Chapter IX: Front Matter (9)

"Dey walked in blood for miles! Dey took de best horses dat old master had. 'Bout 500 soldiers come to de house and ordered supper. Dere was a tall log smokehouse and dey went right up to de tip-top and got de hams. De middlin's and de shoulders was lower but dey got de hams. De women worked all night and dey got through cooking 'bout daylight. What did dey cook? Why, dey fried ham, made biscuits, and fried eggs. If de soldiers wanted a chicken dey just killed it and someone cooked it for dem. I ain't never seen no one have so many chickens. De soldiers cussed de slaves like dogs. Dey was de Union soldiers, de blue coats.

"When de soldiers come de men folks just got up and flew. Dey taken to de woods. De soldiers come to get master's money and dey hunted everywhere. Dey asked me, 'Whar is de money?' I say, 'I don't know.' Dey say, 'You know d--well you do! I've a notion to cut your throat!' I knowed where it was 'cause I seen master when he done hid it but he told me he would whip me to death if I told and I thought de soldiers was foolin' but master meant it. De soldier said: (Here it is necessary to delete some of the most colorful words.) 'She is one of de ... stubbornest little black ... I ever seen! I've a notion to cut her throat!' (Marilda evidently enjoyed her reputation for ... stubbornness.) Another man say, 'Maybe she don't know. Children don't know things like dat. I wouldn't hurt her.' So dey went away. Dat was de truth, de children didn't know everything den like dey does now. Dey knows too much now!

"De morning we was set free we didn't have nothing. Mother had three little children and no place to go. De white folks told dem to 'git away from here' and we come on down to Williamsburg. We walked down de road in de snow, mother and de three little children. We went to de old mistress and mother asked her could we find some place to stay. She said, 'Yes, Louisa. I'll take care of you and de children. I would not have turned you out of doors.' She sure was good to us.

"I seen people turned across barrels and whipped. Dey was whipped 'cause de white people was mean. Sometimes dey tied dem to trees and whipped 'em. Dey didn't have no clothes on at all--dey was just like dey come into de world! Dey used a cowhide as big as my finger. It was made of two strips twisted together and was keen at de end. De master whipped when he could. When he couldn't do it, he called in de neighbors 'til you'd think dere was a meetin'. De poor darkies had a hard time!

"De patrollers (accent on the first syllable) used blacksnake whips. Dey was a lot of de neighbors dat were patrollers. When dey would meet de colored men out at night, dey would ask dem if dey had a pass. If dey didn't, de patrollers would get off de horses and whip dem. De colored men would slip out at night sometimes for a little pleasure. My daddy got tired of being whipped and he put out. He was gone clean away.

"De Ku Klux Klan come out and run de colored people away from home. Many a colored woman came to mother's house in de middle of de night with clothes covered with ice and snow to de waist and carrying her baby in her arms 'cause dey ran her away from home.

"We knowed who de men was. We'd hear dem say, 'Are you going out tonight?' 'Yas', I'se got a little cluckin' to do.' Goin' cluckin'! Huh! (Marilda fairly snorted with indignation and in some subtle way gave the impression that she did not approve of Klansmen.) Dose men would bus' de door down and run de people out. Run some of dem clean away.

"Dey was one colored man, named McPherson, dat told dem not to come pesterin' round his cabin. Dey come anyhow and he shot wid a double barreled shotgun. He killed a white man, too. Of course, he had to leave his home. He went to Illinois and I ain't never seen him since.

"Mother hired us out to Mr. Billy Arnold to buy a lot in Williamsburg and we built a little house dat was our home. I stayed dere until I married Henry Pethy and we went to de old Kidwell place south of Williamsburg. We lived dere twenty-five years. He worked for Taylor Arnold, feeding cattle and mules.

"We had eleven children. Four girls and one boy is still living. Dere are three girls and one boy dead. (Marilda's arithmetic may be faulty but it is excusable for she does not read or write.) My pension is a lot of help. I had a real nice garden but it's 'bout burned up now. Dese children think I'se too old to plant dat garden but I'll show dem. I can't do it all in one day but I can do it.

"I never went to no parties. Mother used to go but I better not look like I want to go. Dere's some people here in town dat can tell you lots 'bout slavery. Have you seen Albert Jones?"

Susan Rhodes

*Interview with Susan Rhodes,*
*St. Louis, Missouri.*

_She 'Members Stars Falling_

Susan Davis Rhodes, more than 100 years old, a resident of St. Louis, lives at 915 O'Fallon Street in the rear with her married daughter, Susie West.

Susan is less than 5 ft. tall, weighs about 135 pounds and has mixed gray curly hair. Her memory and eyesight are exceptionally good for her years. Her small 3-room quarters are located in a very dilapidated old brick building, in the slum area of St. Louis.

Seated on her back porch, she cheerfully told the following story of her experiences.

"I was born in Jones County, North Carolina more than 100 years ago, I don't know exactly how old I is but goin' by de count I got on my children, dere ages and de war, and I even 'members de stars fallin', I do know I'se more'n 100, but how much more I can't tell you dat. My mother's name was Teeny Jones and my father's was Lott Davis. I 'member 15 of my mother's children, but she had a heap more of 'em dan dat. I just don't 'member 'em all. I am de mother of 10 children myself. I got 6 living children, 11 living grandchildren, and so many living great and great, great grandchildren I can't commence to count 'em.

