As we see it

Front matter

LEWIS Mi c

Brandeis University Library

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Chapter I

ABOUT the year eighteen hundred seventy six, in a beautiful section of the old State of Alabama, there sat upon the large and commodious veranda of an old Southern home in the golden twilight of a perfect sunset, two old friends, whose friendship was of life-long standing, who were alike in many respects, but yet essentially different.

One a white man and owner of the place, the other an aged Negro, of the old school, were smoking in perfect harmony, the white man, a meerschaum pipe of queer workmanship and of great age, having been in his family for three generations, the Negro the old corncob pipe so common among Negroes of that day.

"Go to College? What the darn-nation good would that do? Why, the time is not come for 'niggers' to be educated like white men. I tell you, Abe, I shall not agree to any such d — nonsense."

"Yes, sar, dat what you say I guess am true when it comes to ole 'niggers' like us, but what you goin' do wid a boy lek my Abe? Ise hear'n you say when dat boy's no mor'n twelve yeahs ole dat he war de smartes' boy, white or black, dat war ebber on dis hyar place. Ise de fifth Abe Overley, black, dat war bred an' bornd on dis hyar place. Yuse de fifth Abe Overley, white. Yuse seventy-two, Ise seventy- two; yo' Abe's nineteen, mine's nineteen; yo' Abe's de sixth white, my Abe's de sixth black; yo' Abe an' my Abe was teached by the same 'oman at the same time, den de man come an' dey is both ready to go to College. Now, what yo' goin' do? Yo' boy's weak, my boy's strong. You war weak, I war strong. Could you git 'long widouten me? Yo' Abe need my Abe, my Abe need yo' Abe."

"Yes, Abe, but don't you know that these are different times? That your Abe and my Abe cannot get along in College as they do here? White men do not sleep with 'niggers' at the big Colleges. Times have changed."

"Yes, Ise hear'n dat de times am changed, but de hearts ob true men never change. Does yo' think dat Abe Overley, sixth, white, will ever turn his back on Abe Overley, sixth, black ? My Abe say he want to go to College to be a lawyer, why he not? He go to Sunday School an' teach dem young 'niggers' ebery Sunday, an' Miss Annie Godly she say dat she can't git 'long widouten him."

"Oh, yes; that is a sure indication he will make a good lawyer. Who is going to pay for his schooling?"

"Why, who pay for his ticket to de Fair las' fall? Sho' yo' Abe he pay for hit."

"H — and damnation! You ole fool, don't you know that it would cost five hundred dollars a year for his schooling? What have you got, or has Abe got, to pay five hundred dollars with?"

"I could sell my ole mule, an' Baldy, dat would bring something. ' '

"Why, Abe, you have no more sense in that old black pate of yours than that d — old kicking mule. Who would buy the beast? I said five hundred dollars, not fifty cents. Do you know the difference? Now, who will pay the money ? ' '

Abe replied with great solemnity:

"When yo' mammy die, she take our hands an' she put dem togedder, an' she say: 'You two Abes mus' al'ays be friends, no matter what de world say.' You say, 'Yes,' I say, 'Yes.' When yo' wife die, she do like Miss Miranda. She say to you an' she say to me, and to yo' Abe an' to my Abe: 'You mus' al'ays be friends an' honor each odder'; dat was mor'n eighteen yeahs ago. Who been yo' Abe's mammy eber since? How many times when yo' Abe, weak an' sick, habe he crowded my Abe from he own mammy's breast? Dey sho' mus' go through dis world togedder."

"Abe, you are a cunning old 'nigger.' I cannot forget these things. But conditions are not like they were in the old days. The Old Homestead is mortgaged, and the crops are getting worse each year, and every d — 'nigger' on the place is talking about going to College. What am I to do in the next year or two? This dirty sneak, Lashum, holds the mortgage and he wants to live on the place where the hound used to boss the 'niggers,' and I hear that that whelp of his wants to go to College, too. What is this world coming to, 'niggers' and, worse, poor whites, talking of going to College and being lawyers and doctors?"

It was early in the year eighteen seventy-six that these old friends, both of the royal blood, the kind that never knows a friend but as a friend, and never breaks from a friendship but in death, were thus engaged in a warm discussion as to the future of their sons.

A word as to the place where we find these representatives of their respective races, and as to who and what they are.

