select a title of more distinction, for it is quite possible that
he is the only living former slave who served in both the Civil War
and the World War. He was born in bondage in Victoria Co., Texas,
in 1847, the property of Alvy Fitzpatrick. This self-respecting
Negro is totally blind, and when a person touches him on the arm to
guide him he becomes bewildered and asks his helper to give verbal
directions, up, down, right or left. It may be he has been on his
own so long that he cannot, at this late date, readjust himself to
the touch of a helping hand. His mind is uncommonly clear and he
speaks with no Negro colloquialisms and almost no dialect.
Following directions as to where to find Martin Jackson, "the most
remarkable Negro in San Antonio," a researcher made his way to an old
frame house at 419 Center St., walked up the steps and through the house
to an open door of a rear room. There, on an iron bed, lay a long, thin
Negro, smoking a cigarette. He was dressed in a woolen undershirt and
black trousers and his beard and mustache were trimmed much after the
fashion of white gallants of the Gay Nineties. His head was remarkably
well-shaped, with striking eminences in his forehead over his brows.
After a moment the intruder spoke and announced his mission. The old
Negro, who is stone blind, quickly admitted that he was Martin Jackson,
but before making any further comment he carried on an efficient
interview himself; he wanted to know who the caller was, who had
directed the visit, and just what branch of the Federal service happened
to be interested in the days of slavery. These questions satisfactorily
answered, he went into his adventures and experiences, embellishing the
highlights with uncommon discernment and very little prodding by the
researcher.
* * * * *
"I have about 85 years of good memory to call on. I'm ninety, and so I'm
not counting my first five years of life. I'll try to give you as clear
a picture as I can. If you want to give me a copy of what you are going
to write, I'll appreciate it. Maybe some of my children would like to
have it.
"I was here in Texas when the Civil War was first talked about. I was
here when the War started and followed my young master into it with the
First Texas Cavalry. I was here during reconstruction, after the War. I
was here during the European World War and the second week after the
United States declared war on Germany I enlisted as cook at Camp Leon
Springs.
"This sounds as if I liked the war racket. But, as a matter of fact, I
never wore a uniform--grey coat or khaki coat--or carried a gun, unless
it happened to be one worth saving after some Confederate soldier got
shot. I was official lugger-in of men that got wounded, and might have
been called a Red Cross worker if we had had such a corps connected with
our company. My father was head cook for the battalion and between times
I helped him out with the mess. There was some difference in the food
served to soldiers in 1861 and 1917!
"Just what my feelings was about the War, I have never been able to
figure out myself. I knew the Yanks were going to win, from the
beginning. I wanted them to win and lick us Southerners, but I hoped
they was going to do it without wiping out our company. I'll come back
to that in a minute. As I said, our company was the First Texas Cavalry.
Col. Buchell was our commander. He was a full-blooded German and as fine
a man and a soldier as you ever saw. He was killed at the Battle of
Marshall and died in my arms. You may also be interested to know that my
old master, Alvy Fitzpatrick, was the grandfather of Governor Jim
Ferguson.
"Lots of old slaves closes the door before they tell the truth about
their days of slavery. When the door is open, they tell how kind their
masters was and how rosy it all was. You can't blame them for this,
because they had plenty of early discipline, making them cautious about
saying anything uncomplimentary about their masters. I, myself, was in a
little different position than most slaves and, as a consequence, have
no grudges or resentment. However, I can tell you the life of the
average slave was not rosy. They were dealt out plenty of cruel
suffering.
"Even with my good treatment, I spent most of my time planning and
thinking of running away. I could have done it easy, but my old father
used to say, 'No use running from bad to worse, hunting better.' Lots of
colored boys did escape and joined the Union army, and there are plenty
of them drawing a pension today. My father was always counseling me. He
said, 'Every man has to serve God under his own vine and fig tree.' He
kept pointing out that the War wasn't going to last forever, but that
our forever was going to be spent living among the Southeners, after
they got licked. He'd cite examples of how the whites would stand
flatfooted and fight for the blacks the same as for members of their own
family. I knew that all was true, but still I rebelled, from inside of
me. I think I really was afraid to run away, because I thought my
conscience would haunt me. My father knew I felt this way and he'd rub
my fears in deeper. One of his remarks still rings in my ears: 'A clear
conscience opens bowels, and when you have a guilty soul it ties you up
and death will not for long desert you.'
