like what they calls a hospital and she put us in there and give us
calomel or turpentine, dependin' on what ailed us. They allus kep' the
babies there and let de mammies come in and suckle and dry 'em up.
"I never heered much 'bout no war and Marse Greenville never told us we
was free. First I knows was one day we gwine to de fields and a man come
ridin' up and say, 'Whar you folks gwine?' We say we gwine to de fields
and then he say to Marse Greenville, 'You can't work these people,
without no pay, 'cause they's as free as you is.' Law, we sho' shout,
young folks and old folks too. But we stay there, no place to go, so we
jes' stay, but we gits a little pay.
"After 'while I marries. Allen Kelley was de first husban' what I ever
owned and he die. Houston Edmond, he the las' husban' I ever owned and
he die, too.
"Law me, they used to be a sayin' that chillen born on de dark of de
moon ain't gwineter have no luck, and I guess I sho' was born then!"
420217
[Illustration: Sam Kilgore]
SAM KILGORE, 92, was born a slave of John Peacock, of Williams
County, Tennessee, who owned one of the largest plantations in the
south. When he was eight years old, Sam accompanied his master to
England for a three-year stay. Sam was in the Confederate Army and
also served in the Spanish-American War. He came to Fort Worth in
1889 and learned cement work. In 1917 he started a cement
contracting business which he still operates. He lives at 1211 E.
Cannon St., Fort Worth, Texas.
"You asks me when I's born and was I born a slave. Well, I's born on
July 17, 1845, so I's a slave for twenty years, and had three massas.
I's born in Williamson County, near Memphis, in Tennessee. Massa John
Peacock owned de plantation and am it de big one! Dere am a thousand
acres and 'bout a thousand slaves.
"De slave cabins am in rows, twenty in de first row and eighteen in de
second and sixteen in de third. Den dere am house servants quarters near
de big house. De cabins am logs and not much in dem but homemade tables
and benches and bunks 'side de wall. Each family has dere own cabin and
sometimes dere am ten or more in de family, so it am kind of crowded.
But massa am good and let dem have de family life, and once each week de
rations am measure out by a old darky what have charge de com'sary, and
dere am allus plenty to eat.
"But dem eats ain't like nowadays. It am home-cured meat and mostly
cornmeal, but plenty veg'tables and 'lasses and brown sugar. Massa
raised lots of hawgs, what am Berkshires and Razorbacks. Razorback meat
am 'sidered de best and sweetest.
"De work stock am eighty head of mules and fifty head of hosses and
fifteen yoke of oxen. It took plenty feed for all dem and massa have de
big field of corn, far as we could see. De plantation am run on system
and everything clean and in order, not like lots of plantations with
tools scattered 'round and dirt piles here and there. De chief overseer
am white and de second overseers am black. Stien was nigger overseer in
de shoemakin' and harness, and Aunty Darkins am overseer of de spinnin'
and weavin'.
"Dat place am so well manage dat whippin's am not nec'sary. Massa have
he own way of keepin' de niggers in line. If dey bad he say, 'I 'spect
dat nigger driver comin' round tomorrow and I's gwine sell you.' Now,
when a nigger git in de hands of de nigger driver it am de big chance
he'll git sold to de cruel massa, and dat make de niggers powerful
skeert, so dey 'haves. On de next plantation we'd hear de niggers
pleadin' when dey's whipped, 'Massa, have mercy,' and sich. Our massa
allus say, 'Boys, you hears dat mis'ry and we don't want no sich on dis
place and it am up to you.' So us all 'haves ourselves.
"When I's four years old I's took to de big house by young Massa Frank,
old massa's son. He have me for de errand boy and, I guess, for de
plaything. When I gits bigger I's his valet and he like me and I sho'
like him. He am kind and smart, too, and am choosed from nineteen other
boys to go to England and study at de mil'tary 'cademy. I's 'bout eight
when we starts for Liverpool. We goes from Memphis to Newport and takes
de boat, Bessie. It am a sailboat and den de fun starts for sho'. It am
summer and not much wind and sometimes we jus' stand still day after day
in de fog so thick we can't see from one end de boat to de other.
