud
folks in de afternoons. But de slaves some of 'em uster had family
prayer meetings to deyselfs."
"De ol' marster he didn' work he han's on Sunday and he give 'em half de
day off on Sadday, too. But he never give 'em a patch to work for
deyself. Dat half a day off on Sadday was for de slaves to wash and
clean up deyselfs."
"I never git marry 'till way atter freedom come. Dat was up in Jasper
county where I's bred and bo'n. I marry Hyman Hawthorne. Near as you kin
guess, dat was 'bout 50 year' ago. Den he die and lef' me wid eight
chillun. My baby gal she ain't never see no daddy."
"Atter he dead I wash and iron and cook out and raise my chillun. I was
raise up in de fiel' all my life. When I git disable' to wuk in de time
of de 'pressure (depression) I git on my walkin' stick. I wag up town
and I didn' fail to ax de white folks 'cause I wo' myself out wukkin'
for 'em. Dey load up my sack and sometime dey bring me stuff in a car
right dere to dat gate. But I's had two strokes and I ain't able to go
to town no mo'."
"I tell you I never hear nuthin' 'bout chu'ch 'till way atter freedom.
Sometime den us go to chu'ch. Dey was one Mef'dis' Chu'ch and one
Baptis' Chu'ch in Jasper. Dere moughta been a Cabilic (Catholic) Chu'ch
dere too, but I dunno 'bout dat."
"I don' 'member seein' no sojers. I t'ink some of ol' marster's boys
went to de war but de ol' man didn' go. I dunno 'bout wedder dey come
back or not 'cep'n' I 'member dat Crab Norsworthy he come back."
"When any of de slaves git sick ol' mistus and my gramma dey doctor 'em.
De ol' mistus she a pretty good doctor. When us chillun git sick dey git
yarbs or dey give us castor oil and turpentine. Iffen it git to be a
ser'ous ailment dey sen' for de reg'lar doctor. Dey uster hang
asafoetida 'roun' us neck in a li'l bag to keep us from ketch' de
whoopin' cough and de measles."
"Dey was a gin and cotton press on de place. Ol' marster gin' and bale'
he own cotton. Dat ol' press had dem long arms a-stickin' down what dey
hitch hosses to and mek 'em go 'roun' and 'roun' and press de bale."
"Dey raise dey own t'bacco on de place. I didn' use snuff nor chew 'till
after I growed up and marry. Back in slavery you couldn' let 'em ketch
you wid a chew of t'bacco or snuff in your mouf. Iffen you did dey
wouldn' let you forgit it."
"I uster like to go and play 'roun' de calfs, jis' go up and pet 'em and
rub 'em. But we dassent git on 'em to ride 'em."
"Marster uster sit 'roun' and watch us chillun play. He enjoy dat. He
call me his Annie 'cause I name' after my mistus. Sometime he hab a
wagon load of watermilion haul' up from de fiel' and cut 'em. Eb'ry
chile hab a side of watermilion. And us hab all de sugar cane and sweet
'taters us want."
"Dey had a big smokehouse. Dey hab big hog killin' time, and dey dry and
salt de meat in a big long trough. Dey git oak and ash and hick'ry wood
and mek a fire under it and smoke it. My gramma toted de key to dat
smokehouse and ol' mistus she'd tell her what to go and git for de white
folks and de cullud folks."
"When Crismus come 'roun' dey give us big eatin'. Us hab chicken and
turkey and cake. I don' 'member dat dey give us no presents."
"My gramma and my ma and ol' man Norsworthy dey come from Alabama. I
never hear of him breakin' up a family. But when dey was livin' in
Geo'gy, my ma marry a man name' Hawthorne in Geo'gy. He wouldn' sell him
to Marse Norsworthy when he come to Texas. Atter freedom marster go to
Geo'gy to git him and bring him to Texas, but he done raisin' up anudder
family dere and won't come. Li'l befo' she die her husban' come. When he
'bout wo' out and ready to die, den he come. Some of de ol'es' chillun
'member dey daddy and dey crazy for him to come and dey mek up de money
for him. When he git here dey tek care of him 'till he die right dere at
Olive. Ma tell 'em to write him he neenter (need not) come. She say he
ain't no service to her. But he come and de daughter tek care of her ma
and pa bofe."
"I's got 8 gran'chillun and 5 great-gran'chillun. I 'vides (divide) my
time 'tween my daughter here and de one in Houston."
