men-folks didn't milk cows, they wouldn't even fool with 'em. They would
have a great big corral and maybe they would have fifteen or twenty cows
and they would be four or five families go there to milk. Every calf
would have a rawhide strap around his neck about six foot long. Now,
instead of them makin' a calf pen--of evenin's the girls would go down
there and I used to go help 'em--they would pull the calf up to the
fence and stick the strap through a crack and pull the calf's head down
nearly to the ground where he couldn't suck. Of course, the old cow
would hang around right close to the calf as she could git. When they
let the calf suck, they'd leave 'im tied down so he couldn't suck in the
night. They always kep' the cows up at night and they'd leave the calves
in the pen with 'em, but tied down. But buildin' just what you call a
calf pen, they'd set posts in the ground just like these stock pens at
the railroad and lay the poles between 'em. Then again, they would dig a
trench and set mesquite poles so thick and deep, why, you couldn't push
it down!
"Now, in dry times, they would have a =banvolete= (ban-bo-la-te). Hand me
two of them sticks, mama. Now, you see, like here would be the well and
you cut a long stick as long as you could get it, with a fork up here in
this here pole, and have this here stick in the fork of the pole. They'd
bolt the cross piece down in the fork of the pole that was put in the
ground right by the well, and have it so it would work up and down.
They'd be a weight tied on the end of the other pole and they could sure
draw water in a hurry. I made one out here on the Anderson Ranch. Just
as fast as you could let your bucket down, then jerk it up, you had the
water up. The well had cross pieces of poles laid around it and cut to
fit together.
"Now, about the other way we had to draw water. We had a big well, only
it was fenced around to keep cattle from gettin' in there. The reason
they had to do that, they had a big wheel with footpieces, like steps,
to tread, and you would have the wheel over the well and they had about
fifteen or twenty rawhide buckets fastened to a rope (that the wheel
pulled it went around), and when they went down, they would go down in
front of you. You had to sit down right behind the wheel, and you would
push with your feet and pull with your hands, and the buckets came up
behind you and as they went up, they would empty and go back down. They
had some way of fixin' the rawhide. I think they toasted it, or scorched
the hide to keep it hard so the water wouldn't soak it up and get it
soft. That was on that place, the Chacona Lakes. That old Meskin was a
native of the Rio Grande and run cattle and horses. In them days, you
could buy an acre of land for fifty cents, river front, all the land you
wanted. Now that land in that valley, you couldn't buy it for a hundred
dollars an acre.
"Did I tell you about diggin' that pit right in the fence of our corn
patch to catch javalines? The way we done, why, we just dug a big pit
right on the inside of the field, right against the fence, and whenever
they would go through that hole to go in the corn patch, they would drop
off in that hole. I think we caught nine, little and big, at one
trappin' once. It was already an old trompin' place where they come in
and out, and we had put the pit there. But after you use it, they won't
come in there again.
"You see, I tell you about them brush fences. The deer had certain
places to go to that fence to jump it, and after we found the regular
jumpin' place, we would cut three sticks--pretty good size, about like
your wrist, about three foot long--and peel 'em and scorch 'em in the
fire and sharpen the ends right good and we would go to set our traps.
We would put these three sharp sticks right about where the forefeet of
the deer would hit. You'd just set the sticks about four inches from
where his forefeet would hit the ground, and you'd set the sticks
leanin' towards the brush fence, and they would be one in the center and
two on the side and about two inches apart. When he jumped, you would
sure get 'im right about the point of the brisket. He'd hardly ever
miss 'em, and you'd find 'im right there. Oh, sometimes he'd pull up a
stick and run a piece with it, but he didn't run very far.