"I'll never forgit dat trip. When we gits far out on de water, I's dead
sho' we'll never git back to land again. First I takes de seasick and
dat am something. If there am anything worser it can't be stood! It
ain't possible to 'splain it, but I wants to die, and if dey's anything
worser dan dat seasick mis'ry, I says de Lawd have mercy on dem. I can't
'lieve dere am so much stuff in one person, but plenty come out of me. I
mos' raised de ocean! When dat am over I gits homesick and so do Massa
Frank. I cries and he tries to 'sole me and den he gits tears in he
eyes. We am weeks on dat water, and good old Tennessee am allus on our
mind.
"When we gits to England it am all right, but often we goes down to de
wharf and looks over de cotton bales for dat Memphis gin mark. Couple
times Massa Frank finds some and he say, 'Here a bale from home, Sam,'
with he voice full of joy like a kid what find some candy. We stands
round dat bale and wonders if it am raised on de plantation.
"But we has de good time after we gits 'quainted and I seed lots and
gits to know some West India niggers. But we's ready to come home and
when we gits dere it am plenty war. Massa Frank jines de 'Federate Army
and course I's his valet and goes with him, right over to Camp
Carpenter, at Mobile. He am de lieutenant under General Gordon and befo'
long dey pushes him higher. Fin'ly he gits notice he am to be a colonel
and dat sep'rates us, 'cause he has to go to Floridy. 'I's gwine with
you,' I says, for I thinks I 'longs to him and he 'longs to me and can't
nothing part us. But he say, 'You can't go with me this time. Dey's
gwine put you in de army.' Den I cries and he cries.
"I's seventeen years old when I puts my hand on de book and am a sojer.
I talks to my captain 'bout Massa Frank and wants to go to see him. But
it wasn't more'n two weeks after he leaves dat him was kilt. Dat am de
awful shock to me and it am a long time befo' I gits over it. I allus
feels if I'd been with him maybe I could save his life.
"My company am moved to Birmingham and builds breastworks. Dey say Gen.
Lee am comin' for a battle but he didn't ever come and when I been back
to see dem breastworks, dey never been used. We marches north to
Lexington, in Kentuck' but am gone befo' de battle to Louisville. We
comes back to Salem, in Georgia, but I's never in no big battle, only
some skirmishes now and den. We allus fixes for de battles and builds
bridges and doesn't fight much.
"I goes back after de war to Memphis. My mammy am on de Kilgore place
and Massa Kilgore takes her and my pappy and two hundred other slaves
and comes to Texas. Dat how I gits here. He settles at de place called
Kilgore, and it was named after him, but in 1867 he moves to Cleburne.
"Befo' we moved to Texas de Klu Kluxers done burn my mammy's house and
she lost everything. Dey was 'bout $100 in greenbacks in dat house and a
three hundred pound hawg in de pen, what die from de heat. We done run
to Massa Rodger's house. De riders gits so bad dey come most any time
and run de cullud folks off for no cause, jus' to be orn'ry and plunder
de home. But one day I seed Massa Rodgers take a dozen guns out his
wagon and he and some white men digs a ditch round de cotton field close
to de road. Couple nights after dat de riders come and when dey gits
near dat ditch a volley am fired and lots of dem draps off dey hosses.
Dat ended de Klux trouble in dat section.
"After I been in Texas a year I jines de Fed'ral Army for de Indian war.
I's in de transportation division and drives oxen and mules, haulin'
supplies to de forts. We goes to Fort Griffin and Dodge City and
Laramie, in Wyoming. Dere am allus two or three hundred sojers with us,
to watch for Indian attacks. Dey travels on hosses, 'head, 'side and
'hind de wagon. One day de Sent'nel reports Indians am round so we gits
hid in de trees and bresh. On a high ledge off to de west we sees de
Indians travelin' north, two abreast. De lieutenant say he counted 'bout
seven hundred but dey sho' missed us, or maybe I'd not be here today.
"I stays in de service for seven years and den goes back to Johnson
County, farmin' on de Rodgers place, and stays till I comes to Fort
Worth in 1889. Den I gits into 'nother war, de Spanish 'merican War. But
I's in de com'sary work so don't see much fightin'. In all dem wars I
sees most no fightin', 'cause I allus works with de supplies.
"After dat war I goes to work laborin' for buildin' contractors. I works
for sev'ral den gits with Mr. Bardon and larns de cement work with him.
He am awful good man to work for, dat John Bardon. Fin'ly I starts my
own cement business and am still runnin' it. My health am good and I's
allus on de job, 'cause dis home I owns has to be kept up. It cost
sev'ral thousand dollars and I can't 'ford to neglect it.