"You wants to tek my picture? Daughter, I don' want dat hat you got
dere. Dat one of de chillun' hats. Git dat li'l bonnet. Dat becomes me
better. I can't stan' much sun. Dey say I's got high blood pressue."
420186
JAMES HAYES, 101, was born a slave to a plantation owner whose name
he does not now recall, in Shelby Co., two miles from Marshall,
Texas. Mr. John Henderson bought the place, six slaves and James
and his mother. James, known as Uncle Jim, seems happy, still
stands erect, and is very active for his age. He lives on a green
slope overlooking the Trinity river, in Moser Valley, a Negro
settlement ten miles northeast of Fort Worth.
"Dis nigger have lived a long time, yas, suh! I's 101 years ole, 'cause
I's bo'n Dec. 28, 1835. Dat makes me 102 come nex' December. I can'
'member my fust marster's name, 'cause when I's 'bout two years ole, me
and my sis, 'bout five, and our mammy was sol' to Marster John
Henderson. I don' 'member anything 'bout my pappy, but I 'member Marster
Henderson jus' like 'twas las' week. I's settin' hear a thinkin' of dem
ole days when I's a li'l nigger a cuttin' up on ole marster's
plantation. How I did play roun' with de chilluns till I's big enough
for to wo'k. After I's 'bout 13, I jus' peddles roun' de house for 'bout
a year, den 'twarn't long till I hoes co'n and potatoes. Dere's six
slaves on dat place and I coul' beat dem all a-hoein'.
"De marster takes good care of us and sometimes give us money, 'bout
25c, and lets us go to town. Dat's when we was happy and celebrates.
We'uns spent all de money on candy and sweet drinks. Marster never
crowded us 'bout de wo'k, and never give any of us whuppin's. I's
sev'ral times needed a whuppin', but de marster never gives dis nigger
more'n a good scoldin'. De nearest I comes to gittin whupped, 'twas
once when I stole a plate of biscuits offen de table. I warn't in need
of 'em, but de devil in me caused me to do it. Marster and all de folks
comes in and sets down, and he asks for de biscuits, and I's under de
house and could hear 'em talk. De cook says, 'I's put de biscuits on de
table.' Marster says, 'If you did, de houn' got 'em.' Cook says, 'If a
houn' got 'em, 'twas a two-legged one, 'cause de plate am gone, too.'
I's made de mistake of takin' de plate. Marster give me de wors'
scoldin' I ever has and dat larned me a lesson.
"Not long after dat, Marster sol' my mammy to his brudder who lived in
Fort Worth. When dey took her away, I's powerful grieved. 'Bout dat time
de War started. De marster and his boy, Marster Ben, jined de army. De
marster was a sergeant. De women folks was proud of dere men folks, but
dey was powerful grieved. All de time de men's away, I could tell Missy
Elline and her mamma was worried. Dey allus sen's me for de mail, and
when I fotches it, dey run to meet me, anxious like, to open de letter,
and was skeert to do it. One day I fotches a letter and I could feel it
in my bones, dere was trouble in dat letter. Sure 'nough, dere was
trouble, heaps of it. It tells dat Marster Ben am kilt and dat dey was a
shippin' him home. All de ole folks, cullud and white, was cryin'. Missy
Elline, she fainted. When de body comes home, dere's a powerful big
funeral and after dat, dere's powerful weepin's and sadness on dat
place. De women folks don' talk much and no laughin' like 'fore. I
'members once de missy asks me to make a 'lasses cake. I says, 'I's got
no 'lasses.' Missy says, 'Don' say 'lasses, say molasses.' I says, 'Why
say molasses when I's got no 'lasses.' Dat was de fus' time Missy laugh
after de funeral.
"Durin' de War, things was 'bout de same, like always, 'cept some
vittles was scarce. But we'uns had plenty to eat and us slaves didn'
know what de War was 'bout. I guess we was too ign'rant. De white folks
didn' talk 'bout it 'fore us. When it's over, de Marster comes home and
dey holds a big celebration. I's workin' in de kitchen and dey tol' me
to cook heaps of ham, chicken, pies, cakes, sweet 'taters and lots of
vegetables. Lots of white folks comes and dey eats and drinks wine, dey
sings and dances. We'uns cullud folks jined in and was singin' out in de
back, 'Massa's in de Col', Har' Groun'. Marster asks us to come in and
sing dat for de white folks, so we'uns goes in de house and sings dat
for de white folks and dey jines in de chorus.
