pans of steak and mountain orshters. Generally, at the brandin' and
markin', I cooked up many a big pan of mountain orshters. I wish I had a
nickel for ever' one I've cooked, and ate too! People from up North have
come down there, and, when they were brandin' and cuttin' calves there,
they sure did eat and enjoy that dinner.
"The men used to go up to the lake, fishin', and catch big trout, or
bass, they call 'em now; and we'd take big buckets of butter--we didn't
take a saucer of butter or a pound; we taken butter up there in buckets,
for we sure had plenty of it--and we'd take lard too, and cook our fish
up there, and had corn bread or hoe cakes and plenty of butter for
ever'thing, and it sure was good. I tell you--like my husband used to
say--we was livin' ten days in the week, then.
"When we killed hogs, the meat from last winter was hung outside and
then new meat, salted down and then smoked, put in there, and we would
cook the old bacon for the dogs. We always kep' some good dogs there,
and anybody'll tell you they was always fat. We had lots of wild turkeys
and I raised turkeys, too, till I got sick of cookin' turkeys. Don't
talk about deer! You know, it wasn't then like it is now. You could go
kill venison any time you wanted to. But I don't blame 'em for passin'
that law, for people used to go kill 'em and jes' take out the hams and
tenderloin and leave the other layin' there. I have saved many a sack of
dried meat to keep it from spoilin'.
"We would raise watermelons, too. We had a big field three mile from the
house and a ninety-acre field right in the house. We used to go get
loads of melons for the hogs and they got to where they didn't eat
anything but the heart.
"I used to leave my babies at the house with the older girl and go out
horseback with my husband. My oldest girl used to take the place of a
cowboy, and put her hair up in her hat. And ride! My goodness, she loved
to ride! They thought she was a boy. She wore pants and leggin's. And
maybe you think she couldn't ride!
"After we left that ranch, we took up some state land. I couldn't tell
you how big that place was. We had 640 in one place and 640 in another
place; it was a good big place. After my husband got sick, we had to let
it go back. We couldn't pay it out. We only lived on it about four
years.
"My husband has been dead about nineteen years. I had a pen full and a
half of chillen. I have four livin' chillen, two girls and two boys. I
have a girl, Carrie, in California, workin' in the fruit all the time;
one boy, George, in Arizona, workin' in the mines; and a girl in
Arizona, Lavinia, washes and irons and cooks and ever'thing else she can
get at. And I have one boy here. I have ten grandchillen and I've got
five great grandchillen.
"I belong to the Methodist Church. I joined about twenty-five years ago.
My husband joined with me. But here, of late years, when I go to church,
it makes me mad to see how the people do the preacher up there trying to
do all the good he can do and them settin' back there laughin' and
talkin'. I was baptized. There was about five or six of us baptized in
the Leona down here.
"People tell that I've got plenty and don't need help. Even the Mexkins
here and ever'body say I've got money. Jes' because we had that farm
down there they think I come out with money. But what in the world would
I want with money if I didn't use it? I can't take it with me when I die
and I could be gettin' the use of it now while I need it. I could have
what I want to eat, anyway. I'm gettin' a little pension, but it ain't
near enough to keep us. I've got these two grandchillen here, and things
is so high, too, so I don't have enough of anything without skimpin' all
the time.
420312
ELVIRA BOLES, 94, has outlived nine of her ten children. She lives
at 3109 Manzana St., El Paso, Texas, with her daughter, Minnie. She
was born a slave of the Levi Ray family near Lexington,
Mississippi, and was sold as a child to Elihn Boles, a neighboring
plantation owner. During the last year of the Civil War she was
brought to Texas, with other refugee slaves.
"I jus' 'member my first marster and missus, 'cause she don' want me
there. I'se a child of the marster. Dey didn' tell me how old I was when
dey sold me to Boles. My missus sold me to Boles. Dey tuk us to where
dere was a heap of white folks down by the court house and we'd be there
in lots and den de whites 'ud bid for us. I don' know how old I was, but
I washed dishes and den dey put me to work in de fields. We don' git a
nickel in slavery.