"I been listenin' to the radio about Cap'n McNelly and I tell you it
didn't sound right to me. In what way? Why, they never was no cattle on
the steamboats down the Rio Grande. I just tell you they was no way of
shippin' cattle on a steamboat. They couldn't get 'em down the hatch and
they couldn't keep 'em on deck and they wasn't no wharf to load 'em,
either. I was there and I seen them boats too long and I =know= they never
shipped no cattle on them steamboats. After they crossed the Rio Grand
into Mexico, they might have been shipped from some port down there, but
all them cattle they crossed was =swum= across. They was big boats, but
they wasn't no stock boats. They shipped lots of cotton on them
steamboats, but they wasn't fixed to ship no cattle. They was up there
for freight and passengers. The passengers was going on down the Gulf,
maybe to New Orleans. They would get on at Brownsville. The steamboats
couldn't go very fur up the river only in high water, but they could
come up to Brownsville all the time.
"I was in the Ranger service for about a year with Captain McNelly, or
until he died. I was his guide. I was living thirty-five miles above
Brownsville. I was working for a man right there on the place by the
name of John Cunningham. It was called Bare Stone. You see, hit was a
ranch there. McNelly was stationed there after the government troops
moved off. They had 'em (the troops) there for a while, but they never
did do no good, never did make a raid on nothin'. I was twenty or
twenty-one. How come me to get in with McNelly, they had a big meadow
there, a big 'permuda' (Bermuda) grass meadow. Me and another fellow
used to go in there, and John Cunningham furnished Cap'n McNelly hay for
his horses. That's how come me to get in with 'im. Fin'ly, he found out
I knew all about that country and sometimes he would come over there and
get me to map off a road, though they wasn't but one main road right
there. So, one day I was over in the camp with 'im and I say, 'Cap'n,
how would you like to give me a job to work with you?' He said, 'I'd
like to have you all right, but you couldn't come here on state pay, and
under =no responsibility=.' I told 'im that was all right. I knew how I
was going to get my money, 'cause I gambled. Sometimes I would have a
hundred or a hundred, twenty-five dollars. Durin' the month I would win
from the soljers dealin' monte or playin' seven-up. They wasn't no craps
in them days. We played luck too; we never had no shenanigans,
a-stealin' a man's money. If you had a good streak o' luck, you made
good; if you didn't, you was out o' luck. Sometimes, I had up as high as
twenty-five or thirty dollars.
"One thing about the cap'n, he'd tell his men--well, we had a sutler's
shop right across from our camp, all kinds of good drinks--and he would
tell his men he didn't care how much they drank but he didn't want any
of 'em fighting'. He kep' 'em under good control.
"You see, they was all dependin' on me for guidin'. There was no way
for them cow rustlers or bandits to get to the cow ranches after they
crossed the river (Rio Grande) excep' to cross that road for there was
no other way for 'em to get out there. You see, there was where it would
be easy for me, pickin' up a trail. I would just follow that road on if
I had a certain distance to go, and if I didn't find no trail I would
come back and report, and if I would find a trail he would ask me how
many they was and where they was goin', and I would tell 'im which way,
'cause I didn't know exactly where they was goin' to round-up. He would
always give 'em about two or three days to make the round-up from the
time that trail crossed. And we always went to meet 'em, or catch 'em at
the river. We got into two or three real bad combats.
"The worst one was on Palo Alto Prairie, one of Santa Anna's battle
grounds. About twelve or fifteen miles east of old Brownsville. They was
sixteen of the bandits and they was fifteen of 'em killed--all Meskins
excep' one white man. One Meskin escaped. The cap'n just put 'em all up
together in a pile and sent a message to Brownsville to the authorities
and told 'em where they was at and what shape they was in. They must
have had two hundred or two hundred and twenty-five head (of cattle)
with 'em. It was open country and they would get anybody's cattle. They
just got 'em off the range.
"They mostly would cross that road at night, and by me gettin' out early
next mornin' and findin' that trail, I could tell pretty much how old it
was. I reckon that place wasn't over thirteen miles from Brownsville and
our camp was thirty-five miles, I guess it must have been twenty-five
miles from our camp to where we had that battle. We sure went there to
get 'em. I trailed them horses and I knowed from the direction they was
takin' that they was goin' to those big lakes called Santa Lalla. They
was between Point Isabel and Brownsville and that made us about a
forty-five mile ride to get to that crossin', to a place called Bagdad,
right on the waters of the Rio Grande.
