grandmother was married Tay was given to her as her maid; and a most
accomplished one she was, besides being a skilled seamstress, and clear
starcher. A younger woman had taken her place as maid when I first
remember her, and she was the upper servant, always carrying the keys,
and taking charge of the household, when your grandmother was ill or
absent. She was at least six feet tall; her waist claimed nearly half
her length, or looked as if it did. She was quite light-colored, with
large black eyes that looked as if a millstone would be no obstacle to
her vision. I assure you her appearance was calculated to inspire awe in
our breasts. Her great height was of itself impressive, and made more so
by her costume. She usually wore a black frock with a very tight body,
and full skirt; and an enormous bustle, such as was not worn in those
days; a white hankerchief over her shoulders, pinned across her bosom; a
white apron; and to cap the climax a very stiffly starched white turban
(all the worn muslin dresses of the family went to keep up the supply).
She always tied her turbans on a block to shape them, and stuffed a
newspaper in the top to keep the shape; and when she finally put one on
her head the effect was tremendous. Her pride in gold earrings was
great. She always wore them, and kept them as shiny as could be. With
the basket of keys on her arm, she would look like a person not to be
trifled with, nor did we ever so venture. Her devotion to us all was
very great--'Miss, Maussa, an' de chillun' bounded her horizon. Her idea
was to economize; 'for Maussa,' she would say, 'is so freehanded, an'
six chillun is a houseful.'"
"To us children she showed her regard by great sternness of demeanor,
but compensated by the beautiful tucking she did on our dresses--the
only sewing she ever did. And your grandmother had no respite until she
supplied the material Tay thought necessary. Your grandmother was so
sure of her trustworthiness that she never interfered with her
management. We never thought of remonstrating, although she mortified us
sometimes by her treatment of our friends. She had no patience with too
many visitors, and always presided at our tea, serving us with our cups
of milk, and bread and treacle. We had some little friends who were very
apt to run in just at the tea hour. Once, when they came steadily for a
week, we saw clouds gathering on Tay's brow, and were not surprised
when, one evening after she had helped us all, she turned to our friends
and said: 'To-morrow, take yo' supper befo' you come. Maussa cyan't
affo'd to support two families.' This broke up our tea parties.
"Tay had a husband as remarkable in his way as she was in hers. He was
taller than she, slim, and very black; and was a very prosperous negro.
He belonged to two maiden ladies, and lived a very independent life,
free from care. He was a cooper by trade, and in his own shop plied his
calling on his own account, only every quarter bringing his owners his
set wages. And whenever illness or trouble of any kind overtook him, to
his owners he came for care or protection. He finally concluded to buy
his freedom, and asked your grandfather to become his guardian, as
required by the law, if he could accomplish his purpose. He also asked
him to be so kind as to ask his owners what they would take for him.
Your grandfather saw the ladies, who fixed as moderate a price as they
could; and when he told Daddy Sam the result of his negotiations,
instead of being gratified, he was angry, and said: 'My mistresses has
no idea how valuable I is. I t'ought dey would ask 'bout $300 mo'. Dey
can't affo'd to part wid me fer less, an' I means to pay it.' The ladies
were not obdurate, and no doubt had an increased idea of Daddy Sam's
value.
"This worthy pair had no children; and Daddy Sam died not long before
the war, leaving Tay quite a little sum of money. He had offered to buy
her freedom for her, but she did not desire it. I remember that when he
died she took off her turban when she went to church, and donned a
gigantic crape veil. One day she came home very angry. She had met some
sportsmen going hunting, who had begged her to go along with them as a
ramrod, as they had lost theirs!
"When the war began she was very unhappy. There is no doubt that at that
period there was a feeling of expectation and disaffection among the
negroes; but Tay was of a thoroughly loyal nature, and had no sympathy
with the negro character, and understood it entirely; and their meaner
traits were revolting to her.
"One day in the early part of 1861, she came as usual after breakfast to
consult your grandmother about the marketing that had been sent home.
She had such a funny way of describing the pieces; she always
involuntarily touched the part of her frame she was supposed to be
designating, of mutton, or lamb. I was a light-hearted child then, and
many a hearty laugh have I had at Tay's expense, as she would touch her
leg, or shoulder, or even her head if a calf's head were in question.