"I's married twict. I marries Mattie Norman in 1901 and sep'rates in
1904. She could spend more money den two niggers could shovel it in. Den
I marries Lottie Young in 1909, but dere am no chillens. I's never dat
lucky.
"I's voted ev'ry 'lection and 'lieves it de duty for ev'ry citizen to
vote.
"Now, I's told you everything from Genesis to Rev'lations, and it de
truth, as I 'members it.
420058
[Illustration: Ben Kinchlow]
BEN KINCHLOW, 91, was the son of Lizaer Moore, a half-white slave
owned by Sandy Moore, Wharton Co., and Lad Kinchlow, a white man.
When Ben was one year old his mother was freed and given some
money. She was sent to Matamoras, Mexico and they lived there and
at Brownsville, Texas, during the years before and directly
following the Civil War. Ben and his wife, Liza, now live in
Uvalde, Texas, in a neat little home. Ben has straight hair, a
Roman nose, and his speech is like that of the early white settler.
He is affable and enjoys recounting his experiences.
"I was birthed in 1846 in Wharton, Wharton County, in slavery times. My
mother's name was Lizaer Moore. I think her master's name was Sandy
Moore, and she went by his name. My father's name was Lad Kinchlow. My
mother was a half-breed Negro; my father was a white man of that same
county. I don't know anything about my father. He was a white man, I
know that. After I was borned and was one year old, my mother was set
free and sent to Mexico to live. When we left Wharton, we was sent away
in an ambulance. It was an old-time ambulance. It was what they called
an ambulance--a four-wheeled concern pulled by two mules. That is what
they used to traffic in. The big rich white folks would get in it and go
to church or on a long journey. We landed safely into Matamoros, Mexico,
just me and my mother and older brother. She had the means to live on
till she got there and got acquainted. We stayed there about twelve
years. Then we moved back to Brownsville and stayed there until after
all Negroes were free. She went to washing and she made lots of money at
it. She charged by the dozen. Three or four handkerchiefs were
considered a piece. She made good because she got $2.50 a dozen for men
washing and $5 a dozen for women's clothes.
"I was married in February, 1879, to Christiana Temple, married at
Matagorda, Matagorda County. I had six children by my first wife. Three
boys and three girls. Two girls died. The other girl is in Gonzales
County. Lawrence is here workin' on the Kincaid Ranch and Andrew is
workin' for John Monagin's dairy and Henry is seventy miles from Alpine.
He's a highway boss. This was my first wife. Now I am married again and
have been with this wife forty years. Her name was Eliza Dawson. No
children born to this union.
"The way we lived in those days--the country was full of wild game,
deer, wild hogs, turkey, duck, rabbits, 'possum, lions, quails, and so
forth. You see, in them days they was all thinly settled and they was
all neighbors. Most settlements was all Meskins mostly; of course there
was a few white people. In them days the country was all open and a man
could go in there and settle down wherever he wanted to and wouldn't be
molested a-tall. They wasn't molested till they commenced putting these
fences and putting up these barbwire fences. You could ride all day and
never open a gate. Maybe ride right up to a man's house and then just
let down a bar or two.
"Sometime when we wanted fresh meat we went out and killed. We also
could kill a calf or goat whenever we cared to because they were plenty
and no fence to stop you. We also had plenty milk and butter and
home-made cheese. We did not have much coffee. You know the way we made
our coffee? We just taken corn and parched it right brown and ground it
up. Whenever we would get up furs and hides enough to go into market, a
bunch of neighbors would get together and take ten to fifteen deer hides
each and take 'em in to Brownsville and sell 'em and get their
supplies. They paid twenty-five cents a pound for them. That's when we
got our coffee, but we'd got so used to using corn-coffee, we didn't
care whether we had that real coffee so much, because we had to be
careful with our supplies, anyway. My recollection is that it was fifty
cents a pound and it would be green coffee and you would have to roast
it and grind it on a mill. We didn't have any sugar, and very rare thing
to have flour. The deer was here by the hundreds. There was blue
quail--my goodness! You could get a bunch of these blue top-knot quail
rounded up in a bunch of pear and, if they was any rocks, you could kill
every one of 'em. If you could hit one and get 'im to fluttering the
others would bunch around him and you could kill every one of 'em with
rocks.