"My first owner's name was Marse Edward Davis and his wife's name was Miss Susie, and I was de nurse girl, waitress and housemaid all my slave days. I was a good nigger and I never did get whipped much.

"I never did git no education in books neither, but did have common sense education and knew how to treat folks. People in my day didn't know book learning but dey studied how to protect each other, and save 'em from much misery as dey could. Dey didn't study trash and filth like this new day generation. I 'members when de stars fell, I tried to ketch some of 'em but I couldn't. I see'd in a dream a long time ago, honey, dat one of dese United States presidents was going to send folks around to get some of us slaves living to tell about our lives way back yonder, 'cause dey wants to know 'bout it from us ourselves and not what somebody else wants to say. And course de President was not old 'nough hisself to know, and he wants to learn de truth 'bout it all for hisself and he's right, honey. Yes, he is. I 'member well when de war first broke out de slave owners taken the little niggers from dere mammys, and hide 'em in all kind of places from de Yankees, so when de old niggers git der freedom, de white folks would have de children for slaves and dey wouldn't know nothing 'bout freedom. But de Yankees was smart 'nough to find out 'bout dat and freed us children and all.

"I 'member well when dey took Richmond, Va. I was nursing old Miss' baby, and she just hollered and cried 'cause she thought de Yankees done killed her husband. I was worse dan her. I thought dey done killed everybody and me too, I just was too scared to die. All dem soldiers coming in dere so mad dey didn't know what to do, and neither did we. Lord, I was glad when dat was done. Dem old Ku Klux folks in dem old hoods, would ketch us and beat us so bad. Dem was de meanest folks in all de world I do know. We sure did hate dem folks. Dey run off every one of my brothers. Den dere was dem nigger dogs. I guess you sure done heard 'bout dem, dey git on de niggers' tracks and run em down every time.

"Den my old Miss told my sister dat all de niggers was free now, go for herself, but she was going to keep de two youngest niggers. Dat was me and my baby sister, I don't know how old I was but I was big 'nough to do any kind of work most.

"But my sister stole us away. A white woman in another county hired my sister and gave her railroad fare to come to her place. My sister rolled up 3 of our baby sisters like a bundle in a quilt and told 'em don't move or cry and as soon as she could unroll 'em and let 'em have some air she would. So she got on de train with them three little niggers in a bundle and toted 'em up under her arms like dey was her clothes and belongings, and put 'em under her seat on de train. De bundle was so big every time de conductor passed it was in de way and he would kick it out of his way. Sister protected dem de best she could. Soon as he pass, she opened it and let 'em have some air. When she see him coming back, she wrap' em up again. Dey was all sure glad to git off dat train. Dey had been kicked so much and dasn't holler. So de white lady was mighty nice. She let us all stay dere till we could do better. Sister didn't have money 'nough to pay all us fare and she didn't want to leave us and we didn't want her to leave us. So dat was de best she could do. After a while she found our mother and daddy and they sent for us. My grandfather hid under de hills in de woods, hiding to keep from going to de war. Dey never did find him neither, but de boys all fought. After de war was over my father worked on farms, till he had made money 'nough to lease a piece of land at Fort Makin, North Carolina. I stayed dere with him until he was mustered out. I reckon I was 25 years old when I married, I don't know exactly. I farmed de whole time I was raising my children, clear up till I come up here to St. Louis and dat was over 20 years ago.

"My daughter, Susie, I am living here with lost her husband five years ago. She has worked at de nut factory every since she been here, till her health failed her. She is like me now. Neither one of us is no 'count, can't do nothing but sit here to home. One of my nephews, Sanders Randoll, is working on a W.P.A. job doing de best he can for us. De other nephew, Freeman Hollister, can't git nothing to do. De relief helped us some 'bout 18 months dat's all.

"I just look at dis new generation drinking and throwing parties every night, on der way to hell wid der eyes wide open. It's a pity, ain't no hopes for 'em. Der heads is too hard. I voted a Republican ticket one time in my life many years ago, dat was de only time I recollect voting. I don't even 'member de man I voted for.

"We old slaves use' to love to sing:

When I can read my titles clear,
To mansions in de sky,
I'll bid fare well to every tear,
And wipe my weeping eyes.
Should earth against my soul engage,
And fiery darts be hurled,
Then can I smile at Satan's rage
And face a frowning world.
Let cares like a wild deluge come,
And storms of sorrow fall.
May I but safely reach my home,
My God, my Heaven, my all.
There shall I bathe my weary soul,
In seas of heavenly rest.
And not a wave of trouble roll
Across my peaceful breast.
Tis faith supports my feeble soul,
In times of deep distress,
When storms arise and billows roll,
Great God, I trust thy grace.
Thy powerful arm still bears me up,
Whatever grieves befall;
Thou art my life, my joy, my hope,
And thou my all in life.
Bereft of friends, beset with foes,
With dangers all around,
To thee, I all my fears disclose;
In thee my help is found.
In every want, in every strait,
To thee alone I fly;
When other comforters depart,
Thou art forever nigh
O! That I knew the secret place,
Where I might find my God;
I'd spread my wants before his face,
And pour my woes abroad.
My God will pity my complaints,
And heal my broken bones;
He takes the meaning of his saints,
The language of their groans.
Arise my soul, from deep distress,
And banish every fear;
He calls thee to his throne of grace,
To spread thy sorrows there.

