Part 14

"My boss, Sam Cannon, promised me a place. Miss Viny Cannon suckled me and her son Henry at de same time, me on one knee and Henry on t'other. Dey calls me 'Timber'. Miss Sallie said to us atter Freedom, 'You ain't got no marsters'. I cried. My Ma let me stay wid Miss Sallie. Mr. Henry Gallman promised to marry Miss Sally Cannon, my young missus; but he went to de war and never come back home no mo'. Mr. Jeff Gallman went, but he come back wid one arm. Mr. Tom Gallman went and married his first cousin, Miss Addie Cannon; he never got to go to de war.

"My father was a full-blooded Indian from Virginia. He was a refugee. But you know dat dey had a way of selling people back den. Somebody caught him and sold him at one of dem sales. De man what bought him was Mr. Jeff Buzzard. He went back to Virginia atter de surrender. I would not go. He took another woman on de place, and my mother would not let me go. De woman's name dat he took was Sara Danby. She had two brothers and a sister--Samuel, Coffee, and Jenny.

"My mother was mixed Indian and African blood. My folks got 'stroyed up in a storm. My grandfather was named Isaac Haltiwanger. My grandmother, his wife, was named Annie. Dey had one child who was my mother; her name Frances. My grandmother's name was Molly Stone.

"My parents, talking 'bout de Africans, how funny dey talked. Uncle Sonny and uncle Edmund Ruff was two of de old 'uns. Old man Charles Slibe was de preacher. He was a Methodist. My father was a Baptist. His white folks, de Billy Caldwells, prepared de barn for him to preach to dere slaves. In dat day, all de Africans was low chunky fellers and raal black. Dey said dat in Africa, little chilluns run 'round de house and de fattest one fall behind; den dey kill him and eat him. Dat's de worst dat I ever heard, O Lawd!

"I hates dat Missus didn't whip me mo' and let me be teached to read and write so dat I wouldn't be so ignant.

"For de neuralgia, take and tie two or three nutmegs around yo' neck. Tie brass buttons around de neck to stop de nose a-bleeding."

Greeley's house has four rooms and it is in great need of repair. It is badly kept and so are the other houses in "Fowler's Row". He lives with his wife, Eula, but she was not home during the visit.

"My house 'longs to a widder woman. She white but I does not know her name. Her collector is Mr. Wissnance (Whisenant). He got a office over here on E. Main St., right up in de town. I rents by de month but I pays by de week--a dollar. De house sho is gwine down. Rest of de houses on de Row is repaired, but mine ain't yet; so she have Mr. Wissnance drap off twenty-five cents, and now I is paying only seventy-five cents a week. Me and Eula has to go amongst de white folks fer bread and other little things. Ain't got no bread from 'Uncle Sam' since last August. See my tater patch, wid knee-high vines.

"De case worker want to git my age and whar I's born. I told her jest what I told you. She say she got to have proof; so I told her to write Mr. Cannon Blease who was de sheriff. I means de High Sheriff, fer nigh thirty years in Newberry. And does you know, she never even heard of Mr. Cannon Blease. Never had no money but Mr. Blease knowed it, so he up and sont my kerrect age anyway. It turn't out jest 'zactly like I told you it was. What worried me de mostest, is dat she never knowed Mr. Cannon Blease. Is you ever heard of sech a thing as a lady like dat not knowing Mr. Blease?

"Now Mr. Dr. Snyder is a man dat ain't setting here 'sleep. He's a mill'onaire, kaise he run Wofford College and it must take a million dollars to do dat, it sho must. My case worker knowed him.

"De case worker calls me 'Preacher', but I ain't got up to dat yet--I ain't got dat fer. I been sold out twice in insurance. I give my last grand-baby de name 'Roosevelt', and his daddy give him 'Henry'. His Ma never give him none. Some folks loads down babies and kills dem wid names, but his ma never wanted to do dat. So us jest calls him Henry Roosevelt. Us does not drap none and us does not leave none out.

"Went to church one night and left my pocketbook in a box on my mantel. Had $120.00 in it in paper, and $8 in silver. Some niggers dat had been watching me broke down my do' dat I had locked. Dey took de $120 and left de $8. Went home and I seed dat broke do'. I went straight to my mantel and see'd what was done. Dey never bothered de books and papers in dat box. Next morning, de nigger what lived next do' to me was gone. I went to a old fortune teller, a man; he say I know dat you lost a lot. De one I thought got de money, he said, was not de right one. He say dat three hobos got it. One had red hair, one sandy hair and de other had curly hair. He say somebody done cited dem and dey sho going to be caught dis very day. He say dat dey come from Asheville. But he was wrong, kaise dey ain't never caught no three hobos dat I ever learn't about.

"One day when I was plowing, I struck de plow 'ginst something. My plow knocked off de handle. I heard money rattle. It ringed three times. I couldn't see nothing, so I called my wife and son and dey looked, but we never found but five cents. Never in my life did I hear of a bank in slavery times. Everybody buried dere money and sometimes dey forgot where dey put it. I thought dat I had run on some of dat money den, but I never found none. Lots of money buried somewhars, and folks died and never remembered whar it was.

"A nigger republican leader got kilt. I hel't de hosses fer de Ku klux. Great God-a-mighty, Dave and Dick Gist and Mr Caldwell run de sto' at de Rutherford place in dem times. Feeder of dem hosses was Edmund Chalmers. Mr. Dick say, 'Hello, Edmund, how come dem mules so po' when you got good corn everywhar--what, you stealing corn, too?' Mr. Oatzel say, 'Yes, I cotch him wid a basket on his shoulder.' 'Whar was you carrying it?' Edmund say, 'To Mr. Caldwell'. Mr. Caldwell say he ain't see'd no corn. Dey took Edmund to de jail. He had been taking corn and selling it to de carpetbaggers, and dat corn was fer de Ku Klux hosses.

"Dere was a Mr. Brown, a white man, dat come up to live in Newberry. Dey called him a refugee. Us called him Mr. 'Refugee Brown'. He was sorter destituted and not a bit up-to-date. He settled near de Gibson place. I fed de Gibson boys' fox-dogs about dat time fer dem.

"I want to git right wid you, now; so I can meet you lovely. In '73, I thought someone was shaking my house; I come out doors wid my gun; see'd white and colored coming together. Everybody was scared. All got to hollering and some prayed. I thought dat de earth gwine to be shook to pieces by morning. I thought of old Nora (Noah).

"Dem Bible folks see'd a little hand-span cloud. Nora had done built him a house three stories high. Dat little cloud busted. Water riz in de second story of de wicked king's palace. He sont fer de northern lady. When she come a-shaking and a-twisting in de room de king fell back in his chair. He say dat he give her anything she want, all she got to do is ask fer it. She say to cut off John Wesley's head and bring it to her. De king had done got so suluctious dat he done it. Dat king and all of dem got drowned. Nora put a lot of things in de ark dat he could have left out, sech as snakes and other varments; but de ark floated off anyhow. No sir, dat wasn't de Clifton flood, dat was Nora's flood."

=Source:= Sim Greeley (82), 280 Fowler's Row, Spartanburg, S.C. Interviewer: Caldwell Sims, Union, S.C. (8/27/37)

S-260-264-N Project #1655 Augustus Ladson Charleston, S.C.

Page I No. Words: 1497

EX-SLAVE BORN DECEMBER 25, 1843

COWARD MASTER RAN OUT CIVIL WAR--LEAVING HIM

"I was bo'n in Charleston at 82 King Street, December 25, 1843. The house is still there who' recent owner is Judge Whaley. My ma an' pa was Kate an' John Green. My ma had seben chillun (boys) an I am the last of 'em. Their names was: Henry, Scipio, Ellis, Nathaniel, Hobart, Mikell, an' myself.

"From the South-East of Calhoun Street, which was then Boundry Street, to the Battery was the city limit an' from the North-West of Boundry Street for sev'als miles was nothin' but fa'm land. All my brothers was fa'm han's for our master, George W. Jones. I did all the house work 'til the war w'en I was given to Mr. Wm. Jones's son, Wm. H. Jones as his "daily give servant" who' duty was to clean his boots, shoes, sword, an' make his coffee. He was Firs' Lieutenant of the South Car'lina Company Regiment. Bein' his servant, I wear all his cas' off clothes which I was glad to have. My shoes was call' brogan that has brass on the toe. W'en a slave had one of 'em you couldn't tell 'em he wasn't dress' to death.

"As the "daily give servant" of Mr. Wm. H. Jones I had to go to Virginia durin' the war. In the battle at Richmond Gen'al Lee had Gen'al Grant almos' beaten. He drive him almos' in the Potomac River, an' then take seven pieces of his artillery. W'en Gen'al Grant see how near defeat he was, he put up a white flag as a signal for time out to bury his deads. That flag stay' up for three weeks while Gen'al Grant was diggin' trenches. In the meantime he get message to President Lincoln askin' him to sen' a reinforcement of sojus. Gen'al Sherman was in charge of the regiment who sen' word to Gen'al Grant to hol' his position 'til he had captur' Columbia, Savannah, burn out Charleston while on his way with dispatch of 45,000 men. W'en Gen'al Sherman got to Virginia, the battle was renew' an' continued for seven days at the en' of which Gen'al Lee surrender' to Gen'al Grant. Durin' the seven days fight the battle got so hot 'til Mr. William Jones made his escape an' it was two days 'fore I know he was gone. One of the Gen'als sen' me home an' I got here two days 'fore Mr. William got home. He went up in the attic an' stay' there 'til the war was end'. I carry all his meals to him an' tell him all the news. Master show was a frighten' man; I was sorry for him. That battle at Richmond, Virginia was the wors' in American history.

Dr. George W. Jones, my master, ran a blockade. He had ships roamin' the sea to capture pirates ships. He had a daughter, Ellen, who was always kin' to the slaves. Master had a driver, William Jenkins, an' an' a' overseer, Henry Brown. Both was white. The driver see that the work was done by the supervision of the overseer. Master' fa'm amounted to twenty-five acres with 'bout eighteen slaves. The overseer blow the ho'n, which was a conch shell, at six in the mornin' an' every slave better answer w'en the roll was call' at seven. The slaves didn't have have to work on Sat'day.

Mr. Ryan had a private jail on Queen Street near the Planters Hotel. He was very cruel; he'd lick his slaves to death. Very seldom one of his slaves survive' a whippin'. He was the opposite to Govenor Aiken, who live' on the North-West corner of Elizabeth an' Judith Streets. He had several rice plantations, hundreds of his slaves he didn't know.

Not 'til John C. Calhoun' body was carried down Boundry Street was the name change' in his honor. He is bury in St. Phillip Church yard, 'cross the street with a laurel tree planted at his head. Four men an' me dig his grave an' I clear' the spot w'ere his monument now stan'. The monument was put up by Pat Callington, a Charleston mason. I never did like Calhoun 'cause he hated the Negro; no man was ever hated as much as him by a group of people.

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.