About the year seventeen hundred and two there came to this country a sturdy Scotch family, consisting of father, mother and three sons, possessing nothing but their vigorous bodies and a strong determination to get along in this new world. After many wanderings and hardships, they selected this spot in Alabama, upon which they settled and built their ancestral home, and upon which we find them. They did not belong to the people who ' ' gloried in the Holy ( ? ) Institution of Slavery," but, owning slaves, they made their burdens as light as possible.

When the great War of the Rebellion came on the Overleys were not eager to join their neighbors in their cause ; so, as a consequence, they lived under suspicion, and were in constant dread lest they should be assassinated or burned out by the poor whites who were in those days just as they are today, ignorant, idle and vicious.

The Rebellion finally ended, leaving this family with its ancestral home intact, but much reduced in wealth, all of the stock and animals of value having been carried away by bands of patriotic ( ?) rebels for use at the front.

Abe Overley came of a stock of nature's noblemen. He was tall, straight, broad of shoulder, strong limbed, good featured and very black — a typical African — but the kind of man that inspires trust and confidence at a glance.

Abe's parents for four generations had enjoyed the confidence and esteem of the Overleys. The first Abe was bought by one of the first Overleys at a public auction, he being sold because he was considered an intractable "nigger," having refused to be whipped by the overseer of the plantation upon which he lived. It was said that Abe was stolen and brought to this country and sold in slavery. His wild and independent spirit was never broken.

Overley saw at a glance what the trouble was. As soon as he had closed his bargain he took the manacles off Abe's arms and said: "Abe, you are to be my right-hand man. Can I trust you ? ' ' After a long and searching glance, Abe replied : "You can always trust me; but you nor no living man shall whip me."

"Abe, I do not whip my people."

This bond was never broken.

Before the Rebellion the Overleys had an overseer whose name was Lashum, Nick Lashum, a long, gaunt, typical Alabama "cracker," whose father, grandfather and great-grandfather before him were overseers, and who never aspired to anything higher. This man's sole ambition was satisfied when he became known as Malcolm A. Overley 's overseer.

When the war came on it soon began to be whispered about the State that Nick Lashum was engaged by the Confederate Government to press animals and stock of all kinds into service, for the good of the cause. There appears to be no doubt that he ' ' pressed the animals into service, ' ' but, according to the whisperers, he did not or was not able, owing to the "press of business," to account for hundreds of them. It was even whispered that numerous droves of cattle gathered by him found their way to the Union lines, much to his profit.

However, at the close of the war, this individual found himself so well supplied with ready cash that he concluded to buy a large plantation and settle upon it and live as a capitalist and planter should. What place should he buy? There was but one place in all the State of Alabama which suited him, that was the home of his former employer, Malcolm A. Overley. But this place was not for sale. The adjoining plantation was, however, so he acquired this place and moved upon it.

Mr. Nick Lashum was a man of family, a large and growing family, a growth peculiar to this particular family of "crackers." As the wealth and numbers of this family increased their church-going parties, regaled in all their finery, came to be the sight of the county, a sight that strangers never failed to enjoy. This great man, former overseer, who had grown so wealthy in such a few years, and one of whose sons was clerk of the County Court, and another about to be sent off to College, was looked upon by the "crackers" of his section of the State as the man who was to lead them back to the good old times when a ' ' nigger 's ' ' hog was the property of the first "cracker" who could steal it.

How fared the Overleys as the years sped by? Having been left, after the war, without stock to work the plantation — thanks to the disinterestedness (?) of Nick Lashum — on behalf of the cause, and without farm hands to work the crops — saving the strong arm of Old Abe and his family — things had been going back. For some time poor crops, poor cattle, and only a few of them, had been the rule, until, after a family council, it was decided to mortgage the place and raise money enough to stock the plantation as it was in the old days and begin again. After much dickering and many heartaches, it was decided to borrow $5,000 from the Pioneer Savings Bank of

A County, Alabama, Nick Lashum, Jr., cashier. Never

once did Malcolm A. Overley think that Nick Lashum, Sr., would advance the money and hold the mortgage, but after it was all over Malcolm A. Overley had $4,750 and Nick Lashum, his former overseer, held him bound for five years for $5,000 at 8 per cent. This mortgage had eighteen months to run when we find him discussing the advisability of sending his son, together with Old Abe's son, North to College. Old Abe felt that his boy should go to College with the white boy. After long and deep thought Old Abe, with intense feeling, spoke :

"I thought when I stan' by de bedside of yo' mammy, an' she place our han's togedder and she say we war al'ays to stick togedder an' to he'p each odder, an' when yo' boy's mammy die she say de same thing, dat we was to he'p each odder. I thought when dem Yankee sojers come, an' dey say, 'Old man,' you kin go,' I say, 'No, I dun promise his mammy to stay an' he'p him through dis life.' I thought when I teach my boy he mus ' stay an ' he 'p ; I thought when I tell dem odder 'niggers,' Joe an' he 'oman, Jack an' he 'oman, an' Cleo an' her gals, to stay, dat I was doin' my duty, dat I was keppin' my word to de daid. Ise worked on dis ole plantation well nigh seventy-two yeahs, and Ise good for twenty mo', but never did I tink dat de time would ebber come when de Overley would break he word."