"We used to steal off to de woods and have church, like de spirit moved us, sing and pray to our own liking and soul satisfaction and we sure did have good meetings, honey. Baptize in de river like God said. We had dem spirit filled meetins at night on de bank of de river and God met us dere. We was quiet 'nough so de white folks didn't know we was dere and what a glorious time we did have in de Lord. I am a member of St. Douglass Baptist Church on Laclede Avenue. Dey is de foot washing Baptists."

Charlie Richardson

*Interview with Charlie Richardson,*
*Webb City, Missouri,*
*by Bernard Hinkle, Jasper*
*County, Joplin, Mo.*

"Well, Charlie, let us sit right down here on this bench and chat awhile. Mr. Hal M. Wise, editor of 'The Sentinel' here in Webb City, told me about you. You won't mind if I ask you a few personal questions about the days of slavery will you?"

"No Sah' I'd be glad to tell you anything I know."

"Thank you Charlie. The first thing I would like to ask is; is your name Charles, Charlie or Charley?"

"Everybody calls me Charlie."

"Where were you born Charlie?"

"I was born at Warrensburg, Missouri."

"What year were you born in Charlie?"

"They always said I was born in March. Didn't never give no day. Jest March."

"How old were you when the Civil War broke out?"

"I don't remember exactly but I were seven they said."

"How old are you now?"

"The old-age pension man said I was 86 this year."

"Now Charlie, please give me the name of your parents and where they came from."

"My Ma's name was Ann Smith, the first time,'cause my Pappy was Charlie Smith. Then my Pappy died and my Ma married a man named Charlie Richardson. He was my step-Pappy so I took his name. Both my own Pappy and my step-Pappy were jest plain negroes and born in Warrensburg, but my Ma was a Black Hawk Indian girl, kinder light in color and purtty. Her Ma was a full-blooded Black Hawk and she married to Grandaddy Richard Dowle, which was my Ma's name 'fore she married."

"Tell me Charlie, did you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Yes Sah, I had two sisters and five brothers but none ain't here now."

"Describe your home and 'quarters' the best you can."

"Log Cabins, that's what they was. All in a long row--piles of 'em. They was made of good old Missouri logs daubed with mud and the chimney was made of sticks daubed with mud. Our beds was poles nailed to sticks standing on the floor with cross sticks to hold the straw ticks."

"How did most of you cook--in the cabins or in the 'big house'?"

"Most of the negroes cooked in the cabins but my Mammy was a house girl and lots of times fetched my breakfast from the Masters house. Most of the negroes, though, cooked in or near the cabins. They mostly used dog irons and skillets, but when they went to bile anything, they used tin buckets."

"What food did you like best Charlie. I mean, what was your favorite dish?"

"It warn't no dish. It ware jest plain hoe cake mostly. No dishes or dish like we has nowadays, No Sah! This here hoe cake was plain old white corn meal battered with salt and water. No grease. Not much grease, jest 'nough to keep it from stickin'. This here hoe cake was fried jest like flap-jacks, only it were not. Not flap-jacks I mean. When we didn't have hoe cake we had ash cake. Same as hoe cake only it was boiled. Made of corn meal, salt and water and a whole shuck, with the end tied with a string.

"We never had no flap-jacks in the cabins. No Sah! Flap-jacks was something special for only Marster Mat Warren and the Missis. That makes me remember a funny story about flap-jacks. My Ma brought some flap-jack stuff down to the cabin one day; you know, jest swiped it from the house where she worked. Well, Ma was frying away to git me something special like when she hears the Missis comin' with her parrot. So, Ma hides them flap-jacks right quick. Soon the Missis come in our cabin and was talkin' to my Mammy when that crazy old parrot he begin to get fussy like somethin' was wrong. He were a smart parrot and outside, generally called us all 'niggers, niggers'. Well Sah, he kept squaking and the Missis kept sayin', "shut up' shut up', what's the matter with you?" Purtty soon the Missis go over to sit in a chair Ma had with a big pad in it. And before the Missis could set down that crazy parrot begun to yell, 'Look out Mam, it's hot'. Look out'. Look out'. The Missis turned to my Ma and said 'What's the matter here?' My Ma answered, 'Tain't nothin' the matter Missie.' And then that fool parrot hollows agin, 'It's hot' It's hot'. And sure 'nough the missis she get a peek at a flap-jack stickin' through under the pad, where Ma hid them. And Ma almost got a good lickin' fer that.

"That parrot could out-talk Marster Warren and wouldn't eat anything we would give him 'cause he was afraid of being poisoned by is 'niggers'. They use to tie him out in the field to watch the negroes at work, and when he went in the house at night Ma said he would hollow and yell the most unholy lies about those 'niggers' and what they tried to do to him.

"Sometime we'd get him to drink some weigh milk, the Marster had given us when it was so sour it would make a hog squeal. The parrot would call us some awful names for doing that."

"What clothing did the older boys and men wear Charlie?"

"Big boys and gwon folks wore jeans and domestic shirts. Us little kids wore jest a gown. In the winter time we wore the same only with brogans with the brass toes."

"You said awhile ago that they gave you 'weigh' milk. That's a very poor grade of milk isn't it?"

"Yes Sah, It's the poorest kind of poor milk. It ain't even milk. It's what is left behind, when the milk is gone."

"And coffee. How about coffee. Didn't you have any coffee to drink?"