"We got our lunch at Brownsville and started out to go to this crossin'.
I knowed right about where this crossin' was and I says to the cap'n,
'Don't you reckon I better go and see if they was any sign?' We stayed
there about three hours and didn't hear a thing. And then the cap'n
said, 'Boys, we better eat our lunch'. While we was eatin', we heard
somebody holler, and he said, 'Boys, there they are.' And he said to me,
'Ben, you want to stay with the horses or be in the fun?' And I said, 'I
don't care.' So he said, 'You better stay with the horses; you ain't
paid to kill Meskins! I went out to where the horses were. The rangers
were afoot in the brush. It was about an hour from the time we heard the
fellow holler before the cattle got there. When the rangers placed
themselves on the side of the road, the Meskins didn't know what they
was goin' to get into!
"The Meskins was all singin' at the top of their voices and they was
comin' on in. The cap'n waited till they went to crossin' the herd, he
waited till these rustlers all got into the river behind the cattle, and
then the cap'n opened fire on the bandits. They didn't have no possible
show. They was in the water, and he just floated 'em down the river.
They was one man got away. I saw 'im later, and he told me about it. The
way he got away, he says he was a good swimmer and he just fell off his
horse in the water and the swift water took 'im down and he just kep'
his nose out of the water and got away that way. They was fo'teen in
that bunch, I know.
"The echo of the shootin' turned the cattle back to the American side.
The lead cattle was just gettin' ready to hit the other side of the
river when the shootin' taken place and the echo of the shootin' turned
'em and they come back across. Now, in swimmin' a bunch of cattle, if
you pop your whip, you are just as liable to turn 'em back, or if you
holler the echo might turn 'em back. It'll do that nearly every time.
"After the fight, the cap'n says to the boys, 'Well, boys, the fun is
all over now, I guess we'd better start back to camp.' And they all
mounted their horses and begun singin':
"O, bury me not on the lone prairie-e-e
Where the wild coyotes will howl o'er me-e-e,
Right where all the Meskins ought to be-e-e!"
420949
[Illustration: Mary Kindred]
MARY KINDRED was a slave on the Luke Hadnot plantation in Jasper,
Texas. She does not know her age but thinks she is about 80. She
now lives in Beaumont, Texas.
"My mind don't dwell back. The older I gits the lessen I thinks 'bout
the old times. I ain't gittin' old. I's done got old. I not been one of
them bad, outlawed fellers, so de good Lawd done 'low me live a long
time. Some things I knows I heered from my mother and my grandma. They
so fresh to them in that time, though, I mostly sure they's truth.
"My mother name was Hannah Hadnot and my daddy was Ruffin Hadnot and he
used to carry the mail from Weiss Bluff to Jasper. They waylay him 'long
the road in 1881 and kill him and rob the mail.
"Luke Hadnot was our old massa. He good to my grandma and give her
license for a doctor woman. Old massa must of thought lots of her,
'cause he give her forty acres of land and a home fer herself. That
house still standin' up there in Jasper, yet.
"Grandma used to sing a li'l song to us, like this:
"'One mornin' in May,
I spies a beautiful dandy,
A-rakin' way of de hay.
I asks her to marry.
She say, scornful, 'No.'
But befo' six months roll by
Her apron strings wouldn't tie
She wrote me a letter,
She marry me then,
I say, no, no, my gal, not I.'
"Grandma git de bark offen de thorn tree and bile it with turpentine for
de toothache. She used herbs for de medicine and they's good.
"Old missy was tall and slim, a rawbone sort of woman. Her name was
Matilda Hadnot. Massa have as big a still as ever I seed and dey used to
make everything there. They has it civered with boards they rive out the
woods. There wasn't no revenuers in dem days.