"Three days after de celebration, de marster calls all de slaves in de
house and says, 'Yous is all free, free as I am.' He tol' us we'uns
could go if we'uns wanted to. None of us knows what to do, dere warn't
no place to go and why would we'uns wan' to go and leave good folks like
de marster? His place was our home. So we'uns asked him if we could stay
and he says, 'Yous kin stay as long as yous want to and I can keep
yous.' We'uns all stayed till he died, 'bout a year after dat.
"When he was a-dyin', marster calls me to his bed and says, 'My dyin'
reques' is dat yous be taken to your mama.' He calls his son, Zeke, in
and tells him dat I should be fotched to my mamma. And 'bout in a year,
Marster Zeke fotches me to my mamma, in Johnson Station, south of
Arlington. She's wo'kin' for Jack Ditto and I's pleased to see her.
I's pleased to see my mammy, but after a few days I wants to go back to
Marshall with Marster Zeke. Dat was my home, so I kep' pesterin' marster
to fetch me back, but he slips off and leaves me. I has to stay and I's
been here ever since.
"I gits my fust job with Carter Cannon, on a farm, and stays seven
years. Den I goes to Fort Worth and takes a job cookin' in de Gran'
Hotel for three years. Den I goes to Dallas and cooks for private
families, and wo'ks for Marster James Ellison for 30 years. I stops four
years ago and comes out here to wait till de good Lawd calls me home.
"Bout gittin' married, after I quits de Gran' Hotel I marries and we'uns
has two chillen. My wife died three years later.
"You knows, I believes I's mo' contented as a slave. I's treated kind
all de time and had no frettin' 'bout how I gwine git on. Since I's been
free, I sometimes have heaps of frettin'. Course, I don' want to go back
into slavery, but I's paid for my freedom.
"I's never been sick abed, but I's had mo' misery dis las' year dan all
my life. It's my heart. If I live till December, I'll be 102 years old,
and dis ole heart have been pumpin' and pumpin' all dem years and have
missed nary a beat till dis las' year. I knows 'twon't be long till de
good Lawd calls dis ole nigger to cross de Ribber Jordan and I's ready
for de Lawd when he calls.
420082
[Illustration: Felix Haywood (A)]
[Illustration: Felix Haywood (B)]
FELIX HAYWOOD is a temperamental and whimsical old Negro of San
Antonio, Texas, who still sees the sunny side of his 92 years, in
spite of his total blindness. He was born and bred a slave in St.
Hedwig, Bexar Co., Texas, the son of slave parents bought in
Mississippi by his master, William Gudlow. Before and during the
Civil War he was a sheep herder and cowpuncher. His autobiography is
a colorful contribution, showing the philosophical attitude of the
slaves, as well as shedding some light upon the lives of slave
owners whose support of the Confederacy was not accompanied by
violent hatred of the Union.
"Yes, sir, I'm Felix Haywood, and I can answer all those things that you
want to know. But, first, let me ask you this: Is you all a white man,
or is you a black man?"
"I'm black, blacker than you are," said the caller.
The eyes of the old blind Negro,--eyes like two murkey brown
marbles--actually twinkled. Then he laughed:
"No, you ain't. I knowed you was white man when you comes up the path
and speaks. I jus' always asks that question for fun. It makes white men
a little insulted when you dont know they is white, and it makes niggers
all conceited up when you think maybe they is white."
And there was the key note to the old Negro's character and temperament.
He was making a sort of privileged game with a sportive twist out of his
handicap of blindness.
As the interviewer scribbled down a note, the door to the little shanty
on Arabella Alley opened and a backless chair was carried out on the
porch by a vigorous old colored woman. She was Mrs. Ella Thompson,
Felix' youngest sister, who had known only seven years of slavery. After
a timid "How-do-you-do," and a comment on the great heat of the June
day, she went back in the house. Then the old Negro began searching his
92 years of reminiscences, intermixing his findings with philosophy,
poetry and prognostications.
"It's a funny thing how folks always want to know about the War. The war
weren't so great as folks suppose. Sometimes you didn't knowed it was
goin' on. It was the endin' of it that made the difference. That's when
we all wakes up that somethin' had happened. Oh, we knowed what was
goin' on in it all the time, 'cause old man Gudlow went to the post
office every day and we knowed. We had papers in them days jus' like
now.