"We has coffee some time, but it ware made of burned corn meal. Once in awhile the slaves while makin' coffee for Marster Mat out of the wheat would burn a pan purposely and he would give it to them to make coffee with. That was purtty good coffee. Some time they got whupped for burnin' it, 'cause he knowed they burned it too much for his coffee, on purpose--jest so they'd git it."

"Now Charlie, you said you were born in Warrensburg, Missouri. Were you born on Mat Warren's place?"

"Yes Sah."

"How many slaves did Mr. Warren have?"

"150."

"I understand they sold off attractive women slaves and husky men. How is it they didn't sell your Mother?"

"She ware a house girl. Purtty and light in color, so they wanted to keep her for that job."

"Did they sell your father?"

"Yes Sah, they did. That is, they sold my step-Pappy as my own Pappy was dead."

"Speaking about your step-Pappy being sold reminds me: They say that the expression 'selling slaves on the block' is not true. That is, not always true."

"We never had no 'block' on Mat Warren's place. We calls it 'Puttin' 'em on the stump'. But the 'stump' were neither block nor stump, it were a box. Big wooden box."

"I have heard it said that some slaves brought big prices. Tell me, if you will, how much your step-Pappy was sold for."

"Well Sah, there was some buyers from south Texas was after to buy my step-Pappy for two years runnin', but the Marster would never sell him. So one time they comes up to our place at buying time (that was about once every year) and while buying other slaves they asked Mat Warren if he wouldn't sell my step-Pappy, 'cause he was a sure 'nough worker in the field--the best man he had and he could do more work than three ordinary men.

"But the Marster tried to git rid of that buyer agin by saying I don't take no old offer of $2,000 for Charlie, an' I won't sell under $2,055. The buyer he said right quick like. 'Sold right hare'. So that's how he come to leave us and we never seed him agin. Like to broke my Mammy up, but that's the way we slaves had it. We didn't let ourselves feel too bad, 'cause we knowed it would come that way some time. But my Ma she liked that Charlie and she feeled it mos'.

"We always knowed when they was going to sell, 'cause they would let them lay around and do nothin'. Jest feed them and git fat. They even smeared their faces with bacon rind to make 'em look greasy and well fed afore the sale. They never had no grease to eat only now and then Mat Warren he makes it look like them niggers is well fed and cared for. The buyers would a stick pins in 'em and examine their teeth like horses."

"By the way Charlie, what kind of jails did they have in those days?"

"They never had no jails. Your back was the jail. When you done something serious Marster Mat Warren called in the 'whuppers' and they made your back bleed and then rubbed salt into the skin. After that they chained you to a tree and let you suffer."

"What did you do as a child around the place?"

"I carried in the water and wood to the Missis house and helped Ma."

"What time did you all get up in the morning?"

"A big bell hanging in the center of all the cabins rang at 4 A.M. and then most of the grown folks worked from dawn till eleven at night. We never had no Saturdays off like they do now. Nor no Sundays off neither."

"What kind of house did the Master live in?"

"The Marster he have a very fine home. About ten rooms, built of common brick. It ware a very purtty house; great big like."

"What did you do, Charlie, after work at night?"

"Mostly, go to bed. We kids did early. But I wake up lots of times and hear my Ma and Pappy praying for freedom. They do that many times. I hear it said that Abraham Lincoln hears some slaves praying at a sneaked meetin' one time, askin' the Good Lord for freedom. And it is believed that Abraham Lincoln told them, that if he were President he would free them."

"Did you ever play any games or dance any?"

"No! No games, no play, only work. We had to be mighty careful we didn't use a pencil or any paper or read out where the Marster could see us. He would sure lick us fer that."

"What do you think of Abraham Lincoln?"

"I think he ware the greatest man in the world."

"Do you remember much about the war Charlie?"

"Not very much. I was only seven then, but I remembers that those Bushwackers came to steal my Marster's money but he wouldn't tell where he hid it. Said he didn't have any. They said he was telling a lie 'cause no man could have so many slaves and not have some money. He did have 150 slaves but he wouldn't tell where the money was hid. So they burned his feet, but he still wouldn't tell 'em he had hid it in the orchard. No Sah! He jest didn't tell.

"Them Bushwackers though, were not so bad as them Union soldiers. They took all our horses and left us old worn out nags; even took my horse I use to ride."

"What was the first thing you done after the war was over and you found yourself free, Charlie?"

"We went right next farm and rented land from Buck Towers and farmed until Ma died. Then I went to Fayetteville and worked at odd jobs there awhile. I worked too, on the Fayetteville College building. I stayed around Fayetteville 40 years. I was married when I first went there to a light colored woman. A Cherokee Indian. We had seven children, all girls. Only one is livin' now. She is the one I live with in Webb City, Missouri. I don't live with my wife now. My daughter's name is Mrs. Sam Cox. Her husband Sam Cox works at a garage in Webb. They have seven children too. Two girls, five boys, all living.

"When I was married I was a coachman and wore my coach clothes--Begum hat (high silk hat), black double-breasted flap tailed coat and black broadcloth pants. My shoes were low and had beads all over the front. I looked like Booker T. Washington. And I like him most next to Abraham Lincoln.