"No, sir, I haven't had any education. I should have had one, though. My
old missus was sorry, after the War, that she didn't teach me. Her name,
before she married my old master, was Mrs. Long. She lived in New York
City and had three sons. When my old master's wife died, he wrote up to
a friend of his in New York, a very prominent merchant named C.C.
Stewart. He told this friend he wanted a wife and gave him
specifications for one. Well, Mrs. Long, whose husband had died, fitted
the bill and she was sent down to Texas. She became Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
She wasn't the grandmother of Governor Ferguson. Old Fitzpatrick had two
wives that preceded Mrs. Long. One of the wives had a daughter named
Fanny Fitzpatrick and it was her that was the Texas' governor's mother.
I seem to have the complicated family tree of my old master more clear
than I've got my own, although mine can be put in a nutshell: I married
only once and was blessed in it with 45 years of devotion. I had 13
children and a big crop of grandchildren.
"My earliest recollection is the day my old boss presented me to his
son, Joe, as his property. I was about five years old and my new master
was only two.
"It was in the Battle of Marshall, in Louisiana, that Col. Buchell got
shot. I was about three miles from the front, where I had pitched up a
kind of first-aid station. I was all alone there. I watched the whole
thing. I could hear the shooting and see the firing. I remember standing
there and thinking the South didn't have a chance. All of a sudden I
heard someone call. It was a soldier, who was half carrying Col. Buchell
in. I didn't do nothing for the Colonel. He was too far gone. I just
held him comfortable, and that was the position he was in when he
stopped breathing. That was the worst hurt I got when anybody died. He
was a friend of mine. He had had a lot of soldiering before and fought
in the Indian War.
"Well, the Battle of Marshall broke the back of the Texas Cavalry. We
began straggling back towards New Orleans, and by that time the War was
over. The soldiers began to scatter. They was a sorry-lookin' bunch of
lost sheep. They didn't know where to go, but most of 'em ended up
pretty close to the towns they started from. They was like homing
pigeons, with only the instinct to go home and, yet, most of them had no
homes to go to.
"No, sir, I never went into books. I used to handle a big dictionary
three times a day, but it was only to put it on a chair so my young
master could sit up higher at the table. I never went to school. I
learned to talk pretty good by associating with my masters in their big
house.
"We lived on a ranch of about 1,000 acres close to the Jackson County
line in Victoria County, about 125 miles from San Antonio. Just before
the war ended they sold the ranch, slaves and all, and the family, not
away fighting, moved to Galveston. Of course, my father and me wasn't
sold with the other blacks, because we was away at war. My mother was
drowned years before when I was a little boy. I only remember her after
she was dead. I can take you to the spot in the river today where she
was drowned. She drowned herself. I never knew the reason behind it, but
it was said she started to lose her mind and preferred death to that."
At this point in the old Negro's narrative the sound of someone singing
was heard. A moment later the door to the house slammed shut and in
accompaniment to the tread of feet in the kitchen came this song:
"I sing because I'm happy,
And I sing because I'm free--
His eyes is on the sparrow
And I know He watches me."
The singer glanced in the bedroom and the song ended with both
embarrassment and anger:
"Father! Why didn't you say you had callers?"
It was not long, however, before the singer, Mrs. Maggie Jackson,
daughter-in-law of old Martin Jackson, joined in the conversation.
"The master's name was usually adopted by a slave after he was set free.
This was done more because it was the logical thing to do and the
easiest way to be identified than it was through affection for the
master. Also, the government seemed to be in a almighty hurry to have us
get names. We had to register as someone, so we could be citizens. Well,
I got to thinking about all us slaves that was going to take the name
Fitzpatrick. I made up my mind I'd find me a different one. One of my
grandfathers in Africa was called Jeaceo, and so I decided to be
Jackson."
After this clear-headed Negro had posed for his photograph, the
researcher took his leave and the old blind man bade him a gracious
"good-bye." He stood as if watching his new friend walking away, and
then lighted a cigarette.
"How long have you been smoking, Martin?" called back the researcher.
"I picked up the deadly habit," answered Martin, "over seventy-five
years ago."
420137
NANCY JACKSON, about 105 years old, was born in Madison Co.,
Tennessee, a slave of the Griff Lacy family. She was married during
slavery and was the mother of three children when she was freed. In
1835, Nancy claims, she was brought to Texas by her owner, and has
lived in Panola Co. all her life. She has no proof of her age and,
of course, may be in the late nineties instead of over one hundred,
as she thinks. She lives with her daughter about five miles west of
Tatum, Tex.
