Chapter VII: Part 7

The Work House (Sugar House) was on Magazine Street, built by Mr. Columbus C. Trumbone. On Charlmer Street is the slave market from which slaves was taken to Vangue Range an' auctione' off. At the foot of Lawrence Street, opposite East Bay Street, on the other side of the trolly tracks is w'ere Mr. Alonze White kept an' sell slaves from his kitchen. He was a slave-broker who had a house that exten' almos' to the train tracks which is 'bout three hundred yards goin' to the waterfront. No train or trolly tracks was there then 'cause there was only one railroad here, the Southern, an' the depot was on Ann Street w'ere the Baggin' Mill now is.

W'en slaves run away an' their masters catch them, to the stockade they go w'ere they'd be whipp' every other week for a number of mornins. An' de for God sake don' you be cotch with pencil an' paper, dat was a major crime. You might as well had kill your master or missus.

One song I know I use to sing to the slaves w'en master went 'way, but I wouldn't be so fool as to let him hear me. What I kin 'member of it is:

Master gone away
But darkies stay at home,
The year of jubilee is come
An' freedom will begun.

A group of white men was in Doctor Wilson' drug store one day w'en I went to buy something. They commence' to ax me questions concernin' some historical happenin's an' I answer them all. So Dr. Wilson bet 'me that I couldn't tell who fired the firs' shot on Fort Sumter. I tell him I did know an' he offer's dollar if I was right. I tell him I wasn't goin' tell 'less the dollar was given to one of the men. He did so an' I told them it was Edward Ruffin who fired the firs' shot an' the dollar was mine. Anderson was determine' not to leave the fort but w'en 'bout four shells had hit the fort he was glad to be able to come out. W'en Sherman was comin' through Columbia, he fired an' a shell lodged in the South-East en' ef the State House which was forbidden to be fix'. He was comin' down Main Street w'en that happens'.

The firs' two people that was hung in Charleston was Harry an' Janie; husban' an' wife who was slaves of Mr. Christopher Black. Mr. Black had them whip' an' they planned to kill the whole fambly. They poison the breakast one morning an' if two of the fambly han' been sleep, they too would a been dead. The others die almos' instantly. An investigation was made an' the poison discovered an the two slaves hung on the big oak in the middle of Ashley Avenue.

If'en any in your owner' fambly was goin' to be married the slaves was dress' in linen clothes to witness the ceremony. Only special slaves was chosen to be at the weddin'. Slaves was alway ax how they like' the one who was comin' in the [TN: two illegible words.] myself by sayin' nice things 'bout the person en hate' the person at the same time.

Slaves was always bury in the night as no one could stop to do it in the day. Ole boards was use' to make the coffin that was blackened with shoe polish.

After the war I did garden work.

Mr. Stiles Bee on James Islan' give track of lan' to the Negroes for a school jus' after the war; he put up a shed-like buildin' with a few chairs in it. It was at the place call Cut Bridge.

Henry McKinley, a Negro who ran as congressman from Charleston jus' after the war, lived on Calhoun Street. He was a mail carrier. He made an oath to Almighty God that if he was elected, he'd never betray his trus'. In one of his speeches he said: "I hope God 'ill paralize me should I do as others have done." He was elected an' never see the Congress. One white man from Orangeburg, Samuel Dibbin, bought him out. An' three weeks later McKinley took a stroke that carry him to a' early grave. James Wright, a Negro judge of Charleston in 1876 sol' out for ten thousand dollars--a dime of which he hasn't receive' yet. He 'cross the bridge an' stay in a' ole house an' die there. The Probate Judge, A. Whipper, refused to give up the books of Judge Wright to the white man he sell out to. Judge Whipper went in Beauford jail an' die there 'cause he wouldn't give up the books. Wright kept such a poor record that Judge Whipper was ashamed to have them expose', an' that's why he didn't give up the books. Henry Smalls, owner of the Smalls Lot on Comin' Street was Second Lieutenant on the Police Force. Henry Fordham was Second Assistant Lieutenant. Captain James Williams, Third Assistant Lieutenant who become Captain of the Military Department an' forme' the Carolina Light Infantry which was recogniz' 'til Ben Tillman call' them on the Green an' take their guns.

I was janitor at Benedict College in Columbia for two years an' at Clafflin in Orangeburg for twelve. The Presidents under which I worke' was: Allen Webster, grandson of the dictionary maker; J.C. Cook; an' Dr. Duntin.

Now all that is pass' an I'm livin' from han' to mouth. The banks took all my money an' I can't work. I do the collectin' for my lan'lord an' he give me a room free. If it wasn't for that I don't know what I'd do.

=Source:=

Interview with Elijah Green, 156 Elizabeth Street, Charleston, S.C.

Project 1885-1
FOLKLORE
Spartanburg, Dist. 4
Sept. 7, 1937

Edited by:
Elmer Turnage

STORIES OF EX-SLAVES

"Cap, I was born on de Bonner place, five miles from Gaffney. Jest about de very first recollection dat sticks wid me, is my mammy a-hiding me when de Ku Klux was riding. She heard de hosses a-trotting and she rushed us out'n our beds and took us and buried us in de fodder out in our barn, and told us to be as quiet as possible. Both my parents went and hid in de edge of de woods. De Ku Klux passed on by widout even holding up dere hosses.