"Us gits de groceries by steamboat and the wagons go down the old
Bevilport Road to the steamboat landin'. That the Ang'leen River. One
the biggest boats was own by Capt. Bryce Hadnot, the 'Old Grim.'
"I 'member back durin' the war the people couldn't git no coffee. They
used to take bran and peanuts and okra seed and sich and parch 'em for
coffee. It make right drinkable coffee. They gits sugar from the store
or the sugar cane. When they buy it, it's in a big, white lump what they
calls 'sugar loaf.' When they has no sugar they uses the syrup to
sweeten the coffee and they call syrup 'long sweetenin' and sugar,
'short sweetenin'.
"Us has lots of dances with fiddle and 'corjum player. Us sing, 'Swing
you partner, Promenade.' Another li'l song start out:
"'Dinah got a meat skin lay away,
Grease dat wooden leg, Dinah.
Grease dat wooden leg, Dinah.
Shake dat wooden leg, Dinah,
Shake dat wooden leg, Dinah.'
I 'members this song:
"'Down in Shiloh town,
Down in Shiloh town,
De old grey mare come
Tearin' out de wilderness.
Down in Shiloh town,
O, boys, O,
O, boys, O,
Down in Shiloh town.'
"I's seed lots of blue gum niggers and they say iffen they bite you dey
pizen you. They hands diff'rent from other niggers. Now, my hand's right
smart white in the inside, but blue gum nigger hand is more browner on
the inside.
"I used to have a old aunt name Harriett and iffen she tell you anythin'
you kin jes' put it down it gwineter come out like she say. She have the
big mole on the inside her mouth and when she shake her finger at you it
gwine happen to you jes' like she say. That what they call puttin' bad
mouth on them and she sho' could do it.
"I's had 12 chillen. My first husban was Anthony Adams and the last
Alfred Kindred. I only got three chillen livin' now, though. One of the
sons am the outer door guard of the lodge here in Beaumont.
420311
NANCY KING, 93, was born in Upshur County, Texas, a slave of
William Jackson. She and her husband moved to Marshall, Texas, in
1866. Nancy now lives with her daughter, Lucy Staples.
"I was borned and raised on William Jackson's place, jus' twelve miles
east of Gilmer. I was growed and had one child at surrender, and my
mother told me I was a woman of my own when Old Missie sot us free, jus'
after surrender, so you can figurate my age from that.
"My first child was borned the January befo' surrender in June, and I
'members hoeing in the field befo' the war come on. Massa William raised
lots of cotton and corn and tobacco and most everything we et. I never
worked in the field, 'cept to chase the calves in, till I was most
growed. Massa was good to us. Course, I never went to school, but Old
Missie sent my brother, Alex, two years after the war, with her own
chillen.
"I was married durin' the war and it was at church, with a white
preacher. Old Missie give me the cloth and dye for my weddin' dress and
my mother spun and dyed the cloth, and I made it. It was homespun but
nothin' cheap 'bout it for them days. After the weddin' massa give us a
big dinner and we had a time.
"Massa done all the bossin' his own self. He never whipped me, but Old
Missie had to switch me a little for piddlin' round, 'stead of doin'
what she said. Every Sat'day night we had a candy pullin' and played
games, and allus had plenty of clothes and shoes.
"I seed the soldiers comin' and gwine to the war, and 'members when
Massa William left to go fight for the South. His boy, Billie, was
sixteen, and tended the place while massa's away. Massa done say he'd
let the niggers go without fightin'. He didn't think war was right, but
he had to go. He 'serts and comes home befo' the war gits goin' good and
the soldiers come after him. He run off to the bottoms, but they was on
hosses and overtook him. I was there in the room when they brung him
back. One of them says, 'Jackson, we ain't gwine take you with us now,
but we'll fix you so you can't run off till we git back.' They put red
pepper in his eyes and left. Missie cried. They come back for him in a
day or two and made my father saddle up Hawk-eye, massa's best hoss.
