Us could shout dat one.
"I was a grown-up man wid a wife an' two chillun when de War broke out. You see, I stayed wid de folks til 'long cum de Yanks. Dey took me off an' put me in de War. Firs', dey shipped me on a gunboat an', nex', dey made me he'p dig a canal at Vicksburg. I was on de gunboat when it shelled de town. It was turrible, seein' folks a-tryin' to blow each other up. Whilst us was bull-doggin' Vicksburg in front, a Yankee army slipped in behin' de Rebels an' penned 'em up. I fit[FN: fought] at Fort Pillow an' Harrisburg an' Pleasant Hill an' 'fore I was ha'f through wid it I was in Ba'timore an' Virginny.
"I was on han' when Gin'l Lee handed his sword to Gin'l Grant. You see, Miss, dey had him all hemmed in an' he jus' natchelly had to give up. I seen him stick his sword up in de groun'.
"Law! It sho' was turrible times. Dese old eyes o' mine seen more people crippled an' dead. I'se even seen 'em saw off legs wid hacksaws. I tell you it aint right, Miss, what I seen. It aint right atall.
"Den I was put to buryin' Yankee sojers. When nobody was lookin' I stript de dead of dey money. Sometimes dey had it in a belt a-roun' dey bodies. Soon I got a big roll o' foldin' money. Den I come a-trampin' back home. My folks didn' have no money but dat wuthless kin'. It was all dey knowed 'bout. When I grabbed some if it an' throwed it in de blazin' fiah, dey thought I was crazy, 'til I tol' 'em, 'dat aint money; it's no 'count!' Den I give my daddy a greenback an' tol' him what it was.
"Aftah de War was over de slaves was worse off dan when dey had marsters. Some of 'em was put in stockades at Angola, Loosanna[FN: Louisiana], an' some in de turrible corral at Natchez. Dey warnt used to de stuff de Yankees fed 'em. Dey fed' em wasp-nes' bread, 'stead o' corn-pone an' hoe cake, an' all such lak. Dey caught diseases an' died by de hund'eds, jus' lak flies. Dey had been fooled into thinkin' it would be good times, but it was de wors' times dey ever seen. Twant no place for 'em to go; no bed to sleep on; an' no roof over dey heads. Dem what could git back home set out wid dey min's made up to stay on de lan'. Mos' of dey mistis' took 'em back so dey wuked de lan' ag'in. I means dem what lived to git back to dey folks was more'n glad to wuk! Dey done had a sad lesson. Some of 'em was worse'n slaves after de War.
"Dem Ku Kluxes was de debbil. De Niggers sho' was scared of 'em, but dey was more after dem carpet-baggers dan de Niggers. I lived right in 'mongst 'em, but I wouldn' tell. No Ma'm! I knowed 'em, but I dasn' talk. Sometimes dey would go right in de fiel's an' take folks out an' kill 'em. Aint none of 'em lef' now. Dey is all dead an' gone, but dey sho' was rabid den. I never got in no trouble wid 'em, 'cause I tended my business an' kep' out o' dey way. I'd-a been kilt if I'd-a run 'roun' an' done any big talkin'.
"I never knowed Marse Linc'um, but I heard he was a pow'ful good man. I 'members plain as yesterd'y when he got kilt an' how all de flags hung at ha'f mas'. De Nawth nearly went wil' wid worryin' an' blamed ever'body else. Some of 'em even tried to blame de killin' on Marse Davis. I fit wid de Yankees, but I thought a mighty heap o' Marse Davis. He was quality.
"I guess slav'ry was wrong, but I 'members us had some mighty good times. Some marsters was mean an' hard but I was treated good all time. One thing I does know is dat a heap of slaves was worse off after de War. Dey suffered 'cause dey was too triflin' to work widout a boss. Now dey is got to work or die. In dem days you worked an' rested an' knowed you'd be fed. In de middle of de day us rested an' waited for de horn to blow to go back to de fiel'. Slaves didn' have nothin' turrible to worry 'bout if dey acted right. Dey was mean slaves de same as dey was mean marsters.
"Now-a-days folks don' live right. In slav'ry times when you got sick a white docter was paid to git you well. Now all you gits is some no-count paten' medicine. You is 'fraid to go to de horspital, 'cause de docters might cut on yo' stummick. I think slav'ry was a lot easier dan de War. Dat was de debbil's own business. Folks what hankers for war don' know what dey is askin' for. Dey ain' never seen no bloodshed. In war-times a man was no more dan a varmint.
"When my white folks tol' us us was free, I waited. When de sojers come dey turnt us loose lak animals wid nothin'. Dey had no business to set us free lak dat. Dey gimme 160 acres of lan', but twant no 'count. It was in Mt. Bayou, Arkansas, an' was low an' swampy. Twant yo' lan' to keep lessen you lived on it. You had to clear it, dreen it, an' put a house on it.
"How I gwine-a dreen an' clear a lot o' lan' wid nothin' to do it wid? Reckon somebody livin' on my lan' now.
"One of de rights of bein' free was dat us could move 'roun' and change bosses. But I never cared nothin' 'bout dat.
"I hear somebody say us gwine-a vote. What I wanta vote for? I don' know nothin' 'bout who is runnin'.