"During slavery my mother went to Mississippi wid her mistress, Artimesse Smith Ross. Soon atter Freedom dey come back to Smith's Ford on de Pacolet. Steers pulled 'slides', wid de white folk belongings on de slides. We niggers went to meeting on de slides. De ends of de slides was curved upward. When we got to meeting, we went under de brush arbors. Fresh brush was kept cut so dat de sun would not shine through. Under de arbors we sat on slabs and de preacher stood on de ground. We had better meetings den dan dey have now. Everybody had better religion den dan dey does now. In dem days religion went further dan it does now. Yes sir, religion meant something den, and went somewhars. My pappy rode a ginny to preaching.

"Dere was not as much devilment as dere is now. Times was better fer niggers. One day last week I went to meeting and took dinner. We eat on a slab table and had ice tea to drink. Meas was dere drinking on de side, and all other devilment dey could carry on in sight of de church. De preacher eat wid us. Some eat out of dere buckets and would not come and be wid de crowd. Long time ago, nobody didn't act greedy like dat. Girls cut up like boys now, and nobody don't look down on dem.

"When I was a boy, girls acted like de old folks and dey did not carry on. Nobody ever heard of a girl drinking and smoking den. If a girl made a mistake in de old days she was throwed overboard. Why when I was little, us boys went in a-washing wid de girls and never thought nothing 'bout it. We was most grown befo' we know'd a thing 'bout man and woman. I was fifteen years old when I got my first shoes and dey had brass toes. We played ball wid de girls in de house, and sung songs like: 'Goosey, Goosey Gander'."

"We had wheat bread only once a week," said Jesse Stevenson who came up and entered the conversation, "and dat was on Sunday. I had a good time at Green's wedding. Green married Carrie Phillips who lived two miles above me. We boys talked to de girls in school. We was around twenty years old befo' we went to school. Of course dat was atter Freedom. De teacher would light on both of us fer talking across de books. Carrie was about a year younger dan Green. Green, tell de gentleman (interviewer) what you said when you ax'd uncle Ben fer Carrie."

"I say," said Green, "come out into de cool of de yard, please sir, if you will uncle Ben; I has a question of de utmost concern to us both to lay at your feet'. Uncle Ben say, 'Look here, young nigger, don't you know dat I ain't got no business gwine out in no night dew--what ails you nohow?' I 'lows, 'Uncle Ben, it is a great matter of life and death dat I wishes to consult wid you over'. He clear his throat and spit in de fire and say, 'Wait, I'll come if it's dat urgent.' I took him under a tree so dat no dew wouldn't drap on his head and give him a cold. I said, 'I want to marry your daughter, uncle Ben.' He say, 'Which one is dat dat you wishes, Sir?' 'De purttiest one, Carrie,' says I; 'dat is, if you ain't got no objection.'

"Befo' I axed fer Carrie I was loving two gals, but of course I drapped de other'n after uncle Ben give me a favorable answer. Me and Carrie married at Miss Twitty Thompson's house. Dat whar uncle Ben had raised Carrie. Carrie's missus give her a good wedding supper wid chicken, ham, turkey, cake and coffee, and tater salad. Seventy-five people is what Miss Twitty let Carrie ax to dat supper. All dem niggers was dere, too.

"I had on a grey suit wid big stripes in it. Carrie had on a white dress and a white veil. We used dat veil to keep de skeeters off'n our first two babies. It made de best skeeter net. We married one Sunday morning at 'leven o'clock and had dinner at twelve; give de preacher twenty-five cents. Never no one give us no presents. We stayed at my pappy's house fer years. He give us a bed, a bureau and a washstand. Carrie's folks give us de bed clothes, and dats what we started on. Jesse, tell de gentleman what you did at my wedding."

"I stood wid Green," said Jesse Stevenson, "and I had on a brown suit wid grey stripes gwine up and down it. Atter de ceremony all de gals wanted to swing me and Green, but Carrie grabbed him and shake her head and grin; so I got all de swinging."

Green said, "Me and Carrie never went no whar atter our marriage. We stayed on wid my pappy and worked. We been doing well ever since."

=Source:= W. M. Green (71); Jesse Stevenson (71), Rt. 1, Gaffney, S.C.
Interviewer: Caldwell Sims 8/23/37

Project #-1655
Phoebe Faucette
Hampton County

Approx. 390 words
FOLKLORE

ADELINE GREY 82 YEAR OLD
Ex-Slave

Adeline Grey seemed in good health as she sat before her granddaughter's comfortable fire. She spoke quietly, with little excitement, and readily recalled events of her early childhood.

"I was a girl when freedom was declare, an' I kin remember 'bout de times. My Ma used to belong to ole man Dave Warner. I remember how she used to wash, and iron, an' cook for de white folks durin' slavery time.

"I member when de Yankees come through. I wuz right to de old boss' place. It wuz on de river side. Miss Jane Warner, she wuz de missus. De place heah now--where all de chillun raise. Mr. Rhodes got a turpentine still dere now--jes after you pass de house. Dey burn de ginhouse, de shop, de buggyhouse, de turkeyhouse an' de fowlhouse. Start to set de cornhouse afire, but my Ma say: 'Please sir, don't burn de cornhouse. Gie it to me an' my chillun.' So dey put de fire out. I member when dey started to break down de smokehouse door, an' ole Missus come out an' say: 'Please don't break de door open, I got de key.' So dey quit. I remember when dey shoot down de hog. I remember when dey shoot de two geese in de yard. Dey choked my Ma. Dey went to her an' dey say; 'Where is all de white people gold an' silver?' My Ma say she don't know. 'You does know!' dey say, an' choke her till she couldn't talk. Dey went into de company room where de ole Miss wuz stayin' an' start tearin' up de bed. Den de captain come an' de ole Miss say to him: 'Please don't let 'em tear up my bed,' an' de captain went in dere an' tell 'em 'Come out!'.