"Marster Boles didn' have many slaves on de farm, but lots in brickyard.
I toted brick back and put 'em down where dey had to be. Six bricks each
load all day. That's de reason I ain't no 'count, I'se worked to death.
I fired de furnace for three years. Stan'in' front wid hot fire on my
face. Hard work, but God was wid me. We'd work 'till dark, quit awhile
after sundown. Marster was good to slaves, didn' believe in jus' lashin'
'em. He'd not be brutal but he'd kill 'em dead right on the spot.
Overseers 'ud git after 'em and whop 'em down.
"I'se seventeen, maybe, when I married to slave of Boles. Married on
Saturday night. Dey give me a dress and dey had things to eat, let me
have something like what you call a party. We just had common clothes
on. And then I had to work every day. I'd leave my baby cryin' in de
yard and he'd be cryin', but I couldn' stay. Done everything but split
rails. I've cut timber and ploughed. Done everything a man could do. I
couldn' notice de time, but I'd be glad to git back to my baby.
"Log cabins had dirt floor, sometimes plankin' down. I worked late and
made pretty quilts. Sometimes dey'd let us have a party. Saturday
nights, de white people give us meat and stuff. Give us syrup and we'd
make candy, out in de yard. We'd ask our frien's and dance all night.
Den go to work next day. We'd clean off de yard and dance out dere.
Christmas come, dey give us a big eggnog and give us cake. Our white
folks did. White folks chillen had bought candy. We didn' git any, but
dey let us play wid de white chillen. We'd play smut. Whoever beat wid
de cards, he'd git to smut you. Take de smut from fireplace and rub on
your face.
"Doctor take care of us iffen we sick, so's git us well to git us to
work.
"Iffen dey had a pretty girl dey would take 'em, and I'se one of 'em,
and my oldest child, he boy by Boles, almost white.
"We had to steal away at night to have church on de ditch bank, and
crawl home on de belly. Once overseers heered us prayin', give us one
day each 100 lashes.
"Den when de Yankees come through, dey 'ud be good to de slaves, to keep
'em from tellin' on 'em. Freedom was give Jan. 1, 1865, but de slaves
didn' know it 'till June 19. We'se refugees. Boles, our marster, sent us
out and we come from Holmes County to Cherokee County in a wagon. We was
a dodgin' in and out, runnin' from de Yankees. Marster said dey was
runnin' us from de Yankees to keep us, but we was free and didn' know
it. I lost my baby, its buried somewhere on dat road. Died at Red River
and we left it. De white folks go out and buy food 'long de road and
hide us. Dey say we'd never be free iffen dey could git to Texas wid us,
but de people in Texas tol' us we's free. Den marster turn us loose in
de world, without a penny. Oh, dey was awful times. We jus' worked from
place to place after freedom.
"When we started from Mississippi, dey tol' us de Yankees 'ud kill us
iffen dey foun' us, and dey say, 'You ain't got no time to take nothin'
to whar you goin'. Take your little bundle and leave all you has in your
house.' So when we got to Texas I jus' had one dress, what I had on.
Dat's de way all de cullud people was after freedom, never had nothin'
but what had on de back. Some of dem had right smart in dere cabins, but
they was skeered and dey lef' everything. Bed clothes and all you had
was lef'. We didn' know any better den."
420102
[Illustration: Betty Bormer (Bonner)]
BETTY BORMER, 80, was born a slave to Col. M.T. Johnson, who farmed
at Johnson Station in Tarrant County. He owned Betty's parents,
five sisters and four brothers, in addition to about 75 other
slaves. After the family was freed, they moved with the other
slaves to a piece of land Col. Johnson allowed them the use of
until his death. Betty lives in a negro settlement at Stop Six, a
suburb of Fort Worth.
"I'se bo'n April 4th, in 1857, at Johnson Station. It was named after my
marster. He had a big farm, I'se don' know how many acres. He had seven
chillen; three boys, Ben, Tom and Mart, and four girls, Elizabeth,
Sally, Roddy and Veanna.