"I's live in Panola County now going on 102 year and that a mighty long
time for to 'member back, but I'll try to rec'lect. I's born in
Tennessee and I think it's in 1830 or 1832. I lives with my baby chile
what am now 57 year old and she's born when I's 'bout 'bout 33. But I
ain't sho' 'bout my age, noways.
"Massa Griff fetches us to Texas when I a baby and my brudders what am
Redic and Anthony and Essex and Allen and Brick and my sisters what am
Ann and Matty and Charlotte, we all come to Texas. Mammy come with us
but pappy was sold off the Lacy place and stays in Tennessee.
"Massa had the bigges' house in them parts and a passel of slaves.
Mammy's name was Letha, and we have a purty good place to live and massa
not bad to us. We was treated fair, I guesses, but they allus whipped us
niggers for somethin'. But when we got sick they'd git the doctor,
'cause losin' a nigger like losin' a pile of money in them days.
"Massa sometimes outlines the Bible to us and we had a song what we'd
sing sometimes:
"'Stand your storm, Stand your storm,
Till the wind blows over,
Stand your storm, Stand your storm,
I's a sojer of the Cross,
A follower of the Lamb.'
"We was woke by a bell and called to eat by a bell and put to bed by
that bell and if that bell ring outta time you'd see the niggers jumpin'
rail fences and cotton rows like deers or something, gettin' to that
house, 'cause that mean something bad wrong at massa's house.
"I marries right here in Panola County while slavery still here and my
brother-in-law marries me and Lewis Blakely, and I's 'bout nineteen. My
husban' 'longed to the Blakely's and after the weddin' he had to go back
to them and they 'lowed him come to see me once a week on Saturday and
he could stay till Sunday. I works on for the Lacy's more'n a year after
slavery till Lewis come got me and we moved to ourselves.
"I 'member one big time we done have in slavery. Massa gone and he
wasn't gone. He left the house 'tendin' go on a visit and missy and her
chillen gone and us niggers give a big ball the night they all gone. The
leader of that ball had on massa's boots and he sing a song he make up:
"'Ole massa's gone to Philiman York
And won't be back till July 4th to come;
Fac' is, I don't know he'll be back at all,
Come on all you niggers and jine this ball.'
"That night they done give that big ball, massa had blacked up and slip
back in the house and while they singin' and dancin', he sittin' by the
fireplace all the time. 'Rectly he spit, and the nigger who had on he
boots recernizes him and tries climb up the chimmey."
420259
[Illustration: Richard Jackson]
RICHARD JACKSON, Harrison County farmer, was born in 1859, a slave
of Watt Rosborough. Richard's family left the Rosboroughs when the
Negroes were freed, and moved to a farm near Woodlawn. Richard
married when he was twenty-five and moved to an adjoining farm,
which he now owns.
"I was born on the Rosborough plantation in 1859 and 'longed to old man
Watt Rosborough. He brung my mammy out of North Carolina, but my pappy
died when I was a baby, and mammy married Will Jackson. Besides me they
was six brothers, Jack and Nathan, Josh and Bill and Ben and Mose. I had
three sisters named Matilda and Charity and Anna.
"I 'members my mammy's father, Jack, but don't know where he come from.
I heared him tell of fightin' the Indians on the frontier, and one
mammy's brothers was shot with a Indian arrow.
"The plantation jined the Sabine river and old man Watt owned many a
slave. The old home is still standin' cross the road from Rosborough
Springs, nine miles south of Marshall.
"They was a white overseer on the place and mammy's stepdaddy, Kit, was
niggerdriver and done all the whippin', 'cept of mammy. She was bad
'bout fightin' and the overseer allus tended to her. One day he come to
the quarters to whip her and she up and throwed a shovel full of live
coals from the fireplace in his bosom and run out the door. He run her
all over the place 'fore he cotched her. I seed the overseer tie her
down and whip her. The niggers wasn't whipped much 'cept for fightin'
'mongst themselves.
"I 'members mammy allus sayin' the darkies had to pray out in the woods,
'cause they ain't 'lowed to make no fuss round the house. She say they
was fed and clothed well 'nough, but the overseer worked the lights out
of the darkies. I wasn't big 'nough to do field work, but 'member goin'
to the field to take mammy's pipe to her. They wasn't no matches in them
days, and I allus took fire from the house and sot a stump afire in the
field, so mammy could light her pipe.