De ole Miss wasn't scared. But de young Miss May was sure scared. She was courtin' at de time. She went off an' shut herself up in a room. De ole Miss ask de captain: 'Please go in an' talk to de Miss, she so scared'. So he went in an' soon he bring her out. We chillun wasn't scared. But my brother run under de house. De soldiers went under dere a-pokin' de bayonets into de ground to try to find where de silver buried, an' dey ran 'cross him. 'What you doin' under heah?' dey say. 'I'se jes runnin' de chickens out, sir,' he say. 'Well, you kin go on out,' dey say. 'We aint gwine to hurt you.'

'I remember when dey kill de hog an' cook 'em. Cook on de fire where de little shop been. Cook 'em an' eat 'em. Why didn't dey cook 'em on de stove in de house? Didn't have no stoves. Jes had to cook on de fireplace. Had an oven to fit in de fireplace. I remember when my Ma saw de Yankees comin' dat mornin' she grab de sweet potatoes dat been in dat oven and throw 'em in de barrel of feathers dat stayed by de kitchen fireplace. Jes a barrel to hold chicken feathers when you pick 'em. Dat's all we had to eat dat day. Dem Yankees put de meat in de sack an' go on off. It was late den, 'bout dusk. I remember how de Missus bring us all 'round de fire. It was dark den.

'Well chillun,' she say, 'I is sorry to tell you, but de Yankees has carry off your Ma. I don't know if you'll ever see her any mo.' Den we chillun all start cryin.' We still a-sittin' dere when my Ma come back. She say she slip behind, an' slip behind, slip behind, an' when she come to a little pine thicket by de side of de road, she dart into it, drop de sack of meat dey had her carryin, an' start out for home. When we had all make over her, we say to her den: 'Well why didn't you bring de sack of meat 'long wid you?'

Dey took de top off ole Marse John carriage, put meat in it, an' made him pull it same as a horse. Carry him way down to Lawtonville, had to pull it through de branch an' all. Got de rock-a-way back though--an' de ole man. I remember dat well. Had to mend up de ole rock-a-way. An' it made de ole man sick. He keep on sick, sick, until he died. I remember how he'd say: 'Don't you all worry'. An' he'd go out in de orchard. Dey'd say: 'Don't bother him! Jes let him be! He want to pray!' Atter a while he died an' dey buried him. His name was John Stafford. Dey Massa wasn't dere. I guess he was off to de war.

"But after freedom was de time when dey suffered more dan before. Dese chillun don't know how dey blessed. My Ma cooked for de white folks for one year after freedom. I remember dey cook bread, an' dey ain't have nuthin' to eat on it. Was thankful for a cornbread hoecake baked in de fireplace. But dey had some things. Had buried some meat, an' some syrup. An' dey had some corn. My Ma had saved de cornhouse. De rice burn up in de ginhouse. After freedom, dey had to draw de best thread out of de old clothes an' weave it again. Ole Miss had give my Ma a good moss mattress. But de Yankees had carry dat off. Rip it up, throw out de moss, an' put meat in it. Fill it full of meat. I remember she had a red striped shawl. One of de Yankee take dat an' start to put in under his saddle for a saddle cloth. My brother go up to him an' say: 'Please sir, don't carry my Ma's shawl. Dat de only one she got.' So he give it back to him. To keep warm at night, dey had to make dere pallet down by de fire; when all wood burn out, put on another piece. Didn't have nuthin' on de bed to sleep on.

"I remember when de ole Miss used to have to make soap, out of dese red oaks. Burn de wood, an' catches de ashes. Put de ashes in a barrel wid a trough under it, an' pour de water through de ashes. If de lyewater dat come out could cut a feather, it was strong.

"Used to weave cloth after freedom. Used to give a brooch (hank) or two to weave at night. I'se sometimes thread de needle for my Ma, or pick out de seed out de cotton, an' make it into rolls to spin. Sometimes I'd work de foot pedal for my Ma. Den dey'd warp de thread. If she want to dye it, she'd dye it. She'd get indigo--you know dat bush--an' boil it. It was kinder blue. It would make good cloth. Sometimes, de cloth wuz kinder strip, one strip of white, an' one of blue. I remember how dey'd warp de thread across de yard after it wuz dyed, an' I remember seem' my Ma throw dat shuttle through an' weave dat cloth. I member when de ole Miss made my Mamma two black dresses to wear through de winter. She'd keep 'em clean; had two so she could change.

"I don't know why dey didn't burn de house. Must have been 'cause de captain wuz along. De house dere now. One of de chimney down. I don't think dey ever put it up again. Colored folks are in it now.

"I never did know my Pa. He was sold off to Texas when I was young. My mother would say, 'Well, chillun, you aint never known your Pa. Joe Smart carry him off to Texas when he went. I don't guess you'll ever see him.' My father wuz name Charles Smart. He never did come back. Joe Smart come back once, an' say dat our father is dead. He say our Pa had three horses an' he want one of them to be sent to us chillun heah; but no arrangements had been made to get it to us. You see he had chillun out dere, too.

"Atter freedom, my Ma plow many a day, same as a man, for us chillun. She work for ole man Bill Mars. Den she marry again. Part of de time dey work for Mr. Benny Lawton, de one-arm man, what lost his arm in de war. Dese chillun don't know what hard times is. Dey don't know how to preciate our blessings.

=Source:= Adeline Grey, 82-year old resident of Luray, S.C.

Project #1655
Everett R. Pierce
Columbia, S.C.

INTERVIEW WITH FANNIE GRIFFIN
EX-SLAVE 94 YEARS.

"You wants me to tell you all what I 'members 'bout slavery in slavery time? Well ma'am, I was just a young gal then and I's a old woman now, nigh on to ninety-four years old; I might be forgot some things, but I'll tell you what I 'members best.

My massa, Massa Joe Beard, was a good man, but he wasn't one of de richest men. He only had six slaves, three men and three women, but he had a big plantation and would borrow slaves from his brother-in-law on de 'joining plantation, to help wid de crops.

I was de youngest slave, so Missy Grace, dats Massa Joe's wife, keep me in de house most of de time, to cook and keep de house cleaned up. I milked de cow and worked in de garden too. My massa was good to all he slaves, but Missy Grace was mean to us. She whip us a heap of times when we ain't done nothing bad to be whip for. When she go to whip me, she tie my wrists together wid a rope and put that rope thru a big staple in de ceiling and draw me up off de floor and give me a hundred lashes. I think 'bout my old mammy heap of times now and how I's seen her whipped, wid de blood dripping off of her.

All that us slaves know how to do, was to work hard. We never learn to read and write nor we never had no church to go to, only sometimes de white folks let us go to their church, but we never jine in de singing, we just set and listen to them preach and pray. De graveyard was right by de church and heap of de colored people was scared to go by it at night, they say they see ghosts and hants, and sperits but I ain't never see none, don't believe there is none. I more scared of live people than I is dead ones; dead people ain't gwine to harm you.

Our massa and missus was good to us when we was sick; they send for de doctor right off and de doctor do all he could for us, but he ain't had no kind of medicine to give us 'cepting sperits of turpentine, castor oil, and a little blue mass. They ain't had all kinds of pills and stuff then, like they has now, but I believe we ain't been sick as much then as we do now. I never heard of no consumption them days; us had pneumonia sometime tho'.

You wants to know if we had any parties for pastime? Well ma'am, not many. We never was allowed to have no parties nor dances, only from Christmas Day to New Year's eve. We had plenty good things to eat on Christmas Day and Santa Claus was good to us too. We'd have all kinds of frolics from Christmas to New Years but never was allowed to have no fun after that time.

I 'members one time I slip off from de missus and go to a dance and when I come back, de dog in de yard didn't seem to know me and he bark and wake de missus up and she whip me something awful. I sho didn't go to no more dances widout asking her. De patarollers (patrollers) would ketch you too, if you went out after dark. We most times stay at home at night and spin cloth to make our clothes. We make all our clothes, and our shoes was handmade too. We didn't have fancy clothes like de people has now. I likes it better being a slave, we got along better then, than we do now. We didn't have to pay for everything we had.

De worst time we ever had was when de Yankee men come thru. We had heard they was coming and de missus tell us to put on a big pot of peas to cook, so we put some white peas in a big pot and put a whole ham in it, so that we'd have plenty for de Yankees to eat. Then when they come, they kicked de pot over and de peas went one way and de ham another.

De Yankees 'stroyed 'most everything we had. They come in de house and told de missus to give them her money and jewels. She started crying and told them she ain't got no money or jewels, 'cepting de ring she had on her finger. They got awfully mad and started 'stroying everything. They took de cows and horses, burned de gin, de barn, and all de houses 'cept de one massa and missus was living in. They didn't leave us a thing 'cept some big hominy and two banks of sweet potatoes. We chipped up some sweet potatoes and dried them in de sun, then we parched them and ground them up and that's all we had to use for coffee. It taste pretty good too. For a good while we just live on hominy and coffee.

No ma'am, we ain't had no celebration after we was freed. We ain't know we was free 'til a good while after. We ain't know it 'til General Wheeler come thru and tell us. After that, de massa and missus let all de slaves go 'cepting me; they kept me to work in de house and de garden."

Home address:

2125 Calhoun St.
Columbia, S.C.

Project 1885-1
FOLKLORE
Spartanburg Dist. 4
June 22, 1937

Edited by:
Elmer Turnage

STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES

"I will be 85 years old dis coming August. My master said I was 14 years old de August coming after freedom.

"My master was Billy Scott who had seven or eight hundred acres of land, and 48 slaves. He wouldn't have no white overseers, but had some nigger foremen dat sometimes whipped de niggers, and de master would whip dem, too. He was a fair man, not so good and not so mean. He give us poor quarters to live in, and sometimes plenty to eat, but sometimes we went hungry. He had a big garden, plenty cows, hogs and sheep. De most we had ter eat, was corn, collards, peas, turnip-greens and home-made molasses. We had wheat bread on Sundays. It was made from flour grind at our own mill. We didn't have but one day off, that was Christmas Day and den we had to grind our axes.

"We made our clothes out of cotton and wool mixed, made dem at home wid our own cards and spinning wheels. We made our shoes out of leather tanned at home, but had to use woolen shoes after de war, which would wear out and split open in three weeks.

"My daddy was Amos Wilson and mammy was Carline Griffin. I had some brothers and sisters. When freedom come, de master come to us and told us de damn Yankees done freed us, 'what you gwinter do? If you want ter stay on wid me, I will give you work.' We stayed fer awhile.

"The patrollers caught me once when I run off. I run fast and lost my hat and dey got it. I saw some slaves sold on de block. Dey was put in a ring and sold by crying out de price. We didn't learn to read and write, not allowed to. De niggers went to de corn shuckings and was give pumpkin custards to eat and liquor. Dey wasn't allowed to dance, but sometimes we had secret dances, shut up in de house so de master couldn't hear us.

"After de war, we went hunting and fishing on Sundays. We never had Saturday afternoons off. We killed wild deer and other things. Once de master killed 14 squirrels in three quarters of hour.

"We raised our own tobacco, the master did, for home use. Most always a small patch was planted.

"De master once saw ghosts, he come from his sisters and passed de graveyard and saw 9 cows with no heads. His horse jest flew home. Most white folks didn't believe in ghosts, but dat is one time de master believed he saw some.

"I went wid de Red Shirts, belonged to de company and went to meetings wid dem. I voted fer Hampton. Befo' dat, de Ku Klux had bad niggers dodging like birds in de woods. Dey caught some and threw dem on de ground and whipped dem, but de master say he don't know nothing 'bout it as he was asleep. Dey caught a nigger preacher once and made him dance, put him in muddy water and walloped him around in de mud.

"Once seven Indians come in our neighborhood an call fer meat, meal and salt. Dere was three men and four women. Dey cooked all night, murmuring something all de time. Next morning three squirrels was found up a tree, and de Indians shot 'em down wid bow and arrow.

"One time I saw horses froze to death. Dey couldn't get dere breath, and de people took warm water and wash dere foreheads. I was a small boy den. My master had 46 guineas.

"I married Nancy Robinson who belonged to Robert Calmes. She was living at de Gillam place near Rich Hill.

"We used to ask a riddle like this: Love I stand, Love I sit, Love I hold in my right hand. What is it? It was made up when an old woman had a little dog named 'Love'. She killed it and put a part of it, after it was baked, in her stockings; part in her shoes; part in back of her dress, and part in her gloves. A nigger was going to be hung the next Friday, and told if he guess the riddle he would be turned loose. He couldn't guess it, but was turned loose anyway.

"I think Abe Lincoln might ter done good, but he had us all scared to death, took our mules and burned our places. Don't know anything about Jeff Davis. Booker Washington is all right.

"I joined de church when 28 years old, because I thought it was right. Wanted to git right and git to God's Kingdom. I think everybody ought to join de church.

"O' course I rather it not be slavery time, but I got more ter eat den dan now. Den we didn't know what ter do, but now we perish ter death."

=Source:= Madison Griffin (84), Whitmire, S.C.
Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. (6/18/1937)

Project 1885-1
FOLKLORE
Spartanburg, Dist. 4
June 7, 1937

Edited by:
Elmer Turnage

STORIES FROM EX-SLAVES

"I was born in old Edgefield county, about three miles below what is now Saluda Courthouse. I was a slave of Alec Grigsby. He was a fair marster, but his wife was awful mean to us. She poked my head in a rail fence once and whipped me hard with a whip. I lived in that section until eight years ago, when I come to Newberry to live with my daughters.

"I worked hard in cotton fields, milked cows and helped about the marster's house. When the bush-whackers and patrollers come around dere, us niggers suffered lots with beatings. Some of dem was killed.

"The old folks had corn-shuckings, frolics, pender pullings, and quiltings. They had quiltings on Saturday nights, with eats and frolics. When dey danced, dey always used fiddles to make the music.

"The men folks hunted much: doves, partridges, wild turkeys, deer, squirrels and rabbits. Sometimes dey caught rabbits in wooden boxes, called 'rabbit-gums'. It had a trap in the middle, which was set at night, with food in it, and when the rabbit bite, the tray sprung, and the opening at the front was closed so he couldn't get out.

"The marster had a big whiskey still, and sold lots of liquor to people around there."

=Source:= Peggy Grigsby (106), Newberry, S.C.
Interviewer: G.L. Summer, Newberry, S.C. 5/10/37.

Project #1655
W.W. Dixon
Winnsboro, S.C.

VIOLET GUNTHARPE
EX-SLAVE 82 YEARS OLD.

"I was born a slave in de Rocky Mount part of Fairfield County, up close to Great Falls. I hear them falls a roarin' now and I see them waters flashin' in de sunshine when I close my eyes.

My pappy name Robert and my mammy name Phyllis. They b'long to de old time 'ristocats, de Gaither family. Does you know Miss Mattie Martin, which was de secretary of Governor Ansel? Dat one of my young mistresses and another is dat pretty red headed girl in de telegraph office at Winnsboro, dat just sit dere and pass out lightnin' and 'lectricity over de wires wheresomever she take a notion. Does you know them? Well, befo' their mama marry Marster Starke Martin, her was Sally Gaither, my young missus in slavery time. Her die and go to Heaven last year, please God.

Marster Richard was a good marster to his slaves, though he took no foolishness and worked you from sun to sun. 'Spect him had 'bout ten family of slaves and 'bout fifty big and little slaves altogether on dat plantation befo' them Yankees come and make a mess out of their lives.

Honey, us wasn't ready for de big change dat come! Us had no education, no land, no mule, no cow, not a pig, nor a chicken, to set up house keeping. De birds had nests in de air, de foxes had holes in de ground, and de fishes had beds under de great falls, but us colored folks was left widout any place to lay our heads.

De Yankees sho' throwed us in de briar patch but us not bred and born dere lak de rabbit. Us born in a good log house. De cows was down dere in de canebrakes to give us milk, de hogs was fattenin' on hickory nuts, acorns, and shucked corn, to give us meat and grease; de sheep wid their wool, and de cotton in de gin house was dere to give us clothes. De horses and mules was dere to help dat corn and cotton, but when them Yankees come and take all dat away, all us had to thank them for, was a hungry belly, and freedom. Sumpin' us had no more use for then, than I have today for one of them airplanes I hears flyin' 'round de sky, right now.

Well, after ravagin' de whole country side, de army got across old Catawba and left de air full of de stink of dead carcasses and de sky black wid turkey buzzards. De white women was weepin' in hushed voices, de niggers on de place not knowin' what to do next, and de piccaninnies suckin' their thumbs for want of sumpin' to eat; mind you 'twas winter time too.

Lots of de chillun die, as did de old folks, while de rest of us scour de woods for hickory nuts, acorns, cane roots, and artichokes, and seine de river for fish. De worst nigger men and women follow de army. De balance settle down wid de white folks and simmer in their misery all thru de spring time, 'til plums, mulberries, and blackberries come, and de shad come up de Catawba River.

My mammy stay on wid de same marster 'til I was grown, dat is fifteen, and Thad got to lookin' at me, meek as a sheep and dumb as a calf. I had to ask dat nigger, right out, what his 'tentions was, befo' I get him to bleat out dat he love me. Him name Thad Guntharpe. I glance at him one day at de pigpen when I was sloppin' de hogs, I say: 'Mr. Guntharpe, you follows me night and mornin' to dis pigpen; do you happen to be in love wid one of these pigs? If so, I'd like to know which one 'tis; then sometime I come down here by myself and tell dat pig 'bout your 'fections.' Thad didn't say nothin' but just grin. Him took de slop bucket out of my hand and look at it, all 'round it, put upside down on de ground, and set me down on it; then he fall down dere on de grass by me and blubber out and warm my fingers in his hands. I just took pity on him and told him mighty plain dat he must limber up his tongue and ask sumpin', say what he mean, wantin' to visit them pigs so often. Us carry on foolishness 'bout de little boar shoat pig and de little sow pig, then I squeal in laughter over how he scrouge so close; de slop bucket tipple over and I lost my seat. Dat ever remain de happiest minute of my eighty-two years.

After us marry, us moved on de Johnson Place and Thad plow right on a farm where dere use to be a town of Grimkeville. I was lonely down dere all de time. I's halfway scared to death of de skeeters 'bout my legs in day time and old Captain Thorn's ghost in de night time. You never heard 'bout dat ghost? If you went to school to Mr. Luke Ford sure he must of tell you 'bout de time a slave boy killed his marster, old Captain Thorn. He drag and throwed his body in de river.

When they find his body they ketch John, de slave boy, give him a trial by six white men, find him guilty and he confess. Then they took de broad axe, cut off his head, mount it on a pole and stick it up on de bank where they find old Captain Thorn. Dat pole and head stay dere 'til it rot down. Captain Thorn's ghost 'pear and disappear 'long dat river bank ever since in de night time. My pappy tell me he see it and see de boy's ghost too.

De ghost rode de minds of many colored folks. Some say dat de ghost had a heap to do wid deaths on dat river, by drowning. One sad thing happen; de ghost and de malaria run us off de river. Us moved to Marster Starke P. Martin's place. Him was a settin' at a window in de house one night and somebody crept up dere and fill his head full of buck-shot. Marster Starke was Miss Sallie's husband, and Miss Mattie and Miss May's papa. Oh, de misery of dat night to my white folks! Who did it? God knows! They sent poor Henry Nettles to de penitentiary for it, but most white folks and all de colored didn't believe he done it. White folks say a white man done it, but our color know it was de work of dat slave boy's ghost.

My white folks come here from Maryland, I heard them say. They fought in de Revolution, set up a tanyard when they got here, and then when cotton come, my marster's pappy was de fust to put up a hoss-gin and screw pit in Rocky Mount section. I glories in their blood, but dere none by de name 'round here now, 'cept colored folks.

Marster Wood you read a heap of books. Did you ever read 'bout foots of ghosts? They got foots and can jump and walk. No they don't run, why? 'Cause seem lak their foots is too big. Dat night Marster Starke Martin was killed it was a snowin'. De whole earth was covered wid a white blanket. It snowed and snowed and snowed. Us measure how big dat snow was next mornin' and how big dat ghost track. De snow was seven inches, and a little bit deep. De ghost track on top de snow big as a elephant's. Him or she or it's tracks 'pear to drap wid de snow and just rise up out de snow and disappear. De white folks say 'twas a man wid bags on his foots, but they never found de bags, so I just believe it was ghost instigate by de devil to drap down dere and make all dat misery for my white folks.

Dere's a great day a comin' when de last trumpet will sound and de devil and all de ghosts will be chained and they can't romp 'round de old river and folks houses in de night time and bring sorrow and pain in de wake of them big tracks."

Project #-1655
Gyland H. Hamlin
Charleston, S.C.

FOLKLORE

INTERVIEW WITH EX-SLAVE

"Good a'ternoon, suh. Yassuh, I'ze gittin' on up in de years. I be eighty-one year ole nex' May. I name John Hamilton an' I lib at sickty-t'ree Amherst Street.

"I 'member sumptin' 'bout slabery. I wuz 'bout big as dat gal gwine dere w'en de Fed'rul war broke out," indicating a child, passing down the street who appeared to be about eight years old.

"I belong' to Maussa Seabrook, an' he lib at W'ite Point, ten mile from Adams Run. De Maussa, he been daid but he got some boys. Dem boys all scatter', dough. Yassuh, ole Maussa treat us good. I not big 'nough to wuk, I jus' a li'l boy den. My fadder name' Rhode Hamilton, an' 'e hab two acre to wuk. Dere didn't been no hoss, an' 'e grub it wid de hoe.

"Some slabes no good an' not satisfy fo' tuh wuk. Dey run 'way fum de plantation. Dere been big dawgs high as street-cyar, yassuh, high as dat street-cyar. Dey name' nigger-dawg an' dey trace nigger an' put dem nigger back to wuk. Dere been Yankee man name' Tom Cudry. I kin sho' de house 'e been in. He say 'e tired see colored mans wuk hard an' git nuttin'. He put colored mans on banjoo (vendue) table an' 'e be free.

"I didn't be marry till I git in my t'irty year. My wife, she 'bout sickty-fibe year ole'. We got fibe chillun libbin', 'bout twelbe haid in all. Grand-chillun? 'Bout sebben haid an' one gal. Hab great grand-chillun, too.

"I ain't been know nuttin' 'bout jailhouse. Ain't see a jailhouse in my life. I hab to look all day to find one in Charleston, an' don't know where 'bouts de court-house. Ain't gwine to jailhouse. Nobody hab to 'rest me no how.

"I be a Babtis'. I babtize' in de ribber, de Edisto ribber. I tryin' git to Hebben. Hebben be glory. Yassuh, Hebben be glory. You got to lub all God's chillun to git dere. God send w'ite folks an' colored folks, an' dey mus' he'p each odder an' wuk togedder. Dey got to lib in union. Yassuh, got to lib in union to git to Hebben.

"I 'pend on de w'ite folks to he'p me. Dese pore colored folks ain't got nuttin'. Nawsuh, I ain't be too ole to wuk an' mek a honest libbin' like lot o' dem no good nigger what too stiff fo' to speak. I wuk some flower-yard fo' some w'ite folks, an' I wuk a li'l gyarden.

"Yassuh, I hol' up berry well, but I can't see at night w'en de sun go down. My sight gone back den. I got git 'long now.

"You gimme a nickel or dime? T'ank you, suh. T'ank you kin'ly."

=Source:= Personal interview with John Hamilton, colored,
of 63 Amherst Street, Charleston, S.C.

Project #-1655
Jessie A. Butler
Charleston, S.C.

FOLKLORE

OLD SUSAN HAMLIN--EX SLAVE

(Verbatim Conversation)

Old Susan Hamlin, one hundred and four years old, was strolling down lower King St., about a mile from where she lives, when she was met by a white "friend," and the following conversation took place:

"How are you, Susan, do you remember me?"

"Yes, Ma'am, I 'member yo face, Missus, but I can't 'member yo name. I gettin' ole. Dis eye (touching the right one) leabin' me. Ole age you know. Somet'ing got tuh gie way."

"Don't you remember I came to see you one morning, and you told me all about old times?"

"Yes, Ma'am, (with enthusiasm) come tuh see me 'gain, I tell you some mo'. I like tuh talk 'bout dem days; 'taint many people left now kin tell 'bout dat time. Eberybody dead. I goes 'round tuh de ole house, an' I t'ink 'bout all dem little chillen I is nuss, (calling them by name) dey all sleep, all sleep in de groun'. Nobody lef' but ole Susan. All my fambly, de massa, de missus, all de little chillen, all sleep. Only me one lef', only ole Susan. Sometime I wonder how it is. I ober a hund'ed, I stahtin' (starting) tuh forgit de years."

"Tell me one thing, Susan, you have lived a long time, do you think the young people of today are better or worse than in the old days?"

"Well, Missus, some is wuss but not all. Some stray jus' like dey always done but dey'll come back. I stray 'way myself but dey'll come back jus' like I did. Gib um time dey come back. I git converted you know."

"Yes, you told me about that."

"Yes, Ma'am, I see de Sabior. He show me hoe He die. I nebber forget dat day. Dere He hang,--so--(with arms outstretched) an' He show me de great brightness, an' He show me de big sin on my back, black as dat cyar (car). Den I pray an' I pray, an' it fall off. Den I praise Him. Nebber since dat day is I forget what I see. When I see dat reconcile Sabior countenance,--oh!--I nebber forget. No, Ma'am. I nebber forget dat reconcile countenance. As I tell yuh, I stray 'way, but not after I see dat reconcile countenance. I pray and praise Him. Sometimes all by myself I get so happy, jes t'inkin' on Him. I cyant forget all dat He done fuh me."

"People tell me I ought not walk 'round by myself so. I tell um I don't care where I drop. I 'member when my ma was dyin' I beg um not to leabe me, she say: 'Wha' I got yuh, wha' I want tuh stay yuh fuh? I want tuh go, I want tuh see muh Jesus.' I know what she mean now. I don't care if I drop in de street, I don't care if I drop in my room. I don't care where I drop, I ready tuh go."

"All you got tuh do is libe right, yuh got tuh libe (live) de life. What is de life?--Purity.--What is Purity?--Righteousness.--What is Righteousness?--Tuh do de right t'ing.--Libe right,--pray an' praise. Beliebe on de delibrin (delivering) Sabior. Trus' Him. He lead yuh. He show yuh de way. Dat all yuh got tuh do. Beliebe--pray--praise. Ebery night befo' I lay on my bed I git on my knees an' look up tuh Him. Soon I wake in de mornin' I gibe Him t'anks. Eben sometime in de day I git on my knees an' pray. He been good to me all dese years. He aint forget me. I aint been sick for ober twenty-five years. Good t'ing too, nobody left tuh tek care of me. Dey all gone. But I don't care now, jus' so I kin see my Jesus when I gone."

"I goin' down now tuh see my people I use to cook fuh. I too ole now tuh cook. I use tuh cook fine. Come tuh see me again, missus, come tuh see de ole monkey, I tell yuh mo' 'bout dose times. You know I kin 'member dem when I been a big girl, most grown, when de bombardment come ober de city."

=Source:= Writer's conversation with Susan Hamlin, 17
Henrietta Street, Charleston. S.C.

Project#-1655
Jessie A. Butler
Charleston, S.C.

Approx. 1739 Words

INTERVIEW WITH EX-SLAVE

On July 6th, I interviewed Susan Hamlin, ex-slave, at 17 Henrietta street, Charleston, S. C. She was sitting just inside of the front door, on a step leading up to the porch, and upon hearing me inquire for her she assumed that I was from the Welfare office, from which she had received aid prior to its closing. I did not correct this impression, and at no time did she suspect that the object of my visit was to get the story of her experience as a slave. During our conversation she mentioned her age. "Why that's very interesting, Susan," I told her, "If you are that old you probably remember the Civil War and slavery days." "Yes Ma'am, I been a slave myself," she said, and told me the following story:

"I kin remember some things like it was yesterday, but I is 104 years old now, and age is starting to get me, I can't remember everything like I use to. I getting old, old. You know I is old when I been a grown woman when the Civil War broke out. I was hired out then, to a Mr. McDonald, who lived on Atlantic Street, and I remembers when de first shot was fired, and the shells went right over de city. I got seven dollars a month for looking after children, not taking them out, you understand, just minding them. I did not get the money, Mausa got it." "Don't you think that was fair?" I asked. "If you were fed and clothed by him, shouldn't he be paid for your work?" "Course it been fair," she answered, "I belong to him and he got to get something to take care of me."

"My name before I was married was Susan Calder, but I married a man name Hamlin. I belonged to Mr. Edward Fuller, he was president of the First National Bank. He was a good man to his people till de Lord took him. Mr. Fuller got his slaves by marriage. He married Miss Mikell, a lady what lived on Edisto Island, who was a slave owner, and we lived on Edisto on a plantation. I don't remember de name cause when Mr. Fuller got to be president of de bank we come to Charleston to live. He sell out the plantation and say them (the slaves) that want to come to Charleston with him could come and them what wants to stay can stay on the island with his wife's people. We had our choice. Some is come and same is stay, but my ma and us children come with Mr. Fuller.

We lived on St. Philip street. The house still there, good as ever, I go 'round there to see it all de time; the cistern still there too, where we used to sit 'round and drink the cold water, and eat, and talk and laugh. Mr. Fuller have lots of servants and the ones he didn't need hisself he hired out. The slaves had rooms in the back, the ones with children had two rooms and them that didn't have any children had one room, not to cook in but to sleep in. They all cooked and ate downstairs in the hall that they had for the colored people. I don't know about slavery but I know all the slavery I know about, the people was good to me. Mr. Fuller was a good man and his wife's people been grand people, all good to their slaves. Seem like Mr. Fuller just git his slaves so he could be good to dem. He made all the little colored chillen love him. If you don't believe they loved him what they all cry, and scream, and holler for when dey hear he dead? 'Oh, Mausa dead my Mausa dead, what I going to do, my Mausa dead.' Dey tell dem t'aint no use to cry, dat can't bring him back, but de chillen keep on crying. We used to call him Mausa Eddie but he named Mr. Edward Fuller, and he sure was a good man.

"A man come here about a month ago, say he from de Government, and dey send him to find out 'bout slavery. I give him most a book, and what he give me? A dime. He ask me all kind of questions. He ask me dis and he ask me dat, didn't de white people do dis and did dey do dat but Mr. Fuller was a good man, he was sure good to me and all his people, dey all like him, God bless him, he in de ground now but I ain't going to let nobody lie on him. You know he good when even the little chillen cry and holler when he dead. I tell you dey couldn't just fix us up any kind of way when we going to Sunday School. We had to be dressed nice, if you pass him and you ain't dress to suit him he send you right back and say tell your ma to see dat you dress right. Dey couldn't send you out in de cold barefoot neither. I 'member one day my ma want to send me wid some milk for her sister-in-law what live 'round de corner. I fuss cause it cold and say 'how you going to send me out wid no shoe, and it cold?' Mausa hear how I talking and turn he back and laugh, den he call to my ma to gone in de house and find shoe to put on my feet and don't let him see me barefoot again in cold weather.