"I use to work for Judge Brown in Fayetteville as coachman. Then I come here and worked for Mrs Louise Corn of Webb City for 13 years. I ain't workin' now, only firin' the boiler for the First National Bank in winter-time. My son-in-law Sam Cox, he works at the Bank on the side and I help him a little. Mostly, I'm jest man about town."

"Now, tell me in passing, Charlie, do you remember any men passing through your place in Warrensburg, looking for escaped slaves?"

"Yes I remember some tough men driving like mad through our place many times, with big chains rattling. We called them slave hunters. They always came in big bunches. Five and six together on horse back. Patrollers they was. They were almost as bad to us as them outlaws who used to come by and eat up all Marse Warren's chickens. There was some Texas bad men, too. John Reid, The Webb Boys, and Little Preston Smith.

"But, I'm sure glad it is all over now, but we didn't git nothin' out of it like we expected. We thought they was goin' to divide up the farms and give us some of it. No Sah! They was so mad at us for being freed that they got rid of us as soon as they could, and we was only too glad to go.

"I gits a small old-age pension now and live purtty quiet like, but I tell you Sah, times ain't like they use to be. These yer young negroes--I don't think so much of anyhow."

Madison Frederick Ross

*Interview with Madison Frederick Ross,*
*Commerce, Missouri.*

"Ah was bahn jes ninety year ago, two and one-half mile south of Commerce in Scott County. Mah Fathuh an' Mothuh was Jack an' Mary Ross. Ole Mastuh James Ross was a kind ole man, a'ways good to his cullud folks. Ole Missus died 'fore Ah was bahn. 'Nen dey was young Mastuhs James Jr., John an' William. Young Miss Francis married Joe Anderson.

"They was 'bout six hundred acres in de home place an' a hundred acres in de othuh fahm. Ole Mastuh had 25 or 30 slaves an we hed eight cabins built on three sides o' square with de big house on the othuh side. It was a big house, white with po'ches upstahs an' down. They was lotsa fruit trees 'roun' th' house, peaches, plums, pears, apples, an they was hollyhocks growin all roun' the yahd.

"Ouah cabin was jes one room with a big fiah place at one end. There was a'ways a big kittle a hangin in th' chimbly an' one o' them iron ovens a settin on the hawth. They was five in ouah fambly an' we had one big bed an' a trundle bed thet ud roll undah the othuh bed like that.

"Fethuh beds? Whew! Yessir! We hed the bigges' fethuh beds! You shoulda seen the big flock o' geese we hed. Hey, hey, hey--I'se thinkin' 'bout how us children a'ways crawled undah the house to gathuh the goose aigs. The geese a'ways laid undah th' house, an we'd crawl aroun' unduh there an git um an' when we's backin' out, the ole gander ud ketch us an' flog us. Many's the time he's wahmed the seat o' ouah pants.

"Somehow th' children was skeered o' Ole Mastuh, ah don' know why, 'cause he nevuh hit none o' us. Mastuh was tall an' thin,--an if we 'us sittin' roun' playin' an he come along we'd jump up an' run, an' if we 'ud look back--theuh he'd stan, jes shakin with laffin'. Ah spect he thought it war funny tuh have us skeered.

"Ever mornin' 'bout ten o'clock an' ever afternoon 'bout three all the chillern had tuh have they lunch. You know whut cahn pone is? Mmmm--thet's th' bes' bread! Jes make a sort a hole in th' hot embuhs, than pour it in an covuh it wuth mo' hot embuhs--an when ut's done jes wash ut off a bit. That sho was good bread! Well, each one o' us chillern hed to have a cahn pone--they was about 30 of us--an each take a tin pint cup an' foller the milk woman to the spring house. She'd fill ouah cups an' that was ouah lunch twice evah day.

"As a boy ah tended thuh cows an' sech like, an' built the fires in the fireplaces, later they let me plow an' ah thought ah sure had a big job. Ah wuz so proud at didden wanna stop for dinnah.

"'High Buck, Low Do' was one o' the games us boys usta play.

"My gran'fathuh was mos'ly Indian an he usta go out into the woods an' stay for days at a time. Ole Mastuh always called him Ole Yaller Abe--But one time he ran away--crossed the rivuh ovah heah an' went up tuh Canada. He usta write tuh Ole Mastuh an' he'd read the lettuhs tuh us. Mah fathuh was the shoe-maker, made all the shoes--for the white folks an' us too. We bought the leathuh from the tanyawd at the edge o town an We'd sell them tan-bark. Mah Mothuh was one o' the weavers. The loom an spinnin wheels was in a separate house--Ah usta watch the big warpin' bar go 'roun' an' wish ah could ride on ut but ah nevuh did.

"We had church foh the cullud folks an' lotsa white folks ud a'ways come an' lissen to the preachin'.

"We raised lotsa cattle an' horses, an mules--an in them days wheat was nevah less 'en $2.00 a bushel.

"The niggah buyahs usta come roun' ouah place but ah don' recollect any of ouah niggahs bein sold. They'd have slave sales ovah at Benton. One time young Mastuh bought home a thirteen yeah ole boy he paid a thousan' dollahs an' fifty cents for--We didden have no school fo' the cullud folks but young Mastuh William went to school an' in the evenin's he'd teach some o' us. In 'at way ah got as far as the fo'th grade.

"When the wah came on', 'cose we heared lots about it an sometime we'd see sojers. One time Gen'ral Grant come thru Commerce with about 40,000 men. They come down the rivuh in boats, an' camped here. The sojers 'ud come foragin' round ouah place but they nevah bothered much. They'd grind they swords on ouah grindstones an' show us how sharp they was by cuttin' the cahn stalks.