Then they rode away and we never seed massa 'gain. One day my brother,
Alex, hollers out, 'Oh, Missie, yonder is the hoss, at the gate, and
ain't nobody ridin' him.' Missie throwed up her hands and says, 'O,
Lawdy, my husban' am dead!' She knowed somehow when he left he wasn't
comin' back.
"Old Missie freed us but said we had a home as long as she did. Me and
my husban' stays 'bout a year, but my folks stays till she marries
'gain.
"My brother-in-law, Sam Pitman, tells us how he put one by the Ku
Kluxers. Him and some niggers was out one night and the Kluxers chases
them on hosses. They run down a narrow road and tied four strands of
grapevine 'cross the road, 'bout breast high to a hoss. The Kluxers come
gallopin' down that road and when the hosses hit that grapevine, it
throwed them every which way and broke some their arms. Sam used to
laugh and tell how them Kluxers cussed them niggers.
"Me and my husban' come to Marshall the year after surrender, and I is
lived here every since. My man works on farms till he got on the
railroad. I's been married four times and raised six chillen. The young
people is diff'rent from what we was, but diff'rent times calls for
diff'rent ways, I 'spect. My chillen allus done the best they could by
me.
420272
SILVIA KING, French Negress of Marlin, Texas, does not know her
age, but says that she was born in Morocco. She was stolen from her
husband and three children, brought to the United States and sold
into slavery. Silvia has the appearance of extreme age, and may be
close to a hundred years old, as she thinks she is, because of her
memories of the children she never saw again and of the slave ship.
"I know I was borned in Morocco, in Africa, and was married and had
three chillen befo' I was stoled from my husband. I don't know who it
was stole me, but dey took me to France, to a place called Bordeaux, and
drugs me with some coffee, and when I knows anything 'bout it, I's in de
bottom of a boat with a whole lot of other niggers. It seem like we was
in dat boat forever, but we comes to land, and I's put on de block and
sold. I finds out afterwards from my white folks it was in New Orleans
where dat block was, but I didn't know it den.
"We was all chained and dey strips all our clothes off and de folks what
gwine buy us comes round and feels us all over. Iffen any de niggers
don't want to take dere clothes off, de man gits a long, black whip and
cuts dem up hard. I's sold to a planter what had a big plantation in
Fayette County, right here in Texas, don't know no name 'cept Marse
Jones.
"Marse Jones, he am awful good, but de overseer was de meanest man I
ever knowed, a white man name Smith, what boasts 'bout how many niggers
he done kilt. When Marse Jones seed me on de block, he say, 'Dat's a
whale of a woman.' I's scairt and can't say nothin', 'cause I can't
speak English. He buys some more slaves and dey chains us together and
marches us up near La Grange, in Texas. Marse Jones done gone on ahead
and de overseer marches us. Dat was a awful time, 'cause us am all
chained up and whatever one does us all has to do. If one drinks out of
de stream we all drinks, and when one gits tired or sick, de rest has to
drag and carry him. When us git to Texas, Marse Jones raise de debbil
with dat white man what had us on da march. He git de doctor man and
tell de cook to feed us and lets us rest up.
"After 'while, Marse Jones say to me, 'Silvia, am you married?' I tells
him I got a man and three chillen back in de old country, but he don't
understand my talk and I has a man give to me. I don't bother with dat
nigger's name much, he jes' Bob to me. But I fit him good and plenty
till de overseer shakes a blacksnake whip over me.
"Marse Jones and Old Miss finds out 'bout my cookin' and takes me to de
big house to cook for dem. De dishes and things was awful queer to me,
to what I been brung up to use in France. I mostly cooks after dat, but
I's de powerful big woman when I's young and when dey gits in a tight
[Handwritten Note: 'place?'] I helps out.