After Old Abe had delivered himself of his speech there was a long, deep silence. Finally it was broken by Malcolm A. Overley, with a voice trembling with emotion:

"Abe, you old black fool, who has broken word with you? I said, I do not see where the money is coming from. That d — hound's mortgage is due in eighteen months, and I haven't the money to pay it. He will surely sell me out.

Now, what shall I do: take this money and send the boys to College or pay this mortgage ? ' '

Old Abe answered solemnly:

"Send de boys to College, an' trus' in de Lawd."

' ' Trust in the Lord ! That is all you ' niggers ' think about. You had better learn to trust in yourselves. However, I have made up my mind that both boys shall go to Oberlin College. You can tell that boy of yours that he can go with my boy when he leaves for College this fall, but I want all the work done on the place before they go."

"Thank God!" said Old Abe; "I know'd dat yo' heart is in de same place dat all de rest of de Overleys is."

As a fit finale to this discussion, Mammy Cleo blew three shrill blasts on the supper horn.

Soon the field hands are coming in, as is evidenced by the vocal sounds of melody that float soothingly to the ears of the two old friends. First to come through the yard to the great house is a tall youth, with a delicate face, lit up with clear blue eyes, with a well-formed head, covered with thick light hair, which hung about his ears in ringlets, the face, head and carriage of the man of good blood and breeding. This youth was Abe, sixth, white. He took a seat on the floor of the veranda, leaning his back against a post, looked up at his father and laughingly inquired: "Why, dad, what is the matter? Have you and Uncle Abe been quarreling over the stock or over some passage in the Bible, or what?"

"No, we have not. That old fool thinks I ought to send his Abe to College with you this fall," answered the parent.

"Why, dad, I think he is perfectly right. Abe ought to go to College; he certainly deserves it."

At that moment a tall young Negro of manly appearance, a perfect counterpart of Old Abe, came up to the veranda and sat down. He also observed the faces of the old men.

"Why, dad, what is the matter?" he exclaimed. "Have you and Mr. Overley disagreed again on some point in the Bible, or some point in farming?"

"No, d — your black hide," spoke up Overley, Sr. ; "we have disagreed on you."

"Why, what is the matter with me? Have I not done my work well ever since I have been old enough to work?"

"Oh, d — your work! I wish I could find some fault in that line. This old fool insists that I pay $500 a year for your schooling, until you get through College, that is what I mean."

For several moments there was nothing said by any of the four friends. Finally, the younger Overley said:

"Father, if the money is not to be had, let us fix it this way. Let Abe here go the first year, and I will stay home and keep up the place. The next year he will keep up the place and I will go. He can give me the benefit of what he has learned when he comes home. ' '

Abe protests that the white boy is entitled to the first year, but Overley, Sr., cut the discussion short by announcing that he had determined that both boys should go to College together; therefore he didn't want any more "d — talk."

Both boys then moved away to the corn crib, their favorite resort, to talk the matter over.

"Abe," says the black boy, "your father is a mighty good man to spend all that money on me."

"Yes, but you and Uncle Abe have been mighty good to us. What would we have done after the war had your father left us, or had he said to the rest of the people, ' Let us go North ? ' We would have been left without help or hope. He remembers how Uncle Abe and the rest worked for five years without being paid one penny, and "

"Yes, but your father has paid us in full, paid every penny," interrupted the black boy.

"Yes, but off of whose labor?"

"No matter, he has paid up. Where in all this State will you find another white man, who, having had twenty-three colored people working for him for five years, without pay, would have paid them one cent? Very, very few. Your father mortgaged his plantation. If he had not paid us he would not have had that to do. No, Abe, he is a mighty good man."

"Yes," says the white boy, "he is a dear old dad;" then adds: "Say, Abe, didn't he cuss — Well! So we are to go to school together?"

"lam sure I do not know ; what College are we going to ? "

"Oberlin College."