"I draws a Federal pension now. If I lives' til nex' year I'll git $125 a mont'. It sho' comes in handy. I paid $800 for my house an', if I'd-a thought, I'd-a got one wid mo' lan'. I don' wan' to plant nothin'. I do want to put a iron fence a-roun' it an' gild it wid silver paint. Den when I's gone, dar it will be.
"Yes'm. I'se raised a big fambly. Dem what aint dead, some of' em looks as old as I does. I got one gran-chil' I loves jus' lak my own chillun. I don' rightly 'member dis minute how many chillun I had, but I aint had but two wives. De firs' one died long 'bout seventeen years ago, an' I done what de Good Book say. It say, 'when you goes to de graveyard to bury yo' firs' wife, look over de crowd an' pick out de nex' one.'
"Dat's jus' what I done. I picked Janie McCoy, 'cause she aint never been married b'fore. She's a good cook, even if she does smoke a pipe, an' don' know much' bout nothin'.
"I sho' don' live by no rules. I jus' takes a little dram when ever I wants it, an' I smokes a pipe 'ceptin when de Mistis give me a seegar[FN: cigar]. I can't chew tobacco on 'count my teeth is gone. I aint been sick in bed but once in seventy years.
"I is five feet, five inches tall. I used to weigh 150 pounds, but dis old carcass o' mine done los' fifty pounds of meat.
"Now-a-days I has a heap of misery in my knee, so I can't ride 'roun' no mo'. Durin' de War I got a muskit ball in my hip an' now dat my meat's all gone, it jolts a-roun' an' hurts me worse. I's still right sprightly though. I can jump dat drainage ditch in front of de house, an' I sho' can walk. Mos' every day I walks to de little sto' on Union Street. Dar I rests long enough to pass de time-o-day wid my neighbors. My eyes is still good, but I wears glasses for show an' for seein' close.
"De longer I lives de plainer I see dat it ain' right to want mo' dan you can use. De Lawd put a-plenty here for ever'body, but shucks! Us don' pay no min' to his teachin'. Sometimes I gits lonesome for de frien's I used to know, 'cause aint nobody lef' but me. I's sho' been lef a fur piece[FN: long way] b'hin'. De white folks say, 'Old Jim is de las' leaf on de tree,' an' I 'spec dey's 'bout right."
To those familiar with the history of "Bloody Kemper" as recorded, the following narrative from the lips of an eye-witness will be heresy. But the subject of this autobiography, carrying his ninety-five years more trimly than many a man of sixty, is declared sound of mind as well as of body by the Hector Currie family, prominent in Mississippi, for whom he has worked in a position of great trust and responsibility for fifty years or more.
While this old Negro may be mistaken at some points (the universal failing of witnesses), his impressions are certainly not more involved than the welter of local records. Mrs. Currie states that if Sam said he saw a thing happen thus, it may be depended upon that he is telling exactly what he really saw.
Sam McAllum, ex-slave, lives in Meridian, Lauderdale County. Sam is five feet three inches tall and weighs 140 pounds.
"De firs' town I ever seen were DeKalb in Kemper County. De Stephenson Plantation where I were born warnt but 'bout thirteen miles north o' DeKalb. I were born de secon' o' September in 1842. My mammy b'longed to de Stephensons an' my pappy b'longed to Marster Lewis Barnes. His plantation wasn't so very far from Stephenson. De Stephensons an' Barneses were kin' white people. My pappy were a old man when I were born—I were de baby chil'. After he died, my mammy marry a McAllum Nigger.
"Dey were 'bout thirty slaves at Stephenson. My mammy worked in de fiel', an' her mammy, Lillie, were de yard-woman. She looked after de little cullud chillun.
"I don't recollec' any playthings us had 'cept a ball my young marster gimme. He were Sam Lewis Stephenson, 'bout my age. De little cullud chillun' ud play 'Blin' Man', 'Hidin'', an' jus' whatever come to han'.
"My young marster learned me out o' his speller, but Mistis whupped me. She say I didn' need to learn nothin' 'cept how to count so's I could feed de mules widout colicin' 'em. You give' em ten years[FN: ears] o' corn to de mule. If you give' em more, it 'ud colic' 'em an' dey'd die. Dey cos' more'n a Nigger would. Dat were de firs' whuppin' I ever got—when me an' my young marster were a-spellin'.
"I stayed wid him special, but I waited on all de white folk's chillun at Stephenson. I carried de foot tub in at night an' washed dey foots, an' I'd pull de trun'le bed out from under de other bed. All de boys slep' in de same room.
"Den I were a yard boy an' waited on de young marster an' mistis. Hadn' been to de fiel' den—hadn' worked yet.
"Mr. Stephenson were a surveyor an' he fell out wid Mr. McAllum an' had a lawsuit. He had to pay it in darkies. Mr. McAllum had de privilege o' takin' me an' my mammy, or another woman an' her two. He took us. So us come to de McAllum plantation to live. It were in Kemper, too, 'bout eight miles from Stephenson. Us come dere endurin' of de war. Dat were when my mammy marry one of de McAllum Niggers. My new pappy went to de war wid Mr. McAllum an' were wid 'im when he were wounded at Mamassas Gab Battle. He brung 'im home to die—an' he done it.