"But the War didn't change nothin'. We saw guns and we saw soldiers, and
one member of master's family, Colmin Gudlow, was gone
fightin'--somewhere. But he didn't get shot no place but one--that was
in the big toe. Then there was neighbors went off to fight. Some of 'em
didn't want to go. They was took away (conscription). I'm thinkin' lots
of 'em pretended to want to go as soon as they had to go.
"The ranch went on jus' like it always had before the war. Church went
on. Old Mew Johnson, the preacher, seen to it church went on. The kids
didn't know War was happenin'. They played marbles, see-saw and rode. I
had old Buster, a ox, and he took me about plenty good as a horse.
Nothin' was different. We got layed-onto(whipped) time on time, but
gen'rally life was good--just as good as a sweet potato. The only misery
I had was when a black spider bit me on the ear. It swelled up my head
and stuff came out. I was plenty sick and Dr. Brennen, he took good care
of me. The whites always took good care of people when they was sick.
Hospitals couldn't do no better for you today.... Yes, maybe it was a
black widow spider, but we called it the 'devil biter'.
"Sometimes someone would come 'long and try to get us to run up North
and be free. We used to laugh at that. There wasn't no reason to =run=
up North. All we had to do was to =walk=, but walk =South=, and we'd be
free as soon as we crossed the Rio Grande. In Mexico you could be free.
They didn't care what color you was, black, white, yellow or blue.
Hundreds of slaves did go to Mexico and got on all right. We would hear
about 'em and how they was goin' to be Mexicans. They brought up their
children to speak only Mexican.
"Me and my father and five brothers and sisters weren't goin' to Mexico.
I went there after the war for a while and then I looked 'round and
decided to get back. So I come back to San Antonio and I got a job
through Colonel Breckenridge with the waterworks. I was handling pipes.
My foreman was Tom Flanigan--he must have been a full-blooded Frenchman!
"But what I want to say is, we didn't have no idea of runnin' and
escapin'. We was happy. We got our lickings, but just the same we got
our fill of biscuits every time the white folks had 'em. Nobody knew how
it was to lack food. I tell my chillen we didn't know no more about
pants than a hawg knows about heaven; but I tells 'em that to make 'em
laugh. We had all the clothes we wanted and if you wanted shoes bad
enough you got 'em--shoes with a brass square toe. And shirts! Mister,
them was shirts that was shirts! If someone gets caught by his shirt on
a limb of a tree, he had to die there if he weren't cut down. Them
shirts wouldn't rip no more'n buckskin.
"The end of the war, it come jus' like that--like you snap your
fingers."
"How did you know the end of the war had come?" asked the interviewer.
"How did we know it! Hallelujah broke out--
"'Abe Lincoln freed the nigger
With the gun and the trigger;
And I ain't goin' to get whipped any more.
I got my ticket,
Leavin' the thicket,
And I'm a-headin' for the Golden Shore!'
"Soldiers, all of a sudden, was everywhere--comin' in bunches, crossin'
and walkin' and ridin'. Everyone was a-singin'. We was all walkin' on
golden clouds. Hallelujah!
"'Union forever,
Hurrah, boys, hurrah!
Although I may be poor,
I'll never be a slave--
Shoutin' the battle cry of freedom.'
"Everybody went wild. We all felt like heroes and nobody had made us
that way but ourselves. We was free. Just like that, we was free. It
didn't seem to make the whites mad, either. They went right on giving us
food just the same. Nobody took our homes away, but right off colored
folks started on the move. They seemed to want to get closer to freedom,
so they'd know what it was--like it was a place or a city. Me and my
father stuck, stuck close as a lean tick to a sick kitten. The Gudlows
started us out on a ranch. My father, he'd round up cattle, unbranded
cattle, for the whites. They was cattle that they belonged to, all
right; they had gone to find water 'long the San Antonio River and the
Guadalupe. Then the whites gave me and my father some cattle for our
own. My father had his own brand, 7 B ), and we had a herd to start out
with of seventy.
"We knowed freedom was on us, but we didn't know what was to come with
it. We thought we was goin' to get rich like the white folks. We thought
we was goin' to be richer than the white folks, 'cause we was stronger
and knowed how to work, and the whites didn't and they didn't have us to
work for them anymore. But it didn't turn out that way. We soon found
out that freedom could make folks proud but it didn't make 'em rich.