"We lived very neighborly. When any of the neighbors killed fresh meat
we always divided with one another. We all had a corn patch, about three
or four acres. We did not have plows; we planted with a hoe. We were
lucky in raisin' corn every year. Most all the neighbors had a little
bunch of goats, cows, mares, and hogs. Our nearest market was forty
miles, at old Brownsville. When I was a boy I wo'e what was called
shirt-tail. It was a long, loose shirt with no pants. I did not wear
pants until I was about ten or twelve. The way we got our supplies, all
the neighbors would go in together and send into town in a dump cart
drawn by a mule. The main station was at Brownsville. It was thirty-five
miles from where they'd change horses. They carried this mail to
Edinburg, and it took four days. Sometimes they'd ride a horse or mule.
We'd get our mail once a week. We got our mail at Brownsville.
"The country was very thinly settled then and of very few white people;
most all Meskins, living on the border. The country was open, no fences.
Every neighbor had a little place. We didn't have any plows; we planted
with a hoe and went along and raked the dirt over with our toes. We had
a grist mill too. I bet I've turned one a million miles. There was no
hired work then. When a man was hired he got $10 or $12 per month, and
when people wanted to brand or do other work, all the neighbors went
together and helped without pay. The most thing that we had to fear was
Indians and cattle rustlers and wild animals.
"While I was yet on the border, the plantation owners had to send their
cotton to the border to be shipped to other parts, so it was transferred
by Negro slaves as drivers. Lots of times, when these Negroes got there
and took the cotton from their wagon, they would then be persuaded to go
across the border by Meskins, and then they would never return to their
master. That is how lots of Negroes got to be free. The way they used to
transfer the cotton--these big cotton plantations east of here--they'd
take it to Brownsville and put it on the wharf and ship it from there. I
can remember seeing, during the cotton season, fifteen or twenty teams
hauling cotton, sometimes five or six, maybe eight bales on a wagon. You
see, them steamboats used to run all up and down that river. I think
this cotton went out to market at New Orleans and went right out into
the Gulf.
"Our house was a log cabin with a log chimney da'bbed with mud. The
cabin was covered with grass for a roof. The fireplace was the kind of
stove we had. Mother cooked in Dutch ovens. Our main meal was corn bread
and milk and grits with milk. That was a little bit coarser than meal.
The way we used to cook it and the best flavored is to cook it
out-of-doors in a Dutch oven. We called 'em corn dodgers. Now ash cakes,
you have your dough pretty stiff and smooth off a place in the ashes and
lay it right on the ashes and cover it up with ashes and when it got
done, you could wipe every bit of the ashes off, and get you some butter
and put on it. M-m-m! I tell you, its fine! There is another way of
cookin' flour bread without a skillet or a stove, is to make up your
dough stiff and roll it out thin and cut it in strips and roll it on a
green stick and just hold it over the coals, and it sure makes good
bread. When one side cooks too fast, you can just turn it over, and have
your stick long enough to keep it from burnin' your hands. How come me
to learn this was: One time we were huntin' horse stock and there was
an outfit along and the pack mule that was packed with our provisions
and skillets and coffee pots and things--we never did carry much stuff,
not even no beddin'--the pack turned on the mule and we lost our skillet
and none of us knowed it at the time. All of us was cooks, but that old
Meskin that was along was the only one that knew how to cook bread that
way. Sometimes we would be out six weeks or two months on a general
round-up, workin' horse stock; the country would just be alive with
cattle, and horses too. We used to have lots of fun on those drives.
"I tell you, I didn't enjoy that 'court' at night. They got so tough on
us you couldn't spit in camp, couldn't use no cuss words--they would
sure 'put the leggin's on you' if you did!"
Uncle Ben hitched his chair, and with much chuckling, recalled the
"kangaroo court" the cowboys used to hold at night in camp. These
impromptu courts were often all the fun the cowboys had during the long
weeks of hunting stock in the open range country.
"Oh, it was all in fun. Just catch somebody so we could hold court! They
would have two or three as a jury. They would use me as sheriff and
appoint a judge. The prisoner was turned over to the judge and whatever
he said, it had to be carried out exactly. The penalty? Well,
sometimes--it was owing to the crime--but sometimes they would put it up
to about twenty licks with the leggin's. If they was any bendin' trees,
they would lay you across the log. They got tough, all right, but we
sure had fun. We had to salute the boss every mornin', and if we forgot
it...! They never forgot it that night; you'd sure get tried in court.