"Marster Johnson was good to us cullud folks and he feeds us good. He
kep' lots of hawgs, dat makes de meat. In de smokehouse am hung up meat
enough for to feed de army, it looks like. We'uns have all de clothes we
need and dey was made on de place. My mammy am de sewing woman and my
pappy am de shoemaker. My work, for to nuss de small chillen of de
marster.
"On Sat'day we's let off work and lots de time some of us come to Fort
Worth wid de marster and he gives us a nickel or a dime for to buy
candy.
"Dey whips de niggers sometimes, but 'twarn't hard. You know, de nigger
gits de devilment in de head, like folks do, sometimes, and de marster
have to larn 'em better. He done dat hisself and he have no overseer. No
nigger tried run away, 'cause each family have a cabin wid bunks for to
sleep on and we'uns all live in de quarters. Sich nigger as wants to
larn read and write, de marster's girls and boys larns 'em. De girls
larned my auntie how to play de piano.
"Dere am lots of music on dat place; fiddle, banjo and de piano.
Singin', we had lots of dat, songs like Ole Black Joe and 'ligious songs
and sich. Often de marster have we'uns come in his house and clears de
dinin' room for de dance. Dat am big time, on special occasion. Dey not
calls it 'dance' dem days, dey calls it de 'ball.'
"Sho', we'uns goes to church and de preacher's name, it was Jack Ditto.
"Durin' de war, I notices de vittles am 'bout de same. De soldiers come
dere and dey driv' off over de hill some of de cattle for to kill for to
eat. Once dey took some hosses and I hears marster say dem was de
Quantrell mens. Dey comes several times and de marster don' like it, but
he cain't help it.
"When freedom come marster tells all us to come to front of de house. He
am standin' on de porch. Him 'splains 'bout freedom and says, 'You is
now free and can go whar you pleases.' Den he tells us he have larned us
not to steal and to be good and we'uns should 'member dat and if we'uns
gets in trouble to come to him and he will help us. He sho' do dat, too,
'cause de niggers goes to him lots of times and he always helps.
"Marster says dat he needs help on de place and sich dat stays, he'd pay
'em for de work. Lots of dem stayed, but some left. To dem dat leaves,
marster gives a mule, or cow and sich for de start. To my folks, marster
gives some land. He doesn't give us de deed, but de right to stay till
he dies.
"Sho', I seen de Klux after de war but I has no 'sperience wid 'em. My
uncle, he gits whipped by 'em, what for I don' know 'zactly, but I think
it was 'bout a hoss. Marster sho' rave 'bout dat, 'cause my uncle
weren't to blame.
"When de Klux come de no 'count nigger sho make de scatterment. Some
climb up de chimney or jump out de winder and hide in de dugout and
sich.
"De marster dies 'bout seven years after freedom and everybody sorry
den. I never seen such a fun'ral and lots of big men from Austin comes.
He was de blessed man!
"I married de second year after de T.P. railroad come to Fort Worth, to
Sam Jones and he work on de Burk Burnett stock ranch. I'se divorseted
from him after five years and den after 12 more years I marries Rubbin
Felps. My las' husban's named Joe Borner, but I'se never married to the
father of my only chile. His name am George Pace.
"I allus gits long fair, 'cause after freedom I keeps on workin' doin'
de nussin'. Now I'se gittin' 'leven dollars from de state for pension,
and gits it every month so now I'se sho' of somethin' to eat and dat
makes me happy.
420289
HARRISON BOYD, 87, was born in Rusk County, Texas, a slave of Wash
Trammel. Boyd remained with his master for four years after
emancipation, then moved to Harrison County, where he now lives.
His memory is poor, but he managed to recall a few incidents.
"I was fifteen years when they says we're free. That's the age my Old
Missy done give me when the war stopped. She had all us niggers' ages in
a book, and told me I was born near Henderson. My Old Marse was Wash
Trammel and he brunged me and my mama and papa from Alabama. Mama was
named Juliet and papa, Amos. Marse Trammel owned my grandpa and grandma,
too, and they was named Jeanette and Josh.