But to return to this day. She must have heard some talk among the
negroes, for after she had got through her business, she lingered and
said to her mistress, 'O Miss, I've had an awful dream,' Your
grandmother spoke kindly to her, and asked her what it was. The faithful
creature sat on the floor, and looking up into our faces she said:
"I dreamed we was all in confusion an' dere was a big crowd, an' Maussa
was sick, an' you all looked very sad, an' you all was dressed common;
but dere was heaps of niggers 'round, but dey was all a-runnin' 'round,
an' a-kickin' up a noise; an' deir arms in deir kimbos, an' not one
a-workin'; and you all called for some water, an' not one went to git
it, but I ran for it, an' I said, 'O Miss, you has been a good frien' to
me, an' sometimes a bottom rail is more use dan a same quality one; an'
so long as Kitty is here dere will always be somethin' between you an'
the groun.' And she burst into tears and left the room.
"Your grandmother said, 'She has had no dream. She wished to show us
what is in her heart.'
"Ah, children, those were dreadful days, and when in December Port Royal
fell, flight, confusion, and distress were the order of the day on the
coast. By all this there was many a young life cut short, as truly as
though a bullet had stilled it; and it was not only the men who laid
down their lives, many a gentle girl was also a victim. Your grandmother
sent my two sisters and me to relatives in the interior of the State.
She remained in Charleston to look after our affairs, intending to go to
a hospital as a nurse, if needed. We had been in the up-country but a
few days when your Aunt Lucy, as lovely a young girl as the sun ever
shone on, was seized with fever. Her illness was fatal, and she died
before her mother could reach her.
"When we left your grandmother she had been obliged to go to our country
place on Goose Creek, where she had remained alone--the colored driver
and other negroes being the only people on the plantation. Tay had
always lived in the city of Charleston, even when we were all on the
plantation; and she always had the care of the city house. When the
direful news of your Aunt Lucy's illness reached Charleston, Tay
hastened up to the plantation to your grandmother, saying:
"'I wants you to let me come an' live here, for anybody c'n do what I
does in town; but der is a lot of talk 'bout de whole low country will
be took by de Yankees. An' de negroes will have to go inside, up
country, an' make bread while deir masters is fightin'. Now, Miss, let
me stay up here, an' keep an eye, an' if dere is anythin' I c'n do to
keep things straight, I'm here; an' if we has to leave, I will go wid
dem, an' keep dem all steady.'
"Your grandmother consented with, 'God bless you, Tay,' and at once left
to go to your ill aunt. Tay remained on the plantation the whole winter
and spring. Your grandmother could not return; but never had there been
as much poultry and eggs produced, lambs saved, or butter made as was
done under Tay's management. And the quantity of vegetables raised
proved invaluable in those war times. And all was owing to the
faithfulness of this devoted creature who remained to encourage the
other negroes.
"When the summer of 1862 came your grandmother wrote her that she must
leave the plantation, as she was unacclimated to that malarial country;
but she begged to stay a little longer, as she knew she was of service,
and was quite well. Then came the news that she was sick. She had sent
to tell her young master, who was a naval officer on duty in Charleston
harbor. He at once went to see her, and rebuked her for having remained
so long in that unhealthy climate. He got her to promise to leave the
next day. Finding that she had not arrived in the city, he obtained
leave of absence and again went after her, but found her evidently near
her end.
"'Ah! Massa Paul,' she said, 'I got up three times to go, as I promised
you I would, an' de buggy was at de door, an' Martha here to go wid me,
but I fainted; an' as it was de three times I know it is de Lord's
will, I'll never leave dis bed. I hope He will say. 'Kitty, you done
what you could, an' been a faithful servant.' I never did want to be
nothin' but a servant. Dere's plenty of dem in de Bible your Ma gave me;
and if I c'n just jine dem I'm happy. An' now here's what I want you' Ma
to have. It's Sam's little savin's. I always kep' dem by me; an' when I
seen these war times, an' such curious-lookin' money buy so little, I'm
glad I got it. I kep' it for a pinch; an' fixed it so nobody would
suspicion it. But I thank de Lord you come to take it befor' I go.' And
with great effort she brought from under her pillow a curious-looking,
homespun undergarment, into which was literally quilted coins of gold
and silver; a little fortune in Confederate money, besides various old
trinkets and watches which Sam had invested in.
"'My earrin's is dere,' she said. 'I never wore dem since Miss Lucy
died; dey looks too bright. Now give this to you' Ma with Kitty's duty.
I wish she could ha' closed my eyes. I know she would ha' done it. But
she an' de young ladies will be sorry, I know, when I'm gone.'
"And then with the flash of her usual animation she turned her eyes on
her attendant, Martha, and said: Martha have my three trunks of clo'es;
she must give them to Miss'. Dey will keep her house servants decent for
a time; an' yo' Ma does hate a sloven, Martha knows. I will walk at her
if she takes anythin' out befo' Miss comes. Lord help me!'
"A faithful soul gone home."