"'Fore long Marse Jones 'cides to move. He allus say he gwine git where
he can't hear he neighbor's cowhorn, and he do. Dere ain't nothin' but
woods and grass land, no houses, no roads, no bridges, no neighbors,
nothin' but woods and wild animals. But he builds a mighty fine house
with a stone chimney six foot square at de bottom. The sill was a foot
square and de house am made of logs, but dey splits out two inch plank
and puts it outside de logs, from de ground clean up to de eaves. Dere
wasn't no nails, but dey whittles out pegs. Dere was a well out de back
and a well on de back porch by de kitchen door. It had a wheel and a
rope. Dere was 'nother well by de barns and one or two round de
quarters, but dey am fixed with a long pole sweep. In de kitchen was de
big fireplace and de big back logs am haul to de house. De oxen pull dem
dat far and some men takes poles and rolls dem in de fireplace. Marse
Jones never 'low dat fire go out from October till May, and in de fall
Marse or one he sons lights de fire with a flint rock and some powder.
"De stores was a long way off and de white folks loans seed and things
to each other. If we has de toothache, de blacksmith pulls it. My
husband manages de ox teams. I cooks and works in Old Miss's garden and
de orchard. It am big and fine and in fruit time all de women works from
light to dark dryin' and 'servin' and de like.
"Old Marse gwine feed you and see you quarters am dry and warm or know
de reason why. Most ev'ry night he goes round de quarters to see if dere
any sickness or trouble. Everybody work hard but have plenty to eat.
Sometimes de preacher tell us how to git to hebben and see de ring
lights dere.
"De smokehouse am full of bacon sides and cure hams and barrels lard and
'lasses. When a nigger want to eat, he jes' ask and git he passel. Old
Miss allus 'pend on me to spice de ham when it cure. I larnt dat back in
de old country, in France.
"Dere was spinnin' and weavin' cabins, long with a chimney in each end.
Us women spins all de thread and weaves cloth for everybody, de white
folks, too. I's de cook, but times I hit de spinnin' loom and wheel
fairly good. Us bleach de cloth and dyes it with barks.
"Dere allus de big woodpile in de yard, and de big, caboose kettle for
renderin' hawg fat and beef tallow candles and makin' soap. Marse allus
have de niggers take some apples and make cider, and he make beer, too.
Most all us had cider and beer when we want it, but nobody git drunk.
Marse sho' cut up if we do.
"Old Miss have de floors sanded, dat where you sprinkles fine, white
sand over da floor and sweeps it round in all kinds purty figgers. Us
make a corn shuck broom.
"Marse sho' a fool 'bout he hounds and have a mighty fine pack. De boys
hunts wolves and painters (panthers) and wild game like dat. Dere was
lots of wild turkey and droves of wild prairie chickens. Dere was
rabbits and squirrels and Indian puddin', make of cornmeal. It am real
tasty. I cooks goose and pork and mutton and bear meat and beef and deer
meat, den makes de fritters and pies and dumplin's. Sho' wish us had dat
food now.
"On de cold winter night I's sot many a time spinnin' with two threads,
one in each hand and one my feets on de wheel and de baby sleepin' on my
lap. De boys and old men was allus whittlin' and it wasn't jes'
foolishment. Dey whittles traps and wooden spoons and needles to make
seine nets and checkers and sleds. We all sits workin' and singin' and
smokin' pipes. I likes my pipe right now, and has two clay pipes and
keeps dem under de pillow. I don't aim for dem pipes to git out my
sight. I been smokin' clost to a hunerd years now and it takes two cans
tobaccy de week to keep me goin'.
"Dere wasn't many doctors dem days, but allus de closet full of simples
(home remedies) and most all de old women could git med'cine out de
woods. Ev'ry spring, Old Miss line up all de chillen and give dem a
dose of garlic and rum.
"De chillen all played together, black and white. De young ones purty
handy trappin' quail and partridges and sech. Dey didn't shoot if dey
could cotch it some other way, 'cause powder and lead am scarce. Dey
cotch de deer by makin' de salt lick, and uses a spring pole to cotch
pigeons and birds.