"The plantation was two made into one, and plenty big, and more'n a
hundred slaves to work it. Marse lived in a hewed log house,
weather-boarded out and in, and the quarters was good, log houses with
bed railin's hewed out of logs. We raised everything we et, 'cept sugar,
and Marse bought that in big hogsheads. We got our week's rations every
Sunday, and when we went to eat, everybody's part was put out to them on
a tin plate.
"Marse Trammel give a big cornshucking every fall. He had two bottom
fields in corn. First we'd gather peas and cushaws and pumpkins out the
corn field, then get the corn and pile it front the cribs. They was two
big cribs for the corn we kep' to use and five big cribs for sale corn.
My uncle stayed round the sale corn cribs all spring, till ginnin' time,
'cause folks come for miles after corn. Marse had five wheat cribs and
one rye crib. We went ten mile to Tatum to git our meal and flour
ground.
"The patterrollers darsn't come 'bout our place or bother us niggers.
Marse Wash allus say, 'I'll patterroller my own place.' Marse was good
to us and only once a overseer beat a woman up a trifle, and Marse
Trammel fired him that same day.
"The sojers 'fiscated lots of corn from Marse and some more owners in
Rusk County piled corn up in a big heap and made me go mind it till the
rest the sojers got there. I was settin' top that corn pile, me and my
big bulldog, and the General rode up. My dog growled and I made him
hush. The General man say to me, 'Boy, you is 'scused now, go on home.'
I got to a fence and looked back, and that General was hewin' him a hoss
trough out a log. The sojers come in droves and set up they camp. I sot
on a stump and watched them pass. They stayed three, four days till the
corn was all fed up.
"While they's camped there they'd cotch chickens. They had a fishin'
pole and line and hook. They'd put a grain of corn on the hook and ride
on they hoss and pitch the hook out 'mong the chickens. When a chicken
swallowed the corn they'd jerk up the line with that chicken and ride
off.
"Marse had six hundred bales cotton in the Shreveport warehouse when war
was over. He got word them Yankees done take it on a boat. He got his
brother to take him to Shreveport and say, 'I'll follow that cotton to
Hell and back.' He followed his cotton to Alabama and got it back, but
he died and was buried there in Alabama 'fore Old Missy knowed it.
"I stayed with her four years after surrender and then went to farmin'
with my folks, for $10.00 a month. After a year or two I went to
railroadin', helping cut the right-of-way for the T.& P. Railroad, from
Marshall to Longview. They paid us $1.50 the day and three drinks of
whiskey a day.
"I marries four times but had only one child, but I never done nothin'
'citin'. I lives by myself now, and gits $11.00 pension to eat on.
420074
[Illustration: Issabella Boyd]
ISSABELLA BOYD was born a slave of Gus Wood, in Richmond, Va., who
moved to Texas by boat before the Civil War. Isabella still lives
in Beaumont.
"Lemme see, I come from Richmond, Virginy, to Texas. Massa Gus Wood was
my owner and I kin recollect my white folks. I's born in dat country and
dey brought me over to Richmond and my papa and mama, too. I was jus'
'bout big 'nough to begin to 'member.
"I come from Richmond yere on de boat, sometime de steamboat, sometime
de big boat. When we left New Orleans dat evenin' we struck a big storm.
Us git on dat boat in Richmond and went floatin' down to de big boat dat
mornin'. Looks like it jus' fun for us, but every time we look back and
think 'bout home it make us sad.
"I had a dear, good mistus and my boss man, he furnish a house for he
servants, a purty good house. And dey had a place for de Sunday School.
Dem was good times. De mistus cook dinner and send it down for de old
folks and chillen to have plenty.
"My mistus kep' me right in de house, right by her, sewing. I could sew
so fast I git my task over 'fore de others git started good.
"Lots of times when de gals wants to go to de dance I he'p make de
dresses. I 'member de pretties' one like yesterday. It have tucks from
de waist to de hem and had diamonds cut all in de skirt.
"Our boss man was 'ticular 'bout us being tended to and we was well took
care of. He brung us to Beaumont when it was de plumb mud hole, and he
settle down and try to build up and make it a go.
"Massa Wood he allus takes de paper and one night they set up da long
time and do dey readin'. Next mornin' de old cook woman, she say, 'Well,
dey have de big war, and lots of dem wounded.' Befo' long us has to take
care of some dem wounded soldiers, and dey has de camp place near us.
Dey all camp 'round dere and I don't know which was de Yankees and de
'federates.
"When we all gits free, dey's de long time lettin' us know. Dey wants to
git through with de corn and de cotton befo' dey let's de hands loose.
Dey was people from other plantations say. 'Niggers, you's free and yere
you workin'.' Us say, 'No, de gov'ment tell us when we's free.' We
workin' one day when somebody from Massa Grissom place come by and tell
us we's free, and us stop workin'. Dey tell us to go on workin' and de
boss man he come up and he say he gwine knock us off de fence if we
don't go to work. Mistus come out and say, 'Ain't you gwine make dem
niggers go to work?' He send her back in de house and he call for de
carriage and say he goin' to town for to see what de gov'ment goin' do.
Nex' day he come back and say, 'Well, you's jus' as free as I is.'
"He say to me I could stay and cook for dem, and he give me five dollar
a month and a house to stay in and all I kin eat. I stays de month to do
dere work.
"After dat I wishes sometimes dat old times is back 'gain. I likes to be
free, but I wasn't used to it and it was hard to know how to do. I
'members de dances we has in de old times, when we makes de music with
banjo and other things. Some de good massas 'lowed de niggers dance in
de back yard and if we goes over dere without de pass de patterroles
gits us maybe. One time my papa he runnin' from dem patterroles and he
run slap into de young massa and he say, 'Oh, you ain't no nigger, I kin
tell by de smell.'
"Dat mind me of de ghost story dey used to tell 'bout de ghosties what
live in de big bridge down in de hollow. De niggers day say dat ghostie
make too much noise, with all he hollerin' and he rattlin' dem chain. So
dat night one us niggers what dey call Charlie, he say he ain't 'fraid
and he gwineter git him a ghostie, sho' 'nough. Us didn't believe him
but purty soon us hears right smart wrastlin' with de chains and
hollerin' down by de bridge and after 'while he come and say he git de
best of dat ghostie, 'cause he ain't got strength like de man.
"Me and my old man us have twelve chillens altogedder. My husban' he
come from South Car'lina whar dey eats cottonseed. I used to joke him
'bout it. I allus say Virginny de best, 'cause I come from dere.
420039
[Illustration: James Boyd]
JAMES BOYD was born in Phantom Valley, Indian Territory, in an
Indian hut. A man named Sanford Wooldrige stole him and brought him
to Texas, somewhere near Waco. James does not know his age, but
thinks he is a hundred years or more old. He now lives in Itasca,
Texas.
"I's born in dat Phantom Valley, in de Indian Territory, what am now
call Oklahoma. Us live in a Indian hut. My pappy Blue Bull Bird and
mammy Nancy Will. She come to de Indian Territory with Santa Anna, from
Mississippi, and pappy raise in de Territory. I don' 'member much 'bout
my folks, 'cause I stole from dem when I a real li'l feller. I's
a-fishin' in de Cherokee River and a man name Sanford Wooldrige come by.
You see, de white folks and de Indians have de fight 'bout dat day. I's
on de river and I heared yellin' and shootin' and folkses runnin' and I
slips into some bresh right near. Den come de white man and he say,
'Everybody kilt, nigger, and dem Indians gwine kill you iffen day cotch
you. Come with me and I ain't 'low dem hurt you.' So I goes with him.
"He brung me to Texas, but I don't know jus' where, 'cause I didn't know
nothin' 'bout dat place. Massa Sanford good to us, but look out for he
missus, she sho' tough on niggers. Dere 'bout 1,600 acres in de
plantation and de big house am nice. When de niggers wouldn't work dey
whup 'em. Us work all week and sometime Sunday, iffen de crops in a
rush. Massa not much on presents or money but us have warm clothes and
plenty to eat and de dry place to live, and dat more'n lots of niggers
has now.
"Sometime us have de corn huskin' and dere a dollar for de one what
shuck de mos' corn. Us have de big dance 'bout twict a year, on
Christmas and sometime in de summer. When de white folks have dere big
balls us niggers cook and watch dem dance. Us have fun den.
"I likes to think of dem times when us fish all de hot day or hunts or
jus' lazed 'round when de crops am laid by. I likes to shet de eyes and
be back in old times and hear 'em sing, "Swing, low, Sweet Chariot." I
can't sing, now you knows can't no old man sing what ain't got no teef
or hair. I used to like to swing dat 'Ginia Reel and I's spry and young
den.
"Dere's lots I can't 'member, 'cause my mem'ry done gone weak like de
res' of me, but I 'member when us free us throw de hats in de air and
holler. Old massa say, 'How you gwine eat and git clothes and sech?' Den
us sho' scairt and stays with us white folks long as us can. But 'bout a
year after dat I gits de job punchin' cattle on a ranch in South Texas.
I druv cattle into Kansas, over what de white folks calls de Chissum
Trail. I worked lots of cattle and is what dey call a top hand. I's
workin' for Massa Boyd den, and he gits me to drive some cattle to
Mexico. He say he ain't well no more and for me to sell de cattle and
send him de money and git de job down dere. I goes on down to Mexico and
do what he say. I marries a gal name Martina in 1869, down in Matamoras.
Us have four chillen and she die. Dat break me up and I drifts back to
Huntsville.
"I done change my name from Scott Bird, what it am up in de Territory,
and make it James Boyd, 'cause I done work for Massa Boyd. I's gwine be
'bout 108 year old in next January, iffen de Lawd spare me dat long.
"After I been in Huntsville awhile, I marries Emma Smith but us only
stay together 'bout a year and a half. Wasn't no chillen. Den I drifts
to Fort Bend County and dere I marries Mary McDowd and us have two
chillen. She die with de yellow fever and off I goes for Burleson
County. Dere I marries Sally McDave and she quits me after us have three
chillen. Down in old Washington County I marries Frances Williams and us
lived together till 1900. Dere am no chillen dere. Den I goes to Austin
after she die and marries Eliza Bunton in 1903. Us have eight chillen
and she die in 1911. Den I comes to Hill County and marries Mittie Cahee
in 1916. She quit me. In 1924 I marries Hegar Price clost to Milford. Us
live together now, in Itasca. Us didn't have no chillen, but dat don't
matter, 'cause I's de daddy of 'bout twenty already.
"I mos' allus wore de black suit when I marries. Jes' seemed more
dressed up like. Some my wives wear white and some colors, didn't make
much diff'rence, so dey a likely lookin' gal for me. Sometime it am a
preacher and sometime it am Jestice of Peace, but de fust time it am
Catholic and priest and all.
"Talkin' 'bout all dis marryin', I mos' forgit to show you my scar. I
fit in dat freedom war 'long side Massa Sanford and got shot. Dat bullet
go through de breast and out de back and keep me six months in de bed.
De fust battle I's in am at Halifax, in North Car'lina. Us git de news
of freedom when us at Vicksburg, in Mississippi. Mos' us niggers 'fraid
say much. De new niggers 'spect de gov'ment give dem de span of mules
and dey be rich and not work. But dey done larn a lot dese past years.
Us am sho' slaves now to hard work, and lucky iffen us git work. Lots
dem niggers figgers dey'd git dere massa's land, but dey didn't. Dey
oughta of knowed dey wouldn't. Warn't no plantation ever divided I
knowed of, but some de massas give de oldest slaves a li'l piece land.