"That is the one College in this country that I want to go through. They say they do not know color there. Just to think of anyone failing to see whether I am white or black!" and both boys laughed heartily.

' ' Say, Abe, ' ' the white boy said, ' ' I hear that Buck Lashum is to go to College this fall."

"What College?"

"I do not know," answered the white boy.

' ' Well, we must not let him know what College we are going to attend, nor that I am going with you."

"Why, Abe, what difference does that make?"

"Well, I must say that I feel it would be better to keep our plans from him until we are gone, at any rate."

"Abe, you will see what will happen to him if he has anything to say to me about your going. I haven't forgotten the thrashing you gave him when he tried to force himself on my sister Lucy when you drove her to Deaconsville to the camp meeting last fall," laughed the white boy. "His black eyes were such beauties, and they lasted so long. Say, but dad forgot his rheumatism when he was told what happened. When they told him that the sheriff had put you in the cababoose for licking Buck Lashum for insulting Sister Lucy, gee ! how he ran to the harness room, and got a saddle and bridle, and ran to the field, and got Old Ben, and such cussing and riding you never heard nor saw. I, on Nell, kept as close to him as I could, but Old Ben seemed to be cussing mad, too, for I never saw that old horse go so fast before. Didn't the whole Lashum family fall back when they saw him coming? And didn't the sheriff get you out of the pen mighty quick? But, poor Buck was a sight, and Mr. Nick Lashum, how he made excuses for Buck. But dad wouldn't listen, and wanted to lick the whole family. Abe, you must have soaked him some good ones. Dad was talking about that fellow to us last night, saying he would just as leave be kicked by Uncle Abe's old mule as for you to hit him. Now, I know that those Lashums, and particularly Buck, do not like you, Abe; but I can't see why we should care. A poor white man, Abe, is no good."

"Yes, yes," says the black boy, "I know that, but you cannot view a poor white man, a 'cracker,' from the same viewpoint that I do. Compared, Abe, with the race of white men that you and your family belong to, the 'cracker' sinks away below any living thing. He is meaner and dirtier than any reptile that creeps on the face of the earth or swims in the water beneath the earth. There is nothing too mean and low for him to do to a Negro — Pshaw! What is the use of discussing a 'cracker,' anyhow? The question that concerns me most just now is what will we need to take with us when we go off to College. ' '

"I don't know," said the white boy; "let us ask father; he has been to College. ' '

Chapter II

FOR the benefit of my readers who are not familiar with the Alabama ' ' crackers ' ' I will give an historical sketch of the Lashum family, that they may draw their own conclusion. This family dates back to the last years of the war for independence; at least, that is the time of the first record which the State has of its existence. The following can be found in the Western Bulletin, Monday, September 12, 1709:

"Nick Lashum, who lives in a log cabin on a small clearing in Foggy Bottom, on Mars Creek, was taken out of his cabin by a Vigilance Committee and given nine and thirty lashes on his bare back.

"It appears that the Indians have been drinking and causing a great deal of trouble lately. The source of their supply of whiskey could not be ascertained. It was at last determined by the Vigilance Committee to search Foggy Bottom, where a few disreputable 'crackers' have squatted. The search revealed the fact that Nick Lashum was making corn whiskey and trading it to the Indians in his neighborhood. The search also revealed the further fact that Nick Lashum was the leader of a gang of moonshiners who were making corn whiskey and trading it to the Indians and Negroes in all the lower counties of the State.

"Nick Lashum and his confederates will be tried at the next Quarter Session of Court and are likely to get long terms in the penitentiary. ' '

Thus the Lashums are ushered into the limelight of history. No mention is made of what finally became of this Nick Lashum, but tradition has it that he came back from the penitentiary to his old haunts and resumed his old habits until the time of his death, which was hastened by a Vigilance Committee after Nick had been caught with some cattle upon which the brand had been changed. This man appears to have been the progenitor of this race of Lashum, many of whom proved to be worthy of their sire.

The Nick Lashum of this sketch was a long, gaunt, lean "cracker" with a thin, sharp face, lit up by a pair of small gray eyes full of low cunning and treachery, that never looked you in the face. His head was topped off by a crop of thin stringy hair, that was entirely unused to care. His garments, which were gray in color, might have been homespun or anything else, and hung in loose flaps about his person, the trousers ( ? ) stuffed into ragged cowhide boots.

This gentleman, a typical ' ' cracker ' ' overseer, having heard that Malcolm A. Overley wanted an overseer, owing to the death of Pete Quