Texas Slavery Narratives 7

JAMES JACKSON, 87, was born a slave to the Alexander family, in Caddo Parish, La. When he was about two, his master moved to Travis County, Texas. A short time later he and his two brothers were stolen and sold to Dr. Duvall, in Bastrop Co., Texas. He worked around Austin till he married, when he moved to Taylor and then to Kaufman. In 1929 he went to Fort Worth where he has lived ever since.

"I was bo'n at Caddo Parish, dats in Louisiana, on de Doc Alexander plantation. My mother says I was bo'n on de 18th day of December, in de year of 1850. I guess dat's right, 'cause I's 87 years ole dis comin' December.

"Jus' 'bout dat time dey started shippin' de darkies to Texas. My marster moved to Travis County, Texas, and tuk all his slaves wid him. I was too young to 'member, but my mother, she told me 'bout it.

"It wasn' long after we was on Marster Alexander's new place in Travis County, till one night a man rode up on a hoss and stole me and my two brothers and rode away wid us. He tuk us to Bastrop County and sold us to Doc Duvall. Marster Duvall sold my brother right after he bought us, but me and John, we stayed wid him till de slaves was freed.

"On Marster Duvall's plantation de slaves all lived in log cabins back of de big house. Dey was one room, two rooms and three room cabins, dependin' on de size of de family. Most had dirt floors, but some of 'em had log slabs. We had dese ole wooden beds wid a rope stretch 'cross de bottom and a mattress of straw or cotton dat de niggers got in de fiel'. We had lots to eat, like biscuit, cornbread, meat and sich stuff. Most times dey made coffee outta parch cornmeal. We had gardens and raised most of de stuff to eat.

"I herds sheep and is houseboy most of de time. When I was ole enough, I picks cotton. I was jus' learnin' when de slaves was freed. Marster Duvall had over 500 acres in cotton and he kep' us in de fiel' all de time, 'cept Saturday afternoon and Sunday.

"Dey had meetin' and dances Saturday nights. I was too young to 'member jus' what de songs was, but dey had a fiddle and played all night long. On ever' Sunday de niggers went to Church in de evenin'. Dey had a white preacher in de mornin' and a cullud preacher in de evenin'.

"Marster Duvall would whip de niggers who was disobedience and he jus' call dem up and ask dem what was de trouble, den he would whip dem wid a cowhide or a rope whip. We could go anywhere iffen we had a pass, but if we didn' de paddlerollers would ketch us. They was kinda like policemen we got today.

"In slavery, dey traded and sold niggers like dey do hosses and mules. Dey carry dem to de court house and put dem on de block and auction 'em off. Some sold for roun' $3,000. It was hard to sell one wid scars on him, 'cause nobody wanted him. I seen 'em come by in droves, all chained together.

"When de slaves was free dey was sho' happy. Dey all got together and had a kin' of cel'bration. Marster told dem if dey wanted to stay and help make de crop, he'd give 'em 50 cents a day and a place to stay. Some tuk him up on dat and stayed, but a lot of dem left dere. Me and my brother, we started walkin' to Austin. In Austin we finds our mother, she was working for Judge Paschal. She hires us out to one place and den another.

"Since freedom I done most everything anybody could do. I been porter and waiter in hotels and rest'rants. I been factory hand, and worked for carpenters and in de roun' house. I picked cotton and worked on de farm.

"I been married 61 years. I gits married at home, like civilize folks do. I raised a big family, 12 chillen, but only five is alive today. I moved here in 1929 and looks like I's here till I die.

MAGGIE JACKSON was born a slave of the Sam Oliver family, in Cass Co., Texas, near Douglasville. She is about 80 years old and her memory is not very good, so her story gives few details. She lives with her daughter near Douglasville, on highway #8.

"I am about 80 years old and was a chile during slavery times. My papa's name was Tom Spencer Hall and my mama's name was Margaret Hall. My brothers and sisters was Maria and Barbara and Alice and Octavia and Andrew and Thomas and Hillary and Eugenia and Silas and Thomas. We was a big fam'ly.

"My mama was Sam Oliver's slave, but my papa lived a mile away with Masta Sam Carlow. We lived in box houses and slep' on wood beds and we et co'nbread and peas and grits and lots of rabbits and 'possums. Mama cooked it on the fireplace.

"Masta Sam's house was big and had six big rooms with a hall through the middle and the kitchen sot way off in the ya'd and had a big cellar under it. Masta Sam had a big orchard and put apples and pears in the cellar for the winter. My brothers use' to slip under there and steal them and mama'd whip 'em.

"The big house set 'mong big oak trees and the slaves houses was scattered roun' the back. Masta Sam had a ole cowhorn he use' to blow for the niggers to come outta the fiel'.

"Mos' all us chillen wen' fishin' on Saturday and we'd fish with pins. One day I slipped off and caught a whole string of fish.

"We learned to read and write and we wen' to church with the white folks. Masta Sam was good to us and gave us plenty food and clothes.

"I married John Jackson in a white muslin dress and we was married by Dan Sherman, a cullud preacher from Jefferson. I married John 'cause I loved him and we didn' fuss and fight. I has five chillen and five grandchillen.

MARTIN JACKSON, who calls himself a "black Texan", well deserves to select a title of more distinction, for it is quite possible that he is the only living former slave who served in both the Civil War and the World War. He was born in bondage in Victoria Co., Texas, in 1847, the property of Alvy Fitzpatrick. This self-respecting Negro is totally blind, and when a person touches him on the arm to guide him he becomes bewildered and asks his helper to give verbal directions, up, down, right or left. It may be he has been on his own so long that he cannot, at this late date, readjust himself to the touch of a helping hand. His mind is uncommonly clear and he speaks with no Negro colloquialisms and almost no dialect.

Following directions as to where to find Martin Jackson, "the most remarkable Negro in San Antonio," a researcher made his way to an old frame house at 419 Center St., walked up the steps and through the house to an open door of a rear room. There, on an iron bed, lay a long, thin Negro, smoking a cigarette. He was dressed in a woolen undershirt and black trousers and his beard and mustache were trimmed much after the fashion of white gallants of the Gay Nineties. His head was remarkably well-shaped, with striking eminences in his forehead over his brows.

After a moment the intruder spoke and announced his mission. The old Negro, who is stone blind, quickly admitted that he was Martin Jackson, but before making any further comment he carried on an efficient interview himself; he wanted to know who the caller was, who had directed the visit, and just what branch of the Federal service happened to be interested in the days of slavery. These questions satisfactorily answered, he went into his adventures and experiences, embellishing the highlights with uncommon discernment and very little prodding by the researcher.

"I have about 85 years of good memory to call on. I'm ninety, and so I'm not counting my first five years of life. I'll try to give you as clear a picture as I can. If you want to give me a copy of what you are going to write, I'll appreciate it. Maybe some of my children would like to have it.

"I was here in Texas when the Civil War was first talked about. I was here when the War started and followed my young master into it with the First Texas Cavalry. I was here during reconstruction, after the War. I was here during the European World War and the second week after the United States declared war on Germany I enlisted as cook at Camp Leon Springs.

"This sounds as if I liked the war racket. But, as a matter of fact, I never wore a uniformgrey coat or khaki coator carried a gun, unless it happened to be one worth saving after some Confederate soldier got shot. I was official lugger-in of men that got wounded, and might have been called a Red Cross worker if we had had such a corps connected with our company. My father was head cook for the battalion and between times I helped him out with the mess. There was some difference in the food served to soldiers in 1861 and 1917!

"Just what my feelings was about the War, I have never been able to figure out myself. I knew the Yanks were going to win, from the beginning. I wanted them to win and lick us Southerners, but I hoped they was going to do it without wiping out our company. I'll come back to that in a minute. As I said, our company was the First Texas Cavalry. Col. Buchell was our commander. He was a full-blooded German and as fine a man and a soldier as you ever saw. He was killed at the Battle of Marshall and died in my arms. You may also be interested to know that my old master, Alvy Fitzpatrick, was the grandfather of Governor Jim Ferguson.

"Lots of old slaves closes the door before they tell the truth about their days of slavery. When the door is open, they tell how kind their masters was and how rosy it all was. You can't blame them for this, because they had plenty of early discipline, making them cautious about saying anything uncomplimentary about their masters. I, myself, was in a little different position than most slaves and, as a consequence, have no grudges or resentment. However, I can tell you the life of the average slave was not rosy. They were dealt out plenty of cruel suffering.

"Even with my good treatment, I spent most of my time planning and thinking of running away. I could have done it easy, but my old father used to say, 'No use running from bad to worse, hunting better.' Lots of colored boys did escape and joined the Union army, and there are plenty of them drawing a pension today. My father was always counseling me. He said, 'Every man has to serve God under his own vine and fig tree.' He kept pointing out that the War wasn't going to last forever, but that our forever was going to be spent living among the Southeners, after they got licked. He'd cite examples of how the whites would stand flatfooted and fight for the blacks the same as for members of their own family. I knew that all was true, but still I rebelled, from inside of me. I think I really was afraid to run away, because I thought my conscience would haunt me. My father knew I felt this way and he'd rub my fears in deeper. One of his remarks still rings in my ears: 'A clear conscience opens bowels, and when you have a guilty soul it ties you up and death will not for long desert you.'

"No, sir, I haven't had any education. I should have had one, though. My old missus was sorry, after the War, that she didn't teach me. Her name, before she married my old master, was Mrs. Long. She lived in New York City and had three sons. When my old master's wife died, he wrote up to a friend of his in New York, a very prominent merchant named C.C. Stewart. He told this friend he wanted a wife and gave him specifications for one. Well, Mrs. Long, whose husband had died, fitted the bill and she was sent down to Texas. She became Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She wasn't the grandmother of Governor Ferguson. Old Fitzpatrick had two wives that preceded Mrs. Long. One of the wives had a daughter named Fanny Fitzpatrick and it was her that was the Texas' governor's mother. I seem to have the complicated family tree of my old master more clear than I've got my own, although mine can be put in a nutshell: I married only once and was blessed in it with 45 years of devotion. I had 13 children and a big crop of grandchildren.

"My earliest recollection is the day my old boss presented me to his son, Joe, as his property. I was about five years old and my new master was only two.

"It was in the Battle of Marshall, in Louisiana, that Col. Buchell got shot. I was about three miles from the front, where I had pitched up a kind of first-aid station. I was all alone there. I watched the whole thing. I could hear the shooting and see the firing. I remember standing there and thinking the South didn't have a chance. All of a sudden I heard someone call. It was a soldier, who was half carrying Col. Buchell in. I didn't do nothing for the Colonel. He was too far gone. I just held him comfortable, and that was the position he was in when he stopped breathing. That was the worst hurt I got when anybody died. He was a friend of mine. He had had a lot of soldiering before and fought in the Indian War.

"Well, the Battle of Marshall broke the back of the Texas Cavalry. We began straggling back towards New Orleans, and by that time the War was over. The soldiers began to scatter. They was a sorry-lookin' bunch of lost sheep. They didn't know where to go, but most of 'em ended up pretty close to the towns they started from. They was like homing pigeons, with only the instinct to go home and, yet, most of them had no homes to go to.

"No, sir, I never went into books. I used to handle a big dictionary three times a day, but it was only to put it on a chair so my young master could sit up higher at the table. I never went to school. I learned to talk pretty good by associating with my masters in their big house.

"We lived on a ranch of about 1,000 acres close to the Jackson County line in Victoria County, about 125 miles from San Antonio. Just before the war ended they sold the ranch, slaves and all, and the family, not away fighting, moved to Galveston. Of course, my father and me wasn't sold with the other blacks, because we was away at war. My mother was drowned years before when I was a little boy. I only remember her after she was dead. I can take you to the spot in the river today where she was drowned. She drowned herself. I never knew the reason behind it, but it was said she started to lose her mind and preferred death to that."

At this point in the old Negro's narrative the sound of someone singing was heard. A moment later the door to the house slammed shut and in accompaniment to the tread of feet in the kitchen came this song:

"I sing because I'm happy,
And I sing because I'm free
His eyes is on the sparrow
And I know He watches me."

The singer glanced in the bedroom and the song ended with both embarrassment and anger:

It was not long, however, before the singer, Mrs. Maggie Jackson, daughter-in-law of old Martin Jackson, joined in the conversation.

"The master's name was usually adopted by a slave after he was set free. This was done more because it was the logical thing to do and the easiest way to be identified than it was through affection for the master. Also, the government seemed to be in a almighty hurry to have us get names. We had to register as someone, so we could be citizens. Well, I got to thinking about all us slaves that was going to take the name Fitzpatrick. I made up my mind I'd find me a different one. One of my grandfathers in Africa was called Jeaceo, and so I decided to be Jackson."

After this clear-headed Negro had posed for his photograph, the researcher took his leave and the old blind man bade him a gracious "good-bye." He stood as if watching his new friend walking away, and then lighted a cigarette.

NANCY JACKSON, about 105 years old, was born in Madison Co., Tennessee, a slave of the Griff Lacy family. She was married during slavery and was the mother of three children when she was freed. In 1835, Nancy claims, she was brought to Texas by her owner, and has lived in Panola Co. all her life. She has no proof of her age and, of course, may be in the late nineties instead of over one hundred, as she thinks. She lives with her daughter about five miles west of Tatum, Tex.

"I's live in Panola County now going on 102 year and that a mighty long time for to 'member back, but I'll try to rec'lect. I's born in Tennessee and I think it's in 1830 or 1832. I lives with my baby chile what am now 57 year old and she's born when I's 'bout 'bout 33. But I ain't sho' 'bout my age, noways.

"Massa Griff fetches us to Texas when I a baby and my brudders what am Redic and Anthony and Essex and Allen and Brick and my sisters what am Ann and Matty and Charlotte, we all come to Texas. Mammy come with us but pappy was sold off the Lacy place and stays in Tennessee.

"Massa had the bigges' house in them parts and a passel of slaves. Mammy's name was Letha, and we have a purty good place to live and massa not bad to us. We was treated fair, I guesses, but they allus whipped us niggers for somethin'. But when we got sick they'd git the doctor, 'cause losin' a nigger like losin' a pile of money in them days.

"Massa sometimes outlines the Bible to us and we had a song what we'd sing sometimes:

"'Stand your storm, Stand your storm,
Till the wind blows over,
Stand your storm, Stand your storm,
I's a sojer of the Cross,
A follower of the Lamb.'

"We was woke by a bell and called to eat by a bell and put to bed by that bell and if that bell ring outta time you'd see the niggers jumpin' rail fences and cotton rows like deers or something, gettin' to that house, 'cause that mean something bad wrong at massa's house.

"I marries right here in Panola County while slavery still here and my brother-in-law marries me and Lewis Blakely, and I's 'bout nineteen. My husban' 'longed to the Blakely's and after the weddin' he had to go back to them and they 'lowed him come to see me once a week on Saturday and he could stay till Sunday. I works on for the Lacy's more'n a year after slavery till Lewis come got me and we moved to ourselves.

"I 'member one big time we done have in slavery. Massa gone and he wasn't gone. He left the house 'tendin' go on a visit and missy and her chillen gone and us niggers give a big ball the night they all gone. The leader of that ball had on massa's boots and he sing a song he make up:

"'Ole massa's gone to Philiman York
And won't be back till July 4th to come;
Fac' is, I don't know he'll be back at all,
Come on all you niggers and jine this ball.'

"That night they done give that big ball, massa had blacked up and slip back in the house and while they singin' and dancin', he sittin' by the fireplace all the time. 'Rectly he spit, and the nigger who had on he boots recernizes him and tries climb up the chimmey."

RICHARD JACKSON, Harrison County farmer, was born in 1859, a slave of Watt Rosborough. Richard's family left the Rosboroughs when the Negroes were freed, and moved to a farm near Woodlawn. Richard married when he was twenty-five and moved to an adjoining farm, which he now owns.

"I was born on the Rosborough plantation in 1859 and 'longed to old man Watt Rosborough. He brung my mammy out of North Carolina, but my pappy died when I was a baby, and mammy married Will Jackson. Besides me they was six brothers, Jack and Nathan, Josh and Bill and Ben and Mose. I had three sisters named Matilda and Charity and Anna.

"I 'members my mammy's father, Jack, but don't know where he come from. I heared him tell of fightin' the Indians on the frontier, and one mammy's brothers was shot with a Indian arrow.

"The plantation jined the Sabine river and old man Watt owned many a slave. The old home is still standin' cross the road from Rosborough Springs, nine miles south of Marshall.

"They was a white overseer on the place and mammy's stepdaddy, Kit, was niggerdriver and done all the whippin', 'cept of mammy. She was bad 'bout fightin' and the overseer allus tended to her. One day he come to the quarters to whip her and she up and throwed a shovel full of live coals from the fireplace in his bosom and run out the door. He run her all over the place 'fore he cotched her. I seed the overseer tie her down and whip her. The niggers wasn't whipped much 'cept for fightin' 'mongst themselves.

"I 'members mammy allus sayin' the darkies had to pray out in the woods, 'cause they ain't 'lowed to make no fuss round the house. She say they was fed and clothed well 'nough, but the overseer worked the lights out of the darkies. I wasn't big 'nough to do field work, but 'member goin' to the field to take mammy's pipe to her. They wasn't no matches in them days, and I allus took fire from the house and sot a stump afire in the field, so mammy could light her pipe.

"None of our folks larnt to read and write till after slavery. My oldes' brother was larnin' to read on the sly, but the overseer found out 'bout it and stopped him. He found some letters writ on the wall of the quarter with charcoal and made the darkies tell him who writ it. My brother Jack done it. The overseer didn't whip him, but told him he darns't do it 'gain.

"After surrender my folks left the Rosboroughs right straight and moved clost to Woodlawn. My oldes' hired out in Shreveport. When they asks him what he's worth, he told them he didn't know, but he was allus worth a heap of money when anyone wanted to buy him from the Rosboroughs.

"The Ku Kluxers come to our house in Woodlawn, and I got scart and crawled under the bed. They told mammy they wasn't gwine hurt her, but jus' wanted water to drink. They didn't call each other by names. When the head man spoke to any of them he'd say, Number 1, or Number 2, and like that.

"I thunk I heared ghosts on the Driscoll place once, up in the loft of the house. I heared them plain as day. My step-pa done die there and might of been his ghost. We moved away right straight, and old man Driscoll had to burn that house down after that, 'cause wouldn't none the darkies live in it.

"The only time I voted was when they put whiskey out. I heared a white man one time in Marshall, makin' a speech on the square. He said he was gwine tell us darkies why they didn't low us to vote. He didn't tell us, 'cause the law come out and made him git out the wagon and leave.

"This young race is sho' livin' fast, but I guess they's all right. Things is jes' different now to when I was a boy. When I was a boy, folks didn't mind helpin' one 'nother, but now they is in too big a hurry to pay you any mind.

JOHN JAMES, 78, was born a slave to John Chapman, on a large plantation in East Baton Rouge Parish, Louisiana. John took the name of his father, who was owned by John James. John and his mother stayed with Mr. Chapman for six years after they were freed, then John went to Missouri, where he worked for the M. K. & T. Railroad for twenty years. He then came to Texas, and now lives at 315 S. Jennings Ave., in Fort Worth.

"I doesn't have so much mind for slavery days, 'cause I's too young then, but I 'members when surrender come and some befo' dat. I 'members my mammy lef' me in de nursery with all de other cullud babies when she go work in de field. De old nurse, Jane, tooks care of us.

"Dat were de big place what Massa John have and dere 'bout fifty cullud families on de place, so it am more'n a hunerd slaves what he own. I's runnin' round, like kids am allus doin', first one place, den t'other, watchin' everything. De big bell ring in de mornin' and you'd see all de cullud folks comin' from dey cabins, gwineter de kitchen to breakfast. Dat allus befo' daybreak, and dey have to eat by de light of de pine torch. It am de pineknot torch. De meals am all cooked dere and dey eat at long tables. De young'uns from six to ten year eats at de second table and little'r den dat, in de nursery.

"I sho' 'members 'bout dat nursery feedin'. I never forgits how dat cornmeal mush and milk am served in de big pans. Dey gives we uns de wooden spoon and we'uns crowds round de pans like little pigs. I can see it now. Us push and shove and de nurse walk here and dere, tryin' to make us eat like humans. She have to cuff one of us once in a while. If she don't, dem kids be in de pans with both feet. When dey done eatin', dey faces am all smear with mush and milk.

"Massa allus feed plenty rations, only after war starts de old folks say dey am short of dis and dat, 'cause dem sojers done took it for de army.

"After breakfast I'd see a crew go here and a crew go dere. Some of 'em spin and weave and make clothes, and some tan de leather or do de blacksmith work, and mos' of 'em go out in de field to work. Dey works till dark and den come home and work round de quarters.

"Dem quarters was 'bout ten by fifteen feet, each one, with a hole for de window dat am not dere and de floor am de ground, and de straw bunks for to sleep on. In us cabin am mammy and us three chillen and our aunt. My pappy done die befo' I 'member him. Some kind stomach mis'ry kilt him.

"One day Massa Chapman call all us to de front gallery. Us didn't know what gwine to happen, 'cause it not ord'nary to git called from de work. Him ring de bell and dat am sho' 'nough de liberty bell, 'cause him read from de long paper and say, 'You is slaves no more. You is free, jus' like I is, and have to 'pend on yourselves for de livin'. All what wants to stay I'll pay money to work, and a share of de crop, iffen you don't want money.' Mostest of dem stays, and some what goes gits into troublement, 'cause den dere's trouble 'twixt de white folks and de cullud folks. Some de niggers thinks they am bigger dan de white folks, 'cause dey free, and de Klu Klux, what us call white caps, puts dem in de place dey 'longs.

"I gits chased by dem white caps once, jus' befo' us leave massa. Dat am when I's 'bout thirteen year old. I's 'bout a mile off de place without de pass and it am de rule them days, all cullud folks must have de pass to show where dey 'longs and where dey gwine. I has no business to be off de place without de pass. 'Twas a gal.. Sho', day am it. Us walks down de road 'bout a mile and am settin' 'hind some bushes, off de plantation. Us see dem white caps comin' down de road on hossback and us ain't much scart, 'cause us think dey can't see us 'hind dem bushes. But dat leader say, 'Whoa,' and dey could look down on us, 'cause dey on hossback. Well, gosh for 'mighty! Dere us am and can't move den us so scart. One dem white caps says, 'What you doin', nigger?' 'Jus' settin' here,' I telt him. 'Yous better start runnin', 'cause us gwine try cotch you,' dey says.

"Us two niggers am down dat road befo' dem words am outten he mouth. Dey lets de hosses canter 'hind we'uns and us try to run faster. Fin'ly us gits home and dat de last time I goes off without de pass.

"Mammy moves to Baton Rouge soon after dat and works as de housemaid. Us stay dere two year and I gits some little jobs and den I goes to work for de railroad in Sedalia, up in Missouri, and dere I works as section hand for de Katy railroad for twenty year. Den I gits through and comes to Texas.

"I works at anything till eight year ago and den I's no count for work so I's livin' on de pension, what am $15.00 de month.

"I's never married. I jus' couldn't make de hitch. Dem what I wants, don't want me. Dem what wants me, I don't want, so dere am never no agreement.

"No, I's never voted, 'cause I done heared 'bout de trouble dey has over in Baton Rouge 'bout niggers votin'. I jus' don't like trouble, and for de few years what am left, I's gwine keep de record of stayin' 'way from it.

THOMAS JOHNS, 508 Knopp St., Cleburne, Texas, was born April 18, 1847, in Chambers Co., Alabama. He belonged to Col. Robert Johns, who had come to Alabama from Virginia. After Johns was freed he stayed with his old owner's family until 1874, when he moved to Texas.

"My father's name was George and my mother's name was Nellie. My father was born in Africa. Him and two of his brothers and one sister was stole and brought to Savannah, Georgia, and sold. Dey was de chillen of a chief of de Kiochi tribe. De way dey was stole, dey was asked to a dance on a ship which some white man had, and my aunt said it was early in de mornin' when dey foun' dey was away from de land, and all dey could see was de water all 'round. She said they was members of de file-tooth tribe of niggers. My father's teeth was so dat only de front ones met together when he closed his mouth. De back ones didn' set together. W'en his front teeth was together, de back ones was apart, sorta like a V on its side.

"My mother was born a slave in Virginia. She married there and had a little girl, and they was sold away from the husband and brought to Alabama. She said her mother was part Indian and part nigger. Her father was part white and part nigger, but he look about as white as a white man.

"My brother's names was John, Jake and Dave. My sister's names was Ann, Katie, Judie and Easter.

"I belonged to Col. Robert Johns. He owned 30 or 35 slaves. We was well treated and had the same food the white folks did, and didn' none of us go hongry. Col. Johns didn' have his niggers whipped, neither.

"Marster's place had 500 acres in it. We raised cotton, corn and rice, vegetables and every sort of fruit that would grow there, a lot of it growin' wild. We et mostly hog meat, but we had some beef and mutton, too. When we'd kill a beef, we'd send some to all the neighbors.

"We done a good day's work, but didn' have to work after night 'less it was necessary. We was allowed to stop at 12 o'clock and have time for rest 'fore goin' back to work. Other slave owners roun' our place wasn't as good to dere slaves, would work 'em hard and half starve 'em. And some marsters or overseers would whip dere niggers pretty hard, sometimes whip 'em to death. Marster Johns didn' have no overseer. He seed to the work and my father was foreman. For awhile after old Marster died, in 1862 or 1863, I forget which now, we had a overseer, John Sewell. He was mean. He whipped the chillen and my mother told Miss Lucy, old marster's oldest girl.

"We was allus well treated by old marster. We was called, 'John's free niggers,' not dat we was free, but 'cause we was well treated. Jesse Todd, his place joined ours, had 500 slaves, and he treated 'em mighty bad. He whipped some of 'em to death. A man sold him two big niggers which was brothers and they was so near white you couldn' hardly tell 'em from a white man. Some people thought the man what sold 'em was their daddy. The two niggers worked good and dey hadn' never been whipped and dey wouldn' stand for bein' whipped. One mornin' Todd come up to 'em and told de oldest to take his shirt off. He say, 'Marster, what you wan' me to take my shirt off for?' Todd say, 'I told you to take your shirt off.' De nigger say, 'Marster, I ain' never took my shirt off for no man.' Todd run in de house and got his gun and come back and shot de nigger dead. His brother fell down by him where he lay on de groun'. Todd run back to load his gun again, it bein' a single shot. Todd's wife and son grabbed him and dey had all dey coul' do to keep him from comin' out and killin' de other nigger.

"Marse Johns had 12 chillen. De house dey lived in was Colonyal style and had 12 rooms. I was bo'n in dat house.

"De slaves had log cabins. We wore some cotton clothes in de summer but in de winter we wore wool clothes. We allus had shoes. A shoemaker would come 'round once a year and stay maybe 30 days, makin' shoes for everybody on de place; den in about 6 months he would come back and half-sole and make other repairs to de shoes. We made all our clothes on de place. We wove light wool cloth for summer and heavy for winter.

"I could take raw cotton and card and spin it on a spinnin' wheel into thread, fine enough to be sewed with a needle. We woun' de thread on a broche, make like and 'bout de size of a ice pick. De thread was den woun' on a reel 'bout de size of a forewheel of a wagon, and de reel would turn 48 times and den 'cluck'. Dat was for dem to be able to tell we was workin'.

"Dere was plenty wild game, possums, rabbits, turkey and so on. Dere was fish, too, in de creek. I was de leader of de bunch. We would ketch little fish in de creek. We'd cook a lot of fish and den we'd put a rag rug in de yard under a big mulberry tree and pour de fish out on dat and den eat 'em.

"Old marster never beat his slaves and he didn' sell 'em. But some of de owners did. If a owner had a big woman slave and she had a little man for her husban' and de owner had a big man slave, dey would make de little husban' leave, and make de woman let de big man be her husban', so's dere be big chillen, which dey could sell well. If de man and woman refused, dey'd get whipped.

"Course whippin' made a slave hard to sell, maybe couldn' be sold, 'cause when a man went to buy a slave he would make him strip naked and look him over for whip marks and other blemish, jus' like dey would a horse. But even if it done damage to de sale to whip him, dey done it, 'cause dey figgered, kill a nigger, breed anotherkill a mule, buy another.

"I'll never forget de rice patch. It shore got me some whippin's, 'cause my daddy tell me to watch de birds 'way from dat rice, and sometimes dey'd get to it. It jus' seem like de blackbirds jus' set 'round and watched for dat rice to grow up where dey could get it. We would cut a block off a pine tree and build a fire on it and burn it out. Den we would cut down into it and scrape out all de char, and den put de rice in dere and beat and poun' it with a pestle till we had all de grain beat out de heads. Den we'd pour de rice out on a cloth and de chaff and trash would blow away.

"Our marster he drilled men for de army. De drill groun' was 'bout a mile from our place. He was a dead shot with a rifle and had a rifle with an extry long barrel.

"De Yankees told us niggers when dey freed us after de war dat dey would give each one of us 40 acres of land and a mule. De nearest I'se ever come to dat is de pension of 'leven dollars I gets now. But I'se jus' as thankful for dat as I can be. In fac', I don't see how I could be any more thankful it 'twas a hun'erd and 'leven dollars.

"A man told me a nigger woman told his wife she would ruther be slave than free. Well, I think, but I might be wrong, anybody which says that is tellin a lie. Dere is sumpin' 'bout bein' free and dat makes up for all de hardships. I'se been both slave and free and I knows. Course, while I was slave I didn' have no 'sponsibility, didn' have to worry 'bout where sumpin' to eat and wear and a place to sleep was comin' from, but dat don't make up for bein' free.

AUNTIE THOMAS JOHNS, 508 Knopp St., Cleburne, Texas, was born in Burleson Co., Texas, in 1864. She was only two when her mother was freed, so knows nothing of slavery except stories her mother told her, or that she heard her husband, Thomas Johns, tell.

"I was two years old when my mama was set free. Her owner was Major Odom. He was good to his niggers, my mama said. She tol' me 'bout slavery times. She said other white folks roun' there called Major Odom's niggers, 'Odom's damn free niggers,' 'cause he was so easy on 'em.

"He was never married, but he had a nigger woman, Aunt Phyllis she was called, that he had some children by. She was half white. I remember her and him and five of their sons. The ones I knowed was nearly all white, but Aunt Phyllis had one boy that was nigger black. His daddy was a nigger man. When she was drunk or mad she'd say she thought more of her black chile than all the others. Major Odom treated their children jus' like he treated the other niggers. He never whipped none of his niggers. When his and Aunt Phyllis'es sons was grown they went to live in the quarters, which was what the place the niggers lived was called.

"One of Major Odom's niggers was whipped by a man named Steve Owens. He got to goin' to see a nigger woman Owens owned, and one night they beat him up bad. Major Odom put on his gun for Owens, and they carried guns for each other till they died, but they never did have a shootin'.

"Colonel Sims had a farm joinin' Major Odom's farm, and his niggers was treated mean. He had a overseer, J.B. Mullinax, I 'member him, and he was big and tough. He whipped a nigger man to death. He would come out of a mornin' and give a long, keen yell, and say, 'I'm J.B. Mullinax, just back from a week in Hell, where I got two new eyes, one named Snap and Jack, and t'other Take Hold. I'm goin' to whip two or three niggers to death today.' He lived a long time, but long 'fore he died his eyes turned backward in his head. I seen 'em thataway. He wouldn' give his niggers much to eat and he'd make 'em work all day, and just give 'em boiled peas with just water and no salt and cornbread. They'd eat their lunch right out in the hot sun and then go right back to work. Mama said she could hear them niggers bein' whipped at night and yellin', 'Pray, marster, pray,' beggin' him not to beat 'em.

"Other niggers would run away and come to Major Odom's place and ask his niggers for sumpin' to eat. My mama would get word to bring 'em food and she'd start out to where they was hidin' and she'd hear the hounds, and the runaway niggers would have to go on without gettin' nothin' to eat.

"My husban's tol' me about slavery times in Alabama. He said they would make the niggers work hard all day pickin' cotton and then take it to the gin and gin away into the night, maybe all night. They'd give a nigger on Sunday a peck of meal and three pounds of meat and no salt nor nothin' else, and if you et that up 'fore the week was out, you jus' done without anything to eat till the end of the week.

"My husban' said a family named Gullendin was mighty hard on their niggers. He said ole Missus Gullendin, she'd take a needle and stick it through one of the nigger women's lower lips and pin it to the bosom of her dress, and the woman would go 'round all day with her head drew down thataway and slobberin'. There was knots on the nigger's lip where the needle had been stuck in it.