"Den de Yankees come th'ough DeKalb huntin' up cannons an' guns an' mules. Dey sho' did eat a heap. Us hid all de bes' things lak silver, an' driv'[FN: drove] de stock to de swamp. Dey didn' burn nothin', but us hear'd tell o' burnin's in Scooba an' Meridian. I were a-plowin' a mule an' de Yankees made me take him out. De las' I seen o' dat mule, he were headed for Scooba wid three Yankees a-straddle of 'im.
"Times were tight—not a grain o' coffee an' not much else. When us clo'es[FN: clothes] were plumb wore out, de mistis an' de Nigger wimmins made us some out o' de cotton us had raised. My granny stayed de loom-room all de time. De other winmins done de spinnin' an' she done de weavin'. She were a' good'n'.
"De M & O (Mobile & Ohio Railroad) were a-burnin' wood, den. Dey couldn' git coal. Dey used taller[FN: tallow] pots 'stead o' oil. De engineer had to climb out on de engine hisse'f an' 'tend to dam taller pots. Dey do diffe'nt now.
"Dey were such a sca'city of men, dey were a-puttin' 'em in de war at sixty-five. But de war end 'fore dey call dat list.
"Mistis didn' have nobody to he'p her endurin' de war. She had to do de bes' she could.
"When she hear'd de Niggers talkin' 'bout bein' free, she wore 'em out wid a cowhide. She warnt a pow'ful-built woman, neither. She had to do it herse'f, 'cause twant nobody to do it for 'er. Dey warnt nothin' a Nigger could do but stan' up an' take it.
"Some folks treated dey slaves mighty bad—put Nigger dogs on 'em. All my white folks were good to dey slaves, 'cordin' to how good de Niggers b'haved deyse'fs. Course, you couldn' leave no plantation widout a pass, or de pateroller'd git you. I aint countin' dat, 'cause dat were somthin' ever'body knowed 'forehan'.
"Dey were a heap o' talk 'bout de Yankees a-givin' ever' Nigger forty acres an' a mule. I don't know how us come to hear 'bout it. It jus' kinda got aroun'. I picked out my mule. All o' us did.
"Times were mighty tough. Us thought us knowed trouble endurin' de war. Um-m-m! Us didn' know nothin' 'bout trouble.
"Dey were so many slaves at McAllum's, dey had to thin 'em out. Mistis put us out[FN: hired us out]. She sent me to Mr. Scott close to Scooba. I were mos' a grown boy by den an' could plow pretty good. Come de surrender, Mr. Scott say, 'Sambo, I don't have to pay yo' mistis for you no more. I have to pay you if you stay. Niggers is free. You is free.' I didn' b'lieve it. I worked dat crop out, but I didn' ask for no pay. Dat didn' seem right. I didn' un'erstan' 'bout freedom, so I went home to my old mistis. She say, 'Sambo, you don't b'long to me now.'
"Dey bound us young Niggers out. Dey sent me an' my brother to a man dat were goin' to give us some learnin' 'long wid farmin'. His name were Overstreet. Us worked dat crop out, but us aint never seen no speller, nor nothin'.
"Den us went back to Stephenson's, where us were born, to git us age. Old mistis say, 'Sambo, you aint twenty-one yet.'
"She cried, 'cause I had to go back to Mr. Overstreet. But I didn'. My mammy an' me went back to McAllum's an' stayed until a man give us a patch in turn[FN: return] for us he'pin' him on his farm.
"I know 'bout de Kloo Kluxes[FN: Klu Kluxes]. I seen 'em. 'Bout de firs' time I seen 'em were de las'. Aint nobody know zackly[FN: exactly] 'bout dem Kloo Kluxes. Some say it were a sperrit dat hadn' had no water since de war. One rider would drink fo' or five gallons at one time—kep' us a-totin' buckets fas' as us could carry 'em. It were a sperrit, a evil sperrit.
"But folks dat aint acted right liable to be found mos' anytime tied up some'r's: De Niggers were a-havin' a party one Satu'd'y night on Hampton's plantation. Come some men on horses wid some kin' o' scare-face on 'em. Dey were all wropped[FN: wrapped] up, disguised. De horses were kivered[FN: covered] up, too. Dey call for Miler Hampton. He were one o' de Hampton Niggers. He been up to somethin'. I don't know what he done, but dey say he done somethin' bad. Dey didn' have no trouble gittin' him, 'cause us were all scared us'd git kilt, too. Dey carried 'im off wid 'em an' kilt him dat very night.
"Us went to DeKalb nex' day in a drove an' ask de white folks to he'p us. Us buy all de ammunition us could git to take de sperrit, 'cause us were a-havin' 'nother party de nex' week. Dey didn' come to dat party.
"I don't know why dey don't have no Kloo Kluxes now. De sperrit still have de same power.
"Den I go to work for Mr. Ed McAllum in DeKalb—when I aint workin' for de Gullies. Mr. Ed were my young marster, you know, an' now he were de jailor in DeKalb.
"I knowed de Chisolms, too. Dat's how come I seen all I seen an' know what aint never been tol'. I couldn' tell you dat. Maybe I's de only one still livin' dat were grown an' right dere an' seen it happen. I aint scared now nothin' 'ud happen to me for tellin'—Mr. Currie'd see to dat—I jus' aint never tol'. Dem dat b'longed to my race were scared to tell. Maybe it were all for de bes'. Dat were a long time ago. Dey give out things den de way dey wanted 'em to soun', an' dat's de way dey done come down:
"'It started wid Mr. John Gully gittin' shot. Now Mr. Gully were a leadin' man 'mong de white democratic people in Kemper, but dey aint had much chance for 'bout seven years (I disremember jus' how long) on 'count o' white folks lak de Chisolms runnin' ever'thing. Ever'body were sho' it were some' o' de Chisolm crowd, but some folks knowed it were dat Nigger, Walter Riley, dat shot Mr. Gully. (But aint nobody ever tol' de sho' 'nough reason why Walter shot Mr. John Gully.)
"'De Chisolms warnt Yankees, but dey warnt white democratic people. Dey do say de Chisolms an' folks lak' em used to run 'roun' wid de Yankees. Maybe dat's how come dey was diffe'nt. Even 'fore de Yankees come a-tall, when Mr. Chisolm were on us side, he were loud moufed[FN: mouthed] 'bout it.
"'Mr. John Gully he'p Mr. Chisolm git to be judge, but he turnt out to be worse dan dem he had to judge. Mr. Gully an' de others made 'im resign. I reckon maybe dat's why he quit bein' a Democratic an' started ructions wid Mr. Gully.
"'Come de surrender, Mr. Chisolm, he got to be a big leader on de other side. An' he seen to it dat a lot o' de white democratic men got he'p from votin' an' a lot o' Niggers step up an' vote lak he tol' 'em (dey were scared not to). So de Chisolms kep' gittin' all de big places.
"'A lot o' widders an' folks lak dat what couldn' he'p deyse'fs los' dey homes an' ever'thing dey had. De papers de gran' jury make out 'bout it were stored in de sheriff's office. De sheriff give out dat his office done been broke open an' all dem papers stole.
"'Den Mr. Chisolm's brother got hisse'f p'inted[FN: appointed] sheriff an' make Mr. Chisolm deputy. Dat's when he started runnin' things, sho' 'nough. Nex' thing you know, Mr. Chisolm is de sho' 'nough sheriff, hisse'f.
"'Den he gather all his kin' o' folks 'roun' 'im an' dey make out a black lis'. De folkses names dat were on it were de ones de Chisolms didn' need. It were talked 'roun' dat de firs' name on dat lis' were Mr. John Gully's name. A heap o' Kloo Kluxes' names were on it, too. Mr. Chisolm send de Kloo Kluxes' names to de Gov'nor an' spec' him to do somethin' 'bout runnin' 'em out. But, course, he couldn' do nothin' 'bout dat, 'cause it were a sperrit. But ever' now an' den somebody what's name were on dat lis' 'ud git shot in de back.
"'Afore de 'lection come in November (it mus' a-been in '75) de Niggers had been a-votin' an' doin' ever'thing de Chisolms say. Dey were still a-harpin' back to dat forty acres an' a mule dey were promised what dey aint never got. It were turnin' out to be jus' de same wid ever'thing else Mr. Chisolm had been a-promisin' to give 'em. Dey aint never got none of it. De white democratic folks won dat 'lection.
"'Soon Mr. Chisolm run for somthin' or 'nother an' got beat bad. Den he were mad sho' 'nough. He went to Jackson to see de Gov'nor 'bout it. Soon a heap o' white democratic men in Kemper got arrested for somethin' or nother.
"'Den Mr. John Gully got shot an' ever'body were sho' de Chisolms done it. Ever'body were dat mad. Chisolm an' dem had to go to court. But dey were slippery as eels an' Walter Riley's name come out. (He were a Nigger.) Dey give out at de trial dat Walter were hired to shoot 'im by de Chisolm folks. Dat were not de reason, but dey was blood 'fore folks' eyes by dat time.
"'It got worse dat Satu'd'y when Mr. Gully were buried. Folks all over Kemper done hear'd 'bout it by now, an' by nine o'clock Sund'y mornin', people were a-comin' in over ever' road dat led to DeKalb. Dey all had loaded guns. It were on a Sund'y when all de killin' happened—I mean, de windin'-up killin'. I were dere 'fore a gun were fired. I were dere when de firs' man were wounded.
"'De cullud people had gathered in DeKalb at de Methodis' Church. Dey hadn' a gun fired yet. Mr. Henry Gully goes to de cullud people's church. He walked in at de front door an' took his hat off his head. Dey were a-packed in de house for preachin'. He walked down de aisle 'til he got in front o' de preacher an' he turn sideways an' speak: "I want to ask you to dismiss yo' congregation. Dey is goin' to be some trouble take place right here in DeKalb an' I don't want any cullud person to git hurt." De preacher rise to his feet, ever' Nigger in de house were up, an' he dismiss 'em. (Mr. Henry Gully were Mr. John Gully's brother an' a leadin' man o' de right.)
"'De town were a-millin' wid folks from ever'where. Chisolm an' dem done got in de jail for safety an' Miss Cornelia Chisolm went back'ards an' for'ards to de jail. Dey thought she were a-carryin' ammunition in her clo'es[FN: clothes] to her father. Mr. McClendon—he were one of' em—were wid her twict. He were on de right-hand side. Some b'lieved he were de one dat killed Mr. John Gully. Dey tol' 'im dey'd burn his house down if he stay in it, but if he'd go on to jail, dey'd give 'im a fair trial.
"'Well, Mr. McClendon were shot down 'side Miss Cornelia. I seen him when he fell on his face. De man dat fired de gun turn him over an' say, "Well, us got' im." Miss Cornelia run on to de jail where de bounce[FN: balance] o' de fam'ly were.
"'Dem outside say, "Boys, it'll never do! Dey aint all in dere yet. Let's sen' to Scooba an' git Charlie Rosenbaum an' John Gilmore to come help dey frien's. Dey b'longs to dat Chisolm crowd an' we want dem, too."
"'So dey come. Somebody say, "Let's commence right here." I never seen a battle b'fore, but I sho' seen one den. It were lak dis: Mr. Cal Hull was de only democratic white frien' Mr. Rosenbaum had. He stood' twixt his white democratic frien's an' Mr. Rosenbaum. He put his arms over Mr. Rosenbaum an' say, "Boys, he's a frien' o' mine. If you kill him, you kill me." Mr. Rosenbaum crawled over to de courthouse wall, an' squatted down, an' stayed dere. Mr. Hull stood over 'im, pertectin' 'im. But Mr. John Gilmore make for de jail an', when dey open de door for 'im, de shootin' start. Right den were when Mr. Gilmore got his. Miss Cornelia were struck in de wris'. It mortified an' after 'while she died from it.'
"I know I aint tol' de sho' 'nough reason Mr. John Gully got killed. Maybe de time done come for de truf to be tol'. Hope won't nobody think hard o' me for tellin':
"Mr. John Gully had a bar-room an' a clerk. A white man by de name o' Bob Dabbs walked[FN: clerked] b'hin' dat counter. Dis Nigger, Walter Riley, I was a-tellin' you 'bout awhile ago, were a-courtin' a yaller[FN: yellow] woman. (Dey warnt so many of 'em in dem days.) Mr. Dabbs say, "Walter, if I ever kotch[FN: catch] you walkin wid (he called dat yaller woman's name) I'll give you de worst beatin' ever was." Walter were kotch wid 'er ag'in. Dat Frid'y night he come a-struttin' into de bar-room. Mr. Dabbs say, "Come he'p move dese boxes here in de nex' room." Walter walked in lak a Nigger will when you ask 'im to do somethin', an' Mr. Dabbs turnt de key. "Git 'crost dat goods box," he say. "I'll give you what I promised you." Mr. Dabbs got 'im a piece o' plank an' burnt Walter up.
"All dis here were a-goin' on 'bout de time Niggers were a-votin' an' doin' things 'roun' white folks. Dey thought dey were pertected by de Chisolm crowd.
"De nex' Frid'y night Walter walked right into dat bar-room ag'in. Mr. Dabbs say, "What you doin' here, Nigger?" Walter say, "You 'member what you done to me tonight one week?" An' he say, "Well, what's to it?" Den Walter say, "Well, I come to settle wid you." Mr. Dabbs say, "Let me see if I can't hurry you up some," an' he retch[FN: reached] his han' back his han' to his hip. But 'fore he could draw[FN: draw his gun] out, Walter done run back to de door. Dey were a chinaberry tree close to de door an' Walter got b'hin' it an' fired a pistol. Mr. Dabbs were hit wid his arm a-layin' 'crost de counter wid his pistol in his han'.
"'Me an' Mr. Ed ('cause he were de jailor), we put him on a mattress in de room back o' de bar. An' he died dat night. De word jus' kinda got' roun' dat some of de Chisolm crowd done killed Mr. Gully's clerk.
"'Walter run off to Memphis. Mr. Gully were pursuin' after 'im to ketch 'im. Walter sho' got tired of him pursuin' after 'im. Dat were de evidence Walter give out 'fore dey put de rope on his neck an' start him on his way to de gallows, but twant nobody dere to put it down jus' lak it were.
"'Mr. Sinclair were sheriff by dis time, an' my young marster an' me went wid 'im to git Walter to take 'im to de gallows. Mr. Sinclair say, "Ed, you goin' to de jail-house now? Here's a ha'f pint o' whiskey. Give it to Walter, make 'im happy, den if he talk too much, nobody will b'lieve it." Mr. Ed say, "Come on, Sambo, go wid me." He retched down an' got a han'ful o' goobers an' put 'em in his pocket. We were eatin' 'em on de way down to de jail-house. He say, "Walter, Mr. Sinclair done sent you a dram." Walter say, "Mr. McAllum, I see you an' Sam eatin' peanuts comin' along. Jus' you give me a han'ful an' I'll eat dem on de way to de gallows. I don't want no whiskey."
"'Den us got on de wagon. (I can see Walter now, standin' dere wid his cap on de back o' his head ready to pull down over his eyes after he git dere.) Dey were a pow'ful crowd 'roun' dat wagon.
"'Den come a rider from Scooba, pull a paper from his pocket, an' han' it to Mr. Sinclair. He read it an' say," Let de people go on to de gallows. De wagon turn 'roun' an' go back to de jail." De Gov'nor had stopped de hangin' 'til de case were 'vestigated. (De people standin' dere a-waitin' for Walter to be hung didn' know what were de matter.)
"'Dey placed Walter back in jail an' his coffin 'long wid' im. De lawyers would visit 'im to git his testimony. Dey'd show 'im his coffin all ready an' ask him did he do dis killin' or not. Dey want 'im to say he were hired to do it. Dey fixed it all up. Twant nobody to tell jus' how it were.'
"I were married by dis time to Laura. She were de nurse maid to Mr. J.H. Currie. She's been dead twenty years, now. When de Curries come to Meridian to live, dey give me charge o' dey plantation. I were de leader an' stayed an' worked de plantation for' em. Dey been livin' in Meridian twelve years. I's married now to dey cook.
"Mr. Hector tol' me if I'd come an' live wid' em here, he'd gimme dis house here in de back yard an' paint it an' fix it all up lak you see it. It's mighty pleasant in de shade. Folks used to always set dey houses in a grove, but now dey cuts down more trees dan dey keeps. Us don't cut no trees. Us porches is always nice an' shady.
"I'se got fo' boys livin'. One son were in de big strike in de automobile plant in Detroit an' couldn' come to see me las' Chris'mus. He'll come to see me nex' year if I's still here.
"Maybe folks goin' a-think hard o' me for tellin' what aint never been tol' b'fore. I been asked to tell what I seen an' I done it.
"Dat's tellin' what I never thought to tell."
Charlie Moses, 84 year old ex-slave, lives at Brookhaven. He possesses the eloquence and the abundant vocabulary of all Negro preachers. He is now confined to his bed because of the many ailments of old age. His weight appears to be about 140 pounds, height 6 feet 1 inch high.
"When I gits to thinkin' back on them slavery days I feels like risin' out o' this here bed an' tellin' ever'body 'bout the harsh treatment us colored folks was given when we was owned by poor quality folks.
"My marster was mean an' cruel. I hates him, hates him! The God Almighty has condemned him to eternal fiah. Of that I is certain. Even the cows and horses on his plantation was scared out o' their minds when he come near 'em. Oh Lordy! I can tell you plenty 'bout the things he done to us poor Niggers. We was treated no better than one o' his houn' dogs. Sometimes he didn' treat us as good as he did them. I prays to the Lord not to let me see him when I die. He had the devil in his heart.
"His name was Jim Rankin an' he lived out on a plantation over in Marion County. I was born an' raised on his place. I spec I was 'bout twelve year old at the time o' the war.
"Old man Rankin worked us like animals. He had a right smart plantation an' kep' all his Niggers, 'cept one house boy, out in the fiel' a-workin'. He'd say, 'Niggers is meant to work. That's what I paid my good money for 'em to do.'
"He had two daughters an' two sons. Them an' his poor wife had all the work in the house to do, 'cause he wouldn' waste no Nigger to help 'em out. His family was as scared o' him as we was. They lived all their lives under his whip. No Sir! No Sir! There warnt no meaner man in the world than old man Jim Rankin.
"My pappy was Allen Rankin an' my mammy was Ca'line. There was twelve o' us chillun, nine boys an' three girls. My pa was born in Mississippi an' sol' to Marster Rankin when he was a young man. My mammy was married in South Carolina an' sol' to Marster Rankin over at Columbia. She had to leave her family. But she warnt long in gittin' her another man.
"Oh Lordy! The way us Niggers was treated was awful. Marster would beat, knock, kick, kill. He done ever'thing he could 'cept eat us. We was worked to death. We worked all Sunday, all day, all night. He whipped us 'til some jus' lay down to die. It was a poor life. I knows it aint right to have hate in the heart, but, God Almighty! It's hard to be forgivin' when I think of old man Rankin.
"If one o' his Niggers done something to displease him, which was mos' ever' day, he'd whip him' til he'd mos' die an' then he'd kick him 'roun in the dust. He'd even take his gun an', before the Nigger had time to open his mouth, he'd jus' stan' there an' shoot him down.
"We'd git up at dawn to go to the fiel's. We'd take our pails o' grub with us an' hang' em up in a row by the fence. We had meal an' pork an' beef an' greens to eat. That was mos'ly what we had. Many a time when noontime come an' we'd go to eat our vittals the marster would come a-walkin' through the fiel with ten or twelve o' his houn' dogs. If he looked in the pails an' was displeased with what he seen in 'em, he took 'em an' dumped 'em out before our very eyes an' let the dogs grab it up. We didn' git nothin' to eat then 'til we come home late in the evenin'. After he left we'd pick up pieces of the grub that the dogs left an' eat 'em. Hongry—hongry—we was so hongry.
"We had our separate cabins an' at sunset all of us would go in an' shut the door an' pray the Lord Marster Jim didn' call us out.
"We never had much clothes 'ceptin' what was give us by the marster or the mistis. Winter time we never had 'nough to wear nor 'nough to eat. We wore homespun all the time. The marster didn' think we needed anything, but jus' a little.
"We didn' go to church, but Sundays we'd gather 'roun' an' listen to the mistis read a little out o' the Bible. The marster said we didn' need no religion an' he finally stopped her from readin' to us.
"When the war come Marster was a captain of a regiment. He went away an' stayed a year. When he come back he was even meaner than before.
"When he come home from the war he stayed for two weeks. The night 'fore he was a-fixin' to leave to go back he come out on his front porch to smoke his pipe. He was a-standin' leanin' up ag'in' a railin' when somebody sneaked up in the darkness an' shot him three times. Oh my Lord! He died the nex' mornin'. He never knowed who done it. I was glad they shot him down.
"Sometimes the cavalry would come an' stay at the house an' the mistis would have to 'tend to 'em an' see that they got plenty to eat an' fresh horses.
"I never seen no fightin'. I stayed on the plantation 'til the war was over. I didn' see none o' the fightin'.
"I don't 'member nothin' 'bout Jefferson Davis. Lincoln was the man that set us free. He was a big general in the war.
"I 'member a song we sung, then. It went kinda like this:
"I only seen the Klu Klux Klan onct. They was a-paradin' the streets here in Brookhaven. They had a Nigger that they was a-goin' to tar an' feather.
"When the mistis tol' us we was free (my pappy was already dead, then) my mammy packed us chillun up to move. We travelled on a cotton wagon to Covington, Louisiana. We all worked on a farm there 'bout a year. Then all 'cept me moved to Mandeville, Louisiana an' worked on a farm there. I hired out to Mr. Charlie Duson, a baker. Then we moved to a farm above Baton Rouge, Louisiana an' worked for Mr. Abe Manning. We jus' travelled all over from one place to another.
"Then I got a letter from a frien' o' mine in Gainesville, Mississippi. He had a job for me on a boat, haulin' lumber up the coast to Bay St. Louis, Pass Christian, Long Beach, Gulfport, an' all them coast towns. I worked out o' Gainesville on this boat for 'bout two year. I lost track o' my family then an' never seen 'em no more.
"In the year 1870 I got the call from the Lord to go out an' preach. I left Gainesville an' travelled to Summit, Mississippi where another frien' o' mine lived. I preached the words of the Lord an' travelled from one place to another.
"In 1873 I got married an' decided to settle in Brookhaven. I preached an' all my flock believed in me. I bought up this house an' the two on each side of it. Here I raised seven chillun in the way o' the Lord. They is all in different parts of the country now, but I sees one of 'em ever' now an' then. Las' April the Lord seen fit to put me a-bed an' I been ailin' with misery ever since.
"The young folks now-a-days are happy an' don't know' bout war an' slavery times, but I does. They don't know nothin' an' don't make the mark in the worl' that the old folks did. Old people made the first roads in Mississippi. The Niggers today wouldn' know how to act on a plantation. But they are happy. We was miserable.
"Slavery days was bitter an' I can't forgit the sufferin'. Oh, God! I hates 'em, hates 'em. God Almighty never meant for human beings to be like animals. Us Niggers has a soul an' a heart an' a min'. We aint like a dog or a horse. If all marsters had been good like some, the slaves would all a-been happy. But marstars like mine ought never been allowed to own Niggers.
"I didn' spec nothin' out of freedom 'ceptin' peace an' happiness an' the right to go my way as I pleased. I prays to the Lord for us to be free, always.
"That's the way God Almighty wants it."
Henri Necaise, ex-slave, 105 years old, lives a half-mile south of Nicholson on US 11. Uncle Henri lives in a small plank cabin enclosed by a fence. He owns his cabin and a small piece of land. He is about five feet ten inches tall and weighs 120 pounds. His sight and hearing are very good.
"I was born in Harrison County, 19 miles from Pass Christian, 'long de ridge road from de swamp near Wolf River. My Marster was Ursan Ladnier. De Mistis' name was Popone. Us was all French. My father was a white man, Anatole Necaise. I knowed he was my father, 'cause he used to call me to him an' tell me I was his oldes' son.
"I never knowed my mother. I was a slave an' my mother was sol' from me an' her other chilluns. Dey tol' me when dey sol' 'er my sister was a-holdin' me in her arms. She was standin' behin' da Big House peekin' 'roun' de corner an' seen de las' of her mother. I seen her go, too. Dey tell me I used to go to de gate a-huntin' for my mammy. I used to sleep wid my sister after dat.
"Jus' lemme study a little, an' I'll tell you 'bout de Big House. It was 'bout 60 feet long, built o' hewed logs, in two parts. De floors was made o' clay dey didn' have lumber for floors den. Us lived right close to de Big House in a cabin. To tell de truf, de fac' o' de business is, my Marster took care o' me better'n I can take care o' myse'f now.
"When us was slaves Marster tell us what to do. He say, 'Henri, do dis, do dat.' An' us done it. Den us didn' have to think whar de nex' meal comin' from, or de nex' pair o' shoes or pants. De grub an' clo'es give us was better'n I ever gits now.
"Lemme think an' counts. My Marster didn' have a lot o' slaves. Dere was one, two, three, fo', yes'm, jus' fo' o' us slaves. I was de stockholder. I tended de sheep an' cows an' such lak. My Marster didn' raise no big crops, jus' corn an' garden stuff. He had a heap o' cattle. Dey could run out in de big woods den, an' so could de sheeps. He sol' cattle to N'awlins[FN: New Orleans] an' Mobile, where he could git de bes' price. Dat's de way folks does now, aint it? Dey sells wherever dey can git de mos' money.
"Dey didn' give me money, but, you see, I was a slave. Dey sho' give me ever'thing else I need, clo'es an' shoes. I always had a-plenty t'eat, better'n I can git now. I was better off when I was a slave dan I is now, 'cause I had ever'thing furnished me den. Now I got to do it all myse'f.
"My Marster was a Catholic. One thing I can thank dem godly white folks for, dey raise' me right. Dey taught me out o' God's word, 'Our Father which art in Heaven.' Ever'body ought-a know dat prayer."
(Note. In this Wolf River territory in Harrison County, where Uncle Henri was born and raised, all the settlers were French Catholics, and it was the scene of early Catholic missions.)
"I was rais' a Catholic, but when I come here twant no church an' I joined de Baptis' an' was baptised. Now de white folks lemme go to dey church. Dey aint no cullud church near 'nough so's I can go. I spec' its all right. I figgers dat God is ever'where.
"My Mistis knowed how to read an' write. I don' know 'bout de Marster. He could keep sto' anyway. Us all spoke French in dem days. I near 'bout forgit all de songs us used to sing. Dey was all in French anyway, an' when you don' speak no French for 'bout 60 years, you jus' forgit it.
"I'se knowed slaves to run away, an' I'se seen 'em whupped. I seen good marsters an' mean ones. Dey was good slaves an' mean ones. But to tell de truf, if dey tol' a slave to do anything, den he jus' better do it.
"I was big' nough in de Civil War to drive five yoke o' steers to Mobile an' git grub to feed de wimmins an' chilluns. Some o' de mens was a-fightin' an' some was a-runnin' an' hidin'. I was a slave an' I had to do what dey tol' me. I carried grub into de swamp to men, but I never knowed what dey was a-hidin' from."
(This may be explained by the fact that Uncle Henri was owned by and lived in a settlement of French People, many of whom probably had no convictions or feeling of loyalty, one way or the other, during the War Between the States.)
"My old Marster had fo' sons, an' de younges' one went to de war an' was killed.
"De Yankees come to Pass Christian, I was dere, an' seen 'em. Dey come up de river an' tore up things as dey went along.
"I was 31 years old when I was set free. My Marster didn' tell us' bout bein' free. De way I foun' it out, he started to whup me once an' de young Marster up an' says, 'You aint got no right to whup him now, he's free.' Den Marster turnt me loose.
"It was dem Carpetbaggers dat 'stroyed de country. Dey went an' turned us loose, jus' lak a passel o' cattle, an' didn' show us nothin' or giv' us nothin'. Dey was acres an' acres o' lan' not in use, an' lots o' timber in dis country. Dey should-a give each one o' us a little farm an' let us git out timber an' build houses. Dey ought to put a white Marster over us, to show us an' make us work, only let us be free 'stead o' slaves. I think dat would-a been better 'n turnin' us loose lak dey done.
"I lef' my Marster an' went over to de Jordon River, an' dere I stayed an' worked. I saved my money an' dat giv' me a start. I never touched it' til de year was winded up. To tell da truf, de fac's o' de matter is, it was my Marstars kinfolks I was workin' for.
"I bought me a schooner wid dat money an' carried charcoal to N'awlins. I done dis for 'bout two years an' den I los' my schooner in a storm off o' Bay St. Louis.
"After I los' my schooner, I come here an' got married. Dis was in 1875 an' I was 43 years old. Dat was my firs' time to marry. I'se got dat same wife today. She was born a slave, too. I didn' have no chillun, but my wife did. She had one gal-chil'. She lives at Westonia an' is de mammy o' ten chillun. She done better'n us done. I'se got a lot o' gran'-chillun. What does you call de nex' den? Lemme see, great gran'-chillun, dat's it.
"I never did b'lieve in no ghos' an' hoodoos an' charms.
"I never did look for to git nothin' after I was free. I had dat in my head to git me 80 acres o' lan' an' homestead it. As for de gov'ment making me a present o' anything, I never thought 'bout it. But jus' now I needs it.
"I did git me dis little farm, 40 acres, but I bought it an' paid for it myse'f. I got de money by workin' for it. When I come to dis country I dug wells an' built chimneys on' houses. (Once I dug a well 27 feet an' come to a coal bed. I went through de coal an' foun' water. Dat was on de Jordon River.) Dat clay chimney an' dis here house has been built 52 years. I's still livin' in' em. Dey's mine. One acre, I giv' to de Lawd for a graveyard an' a churchhouse. I wants to be buried dere myse'f.
"A white lady paid my taxes dis year. I raises a garden an' gits de Old Age 'Sistance. It aint 'nough to buy grub an' clo'es for me an' de old woman an' pay taxes, so us jus' has to git 'long de bes' us can wid de white folks he'p.
"It aint none o' my business' bout whether de Niggers is better off free dan slaves. I dont know 'cept 'bout me, I was better off den. I did earn money after I was free, but after all, you know money is de root o' all evil. Dat what de Good Book say. When I was a slave I only had to obey my Marster an' he furnish me ever'thing. Once in a while he would whup me, but what was dat? You can't raise nary chile, white or black, widout chastisin'. De law didn' low dem to dominize over us, an' dey didn' try.
"I's gittin' mighty old now, but I used to be pretty spry. I used to go 60 miles out on de Gulf o' Mexico, as 'terpreter on dem big ships dat come from France. Dat was 'fore I done forgot my French talk what I was raised to speak.
"De white folks is mighty good to me. De riches' man in Picayune, he recognizes me an' gives me two bits or fo' bits. I sho' has plenty o' good frien's. If I gits out o' grub, I catches me a ride to town, an' I comes back wid de grub.
"De good Lawd, he don't forgit me."