"One night in sixty-three, me an four othuhs ran away and went to the Cape an' joined the ahmy. Ah was in Co. H. 56th U.S. Cullud, unduh Col. Bentzoni.[2] We was in the Battle of Big Creek, Arkansas an in several skirmishes. Ah learned tuh play in the band, played second B-flat cahnet. We suah learned our do, re's.

[2] HW: Probably 56th Ohio Infantry (?) [TR: 56th U.S. Colored
Infantry, Helena, Arkansas]

"Ouah Captain, Ole George Free, was a preacher an he'd have prayun meetin's in his tent. All the ole women from aroun' would come--an' we'd have big times on Sunday mahnin's. One time one o' the boys, Ed Johnson, got drunk an' the provost guahd put 'm in jail. Nex' mahnin, Capin Free go down theah to git him an' he raise so much racket Ol Cunnel say 'Turn im loose, Ole Cap'm go crazy 'bout his niggers.'

"We was stationed down in Helena, Arkansas, aftuh the fightin was ovah an' the officers sent up no'th fo' some teachers, to have school fo' us. They call it the Norman Institute an we each paid fifty cents a month to go. The teachers was Quakers an they never laughed or smiled. They a'ways seemed tuh be thinkin--seemed tuh think it was a sin to have fun. 'Ah kin still heah em--how they usta say, 'Thou shall get thy lessons ovah.' We was mustered out in St. Louis in 1866.

"Aftuh ah come back heah tuh Commerce Ah started a school, Ah called it 'Select School' an' they each paid fifty cents a month--grown folks come tuh mah school some o' em fifty an sixty year old an ah had all ah cud take caah of--Latuh, Ah taught school out in the country.

"Why do they call me doctuh? See that diploma on the wall! I got that fum a school of hypnotism. Yes'm a correspondence course. No'm, I nevuh practised it much, jes a little now an then for fun.

"One time the Ku Klux come aroun. They knock on the doah, then they say 'Please give me a drink, Ah ain't had a drink since the battle o' Shiloh.' What fo' they say that? Why, you see, they wants us tuh think they's the spirits a' the sojers killed at Shiloh an they been in hell so long they drinks all the water they kin git. This one man make us carry him five buckets of water, an' it look like he drink em but nex mahnin' theys a big mud puddle side thu doah."

Alice Sewell

*Interview with Alice Sewell,*
*St. Louis, Missouri.*

_She Never Attended School_

Never having attended school a day in her 86 years of life has not cramped the style of Alice Sewell, one of St. Louis' former Negro slaves. Alice lives with a married daughter, Mattie Hill, and a grandson, Henry Morse, at 329 South Ewing Avenue.

Spotlessly dressed, much after the fashion of a nurse, and weighing less than 100 pounds, Alice presents a pleasing picture as she chats interestingly with visitors. Her mind is keenly alive to what is going on in the world. She is much annoyed by the roistering younger folks, as she outlines in her observations in the following chat:

"I was born in Montgomery, Alabama, November 13, 1851, the daughter of Rhoda and Edmond Carey. I have three brothers and two sisters dead. I am the only child living. I ain't never been in a school house in my life and I never did learn how to read or write. I recollect three of my overseers. The first one's name Elik Clayton, the second one named Mofield and the third one named Pierson. I was 13 years old time de third one got me and de war had started, so we had to pack all de cotton up in bales, and in sun face houses and sun face cribs to be out of the weather. The seed cotton was kept in de gin house, 'cause dey didn't had no time to fool wid dat. Den dey up and bought spinning wheels and cards, so us women could spin it to make cloth, and make clothes at home, and would not have to go to de factory to buy clothes.

"Dey had to keep de money to care for de families de soldiers left behind, and send corn by de loads to de battlefield to feed de horses. Dey stopped raising cotton after de war started, and just raised food stuff 'cause dey had to send food to de battlefield for de soldiers. De poor white folks what lived up in de hilly country, too poor to own slaves, while de war was going on, had to come down out of de hilly country. Dey lived on government land and dey had to have food for dem and der children. Der men folks was taken away from dem to war. Dey was called counterscript soldiers, and if dey refused to go to war dey got shot down like a dog. So de most of 'em rather go on and take chances of de war missing 'em dan get shot widout a doubt. Dey use to say dey had to go and fight a rich man's war but dey couldn't help demselves no better'n us slaves could.

"My owner was very rich. He owned four plantations of slaves. He had two plantations on de Tallapoosa River, one named Jedkins upper ferry plantation and de other Jedkins Mill Place and the third plantation was called The Bradshaw Place. It was out from de river and de fourth one was called De High Log Plantation. He was always fairly kind to his slaves. He didn't believe in abusing dem less he couldn't help it, and when he'd find out de overseers beat 'em widout a cause, he'd fire 'em right away, and git somebody else. Dat's why he so prosperous, 'cause he was fair. He never even 'lowed overseers on his plantation what had grown boys, to be runnin' round 'mongst his slaves neither, no he didn't. He didn't believe in dat intermingling, 'deed he didn't. Dey didn't 'low us to sing on our plantation 'cause if we did we just sing ourselves happy and git to shouting and dat would settle de work, yes mam.