"None of our folks larnt to read and write till after slavery. My oldes'
brother was larnin' to read on the sly, but the overseer found out 'bout
it and stopped him. He found some letters writ on the wall of the
quarter with charcoal and made the darkies tell him who writ it. My
brother Jack done it. The overseer didn't whip him, but told him he
darns't do it 'gain.
"After surrender my folks left the Rosboroughs right straight and moved
clost to Woodlawn. My oldes' hired out in Shreveport. When they asks him
what he's worth, he told them he didn't know, but he was allus worth a
heap of money when anyone wanted to buy him from the Rosboroughs.
"The Ku Kluxers come to our house in Woodlawn, and I got scart and
crawled under the bed. They told mammy they wasn't gwine hurt her, but
jus' wanted water to drink. They didn't call each other by names. When
the head man spoke to any of them he'd say, Number 1, or Number 2, and
like that.
"I thunk I heared ghosts on the Driscoll place once, up in the loft of
the house. I heared them plain as day. My step-pa done die there and
might of been his ghost. We moved away right straight, and old man
Driscoll had to burn that house down after that, 'cause wouldn't none
the darkies live in it.
"The only time I voted was when they put whiskey out. I heared a white
man one time in Marshall, makin' a speech on the square. He said he was
gwine tell us darkies why they didn't low us to vote. He didn't tell us,
'cause the law come out and made him git out the wagon and leave.
"This young race is sho' livin' fast, but I guess they's all right.
Things is jes' different now to when I was a boy. When I was a boy,
folks didn't mind helpin' one 'nother, but now they is in too big a
hurry to pay you any mind.
420016
[Illustration: John James]
JOHN JAMES, 78, was born a slave to John Chapman, on a large
plantation in East Baton Rouge Parish, Louisiana. John took the
name of his father, who was owned by John James. John and his
mother stayed with Mr. Chapman for six years after they were freed,
then John went to Missouri, where he worked for the M. K. & T.
Railroad for twenty years. He then came to Texas, and now lives at
315 S. Jennings Ave., in Fort Worth.
"I doesn't have so much mind for slavery days, 'cause I's too young
then, but I 'members when surrender come and some befo' dat. I 'members
my mammy lef' me in de nursery with all de other cullud babies when she
go work in de field. De old nurse, Jane, tooks care of us.
"Dat were de big place what Massa John have and dere 'bout fifty cullud
families on de place, so it am more'n a hunerd slaves what he own. I's
runnin' round, like kids am allus doin', first one place, den t'other,
watchin' everything. De big bell ring in de mornin' and you'd see all de
cullud folks comin' from dey cabins, gwineter de kitchen to breakfast.
Dat allus befo' daybreak, and dey have to eat by de light of de pine
torch. It am de pineknot torch. De meals am all cooked dere and dey eat
at long tables. De young'uns from six to ten year eats at de second
table and little'r den dat, in de nursery.
"I sho' 'members 'bout dat nursery feedin'. I never forgits how dat
cornmeal mush and milk am served in de big pans. Dey gives we uns de
wooden spoon and we'uns crowds round de pans like little pigs. I can see
it now. Us push and shove and de nurse walk here and dere, tryin' to
make us eat like humans. She have to cuff one of us once in a while. If
she don't, dem kids be in de pans with both feet. When dey done eatin',
dey faces am all smear with mush and milk.
"Massa allus feed plenty rations, only after war starts de old folks say
dey am short of dis and dat, 'cause dem sojers done took it for de army.
"After breakfast I'd see a crew go here and a crew go dere. Some of 'em
spin and weave and make clothes, and some tan de leather or do de
blacksmith work, and mos' of 'em go out in de field to work. Dey works
till dark and den come home and work round de quarters.
"Dem quarters was 'bout ten by fifteen feet, each one, with a hole for
de window dat am not dere and de floor am de ground, and de straw bunks
for to sleep on. In us cabin am mammy and us three chillen and our aunt.
My pappy done die befo' I 'member him. Some kind stomach mis'ry kilt
him.
"One day Massa Chapman call all us to de front gallery. Us didn't know
what gwine to happen, 'cause it not ord'nary to git called from de work.
Him ring de bell and dat am sho' 'nough de liberty bell, 'cause him read
from de long paper and say, 'You is slaves no more. You is free, jus'
like I is, and have to 'pend on yourselves for de livin'. All what wants
to stay I'll pay money to work, and a share of de crop, iffen you don't
want money.' Mostest of dem stays, and some what goes gits into
troublement, 'cause den dere's trouble 'twixt de white folks and de
cullud folks. Some de niggers thinks they am bigger dan de white folks,
'cause dey free, and de Klu Klux, what us call white caps, puts dem in
de place dey 'longs.