"We camped on the side of a creek one time, and we had a new man, a sort
of green fellow. This new man unsaddled his horse by the side of the
creek and he lay down there. He had on a big pair of spurs, and I was
watchin' him and studyin' up some kind of prank to play on 'im. So I
went and got me a string and tied one of his spurs to his saddle and
then I told the boss what I'd done and he had one of the fellows put a
saddle on and tie tin cups and pots on it and then they commenced
shootin' and yellin'. This man with the saddle on went pitchin' right
toward that fellow, and that man got up, scared to death, and started to
run. He run the length of the string and then fell down, but he didn't
take time to get up; he went runnin' on his all-fours as fur as he
could, till he drug the saddle to where it hung up. He woulda run right
into the creek, but the saddle held 'im back. We didn't hold kangaroo
court over that! Nobody knowed who did it. Of course, they all knowed,
but they didn't let on. But nobody ever got in a bad humor; it didn't do
no good.
"I've stood up of many a bad night, dozin'. It would be two weeks,
sometimes, before we got to lay down on our beds. I have stood up
between the wagon wheel and the bed (of the wagon) and dozed many a
night. Maybe one or two men would come in and doze an hour or two, but
if the cattle were restless and ready to run, we had to be ready right
now. Sho! Those stormy nights thunderin' and lightnin'! You could just
see the lightnin' all over the steers' horns and your horse's ears and
mane too. It would dangle all up and down his mane. It never interfered
with =you= a-tall. And you could see it around the steer's horns in the
herd, the lightnin' would dangle all over 'em. If the hands (cowboys) or
the relief could get to 'em before they got started to runnin', they
could handle 'em; but if they got started first, they would be pretty
hard to handle.
"The first ranch I worked on after I left McNelly was on the =Banqueta= on
the =Agua Dulce= Creek for the Miley boys, putting up a pasture fence. I
worked there about two months, diggin' post holes. From there to the
King Ranch for about four months, breaking horses. I kept travelin' east
till I got back to Wharton, where my mother was. She died there in
Wharton. I didn't stay with her very long. I went down to =Tres Palacios=
in Matagorda County. I did pasture work there, and cattle work. I worked
for Mr. Moore for twelve years. Then he moved to Stockdale and I worked
for him there eight years. From there, after I got through with Mr.
Moore, I went back to =Tres Palacios= and I worked there for first one man
and then another. I think we have been here at Uvalde for about
twenty-three years.
"I've been the luckiest man in the world to have gone through what I
have and not get hurt. I have never had but two horses to fall with me.
I could ride all day right now and never tire. You never hear me say,
'I'm tired, I'm sleepy, I'm hongry.' And out in camp you never see me
lay down when I come in to camp, or set down to eat, and if I =do=, I set
down on my foot. I always get my plate in my hand and eat standin' up,
or lean against the wagon, maybe.
"When Cap'n. McNelly taken sick and resigned, I traveled east and picked
up jobs of work on ranches. The first work after I left the Rio Grande
was on the =Banqueta=, and then I went to work on the King Ranch about
fifty miles southeast (?) of Brownsville. It wasn't fixed up in them
days like it is now. But the territory is like it was then. They worked
all Meskin hands. They were working about twenty-five or thirty Meskins
at the headquarters' ranch. And the main =caporal= was a Meskin. His wages
was top wages and he got twelve dollars a month. And the hands, if you
was a real good hand, you got seven or eight dollars a month, and they
would give you rations. They would furnish you all the meat you wanted
and furnish you corn, but you would have to grind it yourself for bread.
You know, like the Meskins make on a =metate=. You could have all the
home-made cheese you want, and milk. In them days, the Meskins didn't
have sense enough to make butter. I seen better times them days than I
am seein' now. We just had a home livin'. You could go out any time and
kill you anything you wanted--turkeys, hogs, javalinas, deer, 'coons,
'possums, quail.
"I'll tell you about a Meskin ranch I worked on. It was a big lake. It
covered, I reckin, fifty acres, and these little Meskin huts just
surrounded that big lake. And fish! My goodness, you could just go down
there and throw your hook in without a bait and catch a fish. That was
what you call the =Laguna de Chacona=. That was out from Brownsville
about thirty-five miles. That ranch was owned by the old Meskin named
Chacon, where the lake got its name.