"Dey did 'low us to go to church on Sunday about two miles down de public road, and dey hired a white preacher to preach to us. He never did tell us nothing but be good servants, pick up old marse and old misses' things about de place, and don't steal no chickens or pigs and don't lie 'bout nothing. Den dey baptize you and call dat, you got religion. Never did say nothing 'bout a slave dying and going to heaven. When we die, dey bury us next day and you is just like any of de other cattle dying on de place. Dat's all 'tis to it and all 'tis of you. You is jest dead dat's all. De old lady dat raised my mother, she was a black mammy. She done all de burying of de niggers, said de funeral sayings by herself. She knew it by heart. Dey swapped my grandmother away 'cause she didn't bear children like dey wanted her to, so de man dey swapped her off to come back two months later and told our owner dat grandmamma was heavy with child. Den he wanted to buy her back 'cause she was a good worker, but her new owner would not let him have her back and she had thirteen children after dat. Our old owner surely was sick of dat swap. My mother was only three years old when dey sold her mother to another master and she never saw her agin 'till she had all dem thirteen children.

"Dis is how mother found grandmother. Our owner bought a slave what come off of a plantation dat my grandmother was on. She was turned over to dis slave owner to satisfy a gambling debt left unpaid by de dead husband. So she told my mother all about de deal and all de children mother had never seen. My mother had three children of her own, at dat time. De slave dat brought de news name was Elsie. So Elsie had lots of relatives on dis plantation she was sold off of. Well she had to have a pass everytime she want to go visit her folks. So she tells my mother next time I git a pass to go see my people, you ask old boss for you one too so you can go see you mamma and sisters and brothers you never seen. Mamma did and when mamma got to old John Beasley's plantation on Lime Creek mother didn't know grandmother Sallie and grandmother Sallie didn't know her daughter Rhoda till Elsie introduced 'em to each other. Dey was so glad dey just hugged and kissed plenty. De war was going on den and dey fought four years and two months.

"De first year after de war my father and mother kept us children and stayed right on with our old owner and done share cropping till father was able to buy stock of his own, but he did not buy no property. When I got 18 years old I married, but I stayed right on with my mother and father just de same and my children buried both my mother and father. My mother lived to be 100 years old and my father was between 80 and 90 when he died.

"I left Montgomery, Alabama de last of 1902 when Louis was only 11 years old and came to Morouse, Alabama and stayed five years after dat. I moved to Arkansas, stayed quite a while, don't know how long. All dat time I made my living washing and ironing and picking cotton from farm to farm. My husband died 28 years ago last March. I been in St. Louis now between 12 and 13 years.

"We used to slip off in de woods in de old slave days on Sunday evening way down in de swamps to sing and pray to our own liking. We prayed for dis day of freedom. We come from four and five miles away to pray together to God dat if we don't live to see it, do please let our chillun live to see a better day and be free, so dat dey can give honest and fair service to de Lord and all mankind everywhere. And we'd sing 'Our little meetin's 'bout to break, chillun we must part. We got to part in body, but hope not in mind. Our little meetin's bound to break.' Den we used to sing 'We walk about and shake hands, fare you well my sisters I am going home.'

"I never did hear nothing 'bout what de niggers specked from de white folks. We was so glad to get loose, we didn't speck nothing but git out of bondage. Dey didn't even give us time off to wash our clothes. We had to wash 'em at night when we ought to been resting our old backs what was so tired. We liked to go to de field clean in de mornings. Dat's de only way we had of doing it. I never been on relief in my life. I got my first pension last month. It was $17.50 old age pension. I sure was proud of dat.

"I never had no interest in politics till last year, dey come and got me and told me to vote de Republican ticket. I did what dey said do, but dey didn't git it after all. My oldest grandson works at a bakery where he been working nine years and takes care of me, his mother and brother. I think de biggest run of this late generation is ignorant. 'Course dey goes to school alright, but dey don't make no good of it. De people wid de Bible and God education is much better folks dan dis ignorant book learned fools. Dat's all dey is honey. Dey don't respect derself, God nor de devil. Dey jes' act like something wild raised, turned loose in de swamps. Dere schooling makes me wish I could walk de streets wid my ears stopped up and eyes blindfolded so I couldn't even hear nor see dis educated generation. Bless your soul honey, I don't care a scrap 'bout schooling dat don't teach decency or common respect. De knee way is all de education dat mounts to nothing no way. God's way is de only way. It makes you treat everybody in de world like you want to be treated by other folks and dat's right, and everything else's wrong by dat.

"But de time's on de way here, daughter, when we all be one people like God intended black and white de same. Course de end will be at hand when dat happens but it's sure coming. Den God will bless us all alike and everything we put our hands to will prosper. God's will is fast fulfilling and He is true to His word. We will walk with God some day, I won't be here I don't speck. But I am walking with God myself right now. I am a member of Southern Mission Church.

"I owned a nice home in Warren, Arkansas. I sold it to come up here. De folks down dere said dey would sure miss seeing me walking around down der wid my white apron on but I believed in immigration like de Bible said. So I just immigrated from de South up here to de North. God said de plantations would grow up and de hoot owls would have 'em and dey is doin it. Growin' up into wilderness. God planned dem slave prayers to free us like he did de Israelites, and dey did."