"I gits chased by dem white caps once, jus' befo' us leave massa. Dat
am when I's 'bout thirteen year old. I's 'bout a mile off de place
without de pass and it am de rule them days, all cullud folks must have
de pass to show where dey 'longs and where dey gwine. I has no business
to be off de place without de pass. 'Twas a gal.. Sho', day am it. Us
walks down de road 'bout a mile and am settin' 'hind some bushes, off de
plantation. Us see dem white caps comin' down de road on hossback and us
ain't much scart, 'cause us think dey can't see us 'hind dem bushes. But
dat leader say, 'Whoa,' and dey could look down on us, 'cause dey on
hossback. Well, gosh for 'mighty! Dere us am and can't move den us so
scart. One dem white caps says, 'What you doin', nigger?' 'Jus' settin'
here,' I telt him. 'Yous better start runnin', 'cause us gwine try cotch
you,' dey says.
"Us two niggers am down dat road befo' dem words am outten he mouth. Dey
lets de hosses canter 'hind we'uns and us try to run faster. Fin'ly us
gits home and dat de last time I goes off without de pass.
"Mammy moves to Baton Rouge soon after dat and works as de housemaid. Us
stay dere two year and I gits some little jobs and den I goes to work
for de railroad in Sedalia, up in Missouri, and dere I works as section
hand for de Katy railroad for twenty year. Den I gits through and comes
to Texas.
"I works at anything till eight year ago and den I's no count for work
so I's livin' on de pension, what am $15.00 de month.
"I's never married. I jus' couldn't make de hitch. Dem what I wants,
don't want me. Dem what wants me, I don't want, so dere am never no
agreement.
"No, I's never voted, 'cause I done heared 'bout de trouble dey has over
in Baton Rouge 'bout niggers votin'. I jus' don't like trouble, and for
de few years what am left, I's gwine keep de record of stayin' 'way from
it.
420190
THOMAS JOHNS, 508 Knopp St., Cleburne, Texas, was born April 18,
1847, in Chambers Co., Alabama. He belonged to Col. Robert Johns,
who had come to Alabama from Virginia. After Johns was freed he
stayed with his old owner's family until 1874, when he moved to
Texas.
"My father's name was George and my mother's name was Nellie. My father
was born in Africa. Him and two of his brothers and one sister was stole
and brought to Savannah, Georgia, and sold. Dey was de chillen of a
chief of de Kiochi tribe. De way dey was stole, dey was asked to a dance
on a ship which some white man had, and my aunt said it was early in de
mornin' when dey foun' dey was away from de land, and all dey could see
was de water all 'round. She said they was members of de file-tooth
tribe of niggers. My father's teeth was so dat only de front ones met
together when he closed his mouth. De back ones didn' set together. W'en
his front teeth was together, de back ones was apart, sorta like a V on
its side.
"My mother was born a slave in Virginia. She married there and had a
little girl, and they was sold away from the husband and brought to
Alabama. She said her mother was part Indian and part nigger. Her father
was part white and part nigger, but he look about as white as a white
man.
"My brother's names was John, Jake and Dave. My sister's names was Ann,
Katie, Judie and Easter.
"I belonged to Col. Robert Johns. He owned 30 or 35 slaves. We was well
treated and had the same food the white folks did, and didn' none of us
go hongry. Col. Johns didn' have his niggers whipped, neither.
"Marster's place had 500 acres in it. We raised cotton, corn and rice,
vegetables and every sort of fruit that would grow there, a lot of it
growin' wild. We et mostly hog meat, but we had some beef and mutton,
too. When we'd kill a beef, we'd send some to all the neighbors.
"We done a good day's work, but didn' have to work after night 'less it
was necessary. We was allowed to stop at 12 o'clock and have time for
rest 'fore goin' back to work. Other slave owners roun' our place wasn't
as good to dere slaves, would work 'em hard and half starve 'em. And
some marsters or overseers would whip dere niggers pretty hard,
sometimes whip 'em to death. Marster Johns didn' have no overseer. He
seed to the work and my father was foreman. For awhile after old Marster
died, in 1862 or 1863, I forget which now, we had a overseer, John
Sewell. He was mean. He whipped the chillen and my mother told Miss
Lucy, old marster's oldest girl.