Perry Sheppard

*Interview with Perry Sheppard,*
*Aged 94, Fredericktown, Missouri.*
*Interviewed by J. Tom Miles.*

"I'm hard of hearin'. I know I'm 94 years old; was born in Cape County. I was a slave till I was 20 years old. I was a house boy. De boss had a number of black men who did de work in de field. In warm weather we wore flax, an jeans, in de winter I had plenty of meat to eat. I can't read or write. Wish I could. My old mistress told me I was free when I was 20. Den I stayed there a while and worked on shares. De militia come an took a horse away from me on de road ten miles away from home and I had to walk home. But he fetched de hoss home after a while. I think slavery was a good thing. I never suffered for nothin'. Lincoln wanted every man to work for himself."

Frank Sides

*Interview with Frank Sides,*
*Cape Girardeau, Missouri.*

"Ah's jest a little feller when de war's over, jes' 'bout six year ole, ah wuz, an' ah don' rec'lect much 'bout dem days. Aaron an' Lucy Sides wuz mah daddy an' mammy, an' we belong to Mastuh Cato. Dey live near Fredericktown, ah don' membuh young 'Missus' name, an' dey neveh had no chillun. Dey had a big house, an' seems like we live in paht o'de white folks' house. De sojers come 'round sometime, but dey didden' bathuh us, jes' ask fo' a drink er suthin' to eat, an' go on.

"But de 'Bushwackers' wuz bad, dey go shootin' anybody, en' doin' devilment. I don' rec'lect nuthin' dey done roun' our place but one day a little bunch o' 'em stop dere fo' a drink. Ah's scared o' 'um, but ah gives 'em all a drink, an' de las' man takes his drink and t'rows de dippuh on de flo'.

"We didden' hab no school but ah learned to read an' write, but ah's not much of a scholar at dat.

"When de war's ovuh we move to 'Cape', an' we live fust one place, 'en 'nuther, doin' whut we could.

"One time ah's workin' wid a gang on a railroad bridge. Dey wuz a big gang of us. Oh, mebbe three or fo' hundred. De sleepin' cah wuz 'bout half mile down de track. Come mah time tuh turn in, ah starts down de track. It wuz bright moonlight an' ah's tired an' sleepy. Jes' as ah comes along whar de cattle gahd is, dere standin' in de middle o' de track is a big, tall man, all in black. He don' move, an' he's tall ag'in as ah is. It's so light ah kin see him plain. Ah stan's an' looks at him an' ah thinks: 'Shall ah run past? No, if ah does he'll git me sho'.' Den ah says, 'Shall ah climb dat bobwire fence an' go through de fiel'', but ah says, 'No, No!, spose mah pants gits hung on de bobwire, den whut happen?' Ah looks at him again an' he's twice as big ez he wuz befo', but he jes' stans dere. So ah goes jes' ez close to de fence ez ah could an' goes sideways pass' him, keepin' mah eye on him, but he don' move, jes' keep standin' dere. Nex' day ah goes tuh look at de place but don' see no sign o' him. Ah don' know why fo' he stan' dere 'till folks tell me dat, 'Bout a year befo', a man wuz killed right der'."

Mollie Renfro Sides

*Interview with Mollie Renfro Sides,*
*Cape Girardeau, Missouri.*

"Mah mammy wuz Rosie Renfro, an' we' un's blong to 'Massa' Tom B. English, an' Miss Sarah. We live neah Jackson. My daddy Spencer Renfro, he blong to 'Massa' Jack Renfro, en' de Cape Road.

"'Massa' English wouldn't sell us, an' 'Massa' Renfro woun' sell mah daddy, so dey jes' let mah daddy come tuh see us on Satudays.

"Our white folks, dey wuz all mighty nice people. Dey live in a big white house, an' dey has lotsa nice things. Mah mammy done de cookin' an' 'twen time she he'p weave on de loom, an' spin an' knit.

"Dey wuz jes' two o' us families. We lived in little ole log houses an' in tuther house dey wuz Ann, an' Nancy an' 'Aunt Dinah'.

"Den seems like dey wuz a 'nuddah house whar a bunch o' men stay 'at works in de fiel'. Dey wuz some field 'roun' de house, an' day wuz a 'nudder fiel' dey call 'mile fiel'. It were a mile big, evuh way. Dey raise lotsa wheat en' cahn an' sich-like, an' chickens an' cows, an' fruit, apples, an' peaches.

"Some o' de womans worked in de fiel' an' when dey comes in dey has tuh set down an' peel apples an' peaches fo' fryin' an' put 'em on big racks out in de sun an' when dey's dry, put 'em in bags, an' hang 'em up fo' wintuh.

"Ah wuzn' very big at dat time, jes' 'bout fo' yeah ole, but ah rec'lect how scared we is when de sojers come by. De men folks all hide out an' so de Missus, when we wants tuh hide too, she say, 'Run on out, run on out, and tell 'em nobody home'. Sometime dey hide unner de bed, 'hind de trunnel bed.

"An' ah 'membuh 'Miss Betty' died. She had pneumonya. Dar she wuz all pretty in huh coffin, an' dey had all de cullud folks come through de house tuh see her. Pore 'lil' Missis'! Dey buried huh in Jackson.

"When a 'body's sick, if yuh hears a hoot owl near de house, er a whipperwill dat's bad luck. Ah a'way's goes out an' tries tuh chase' em off. But ah guess ef dey's gonna bring bad luck, dey's already brung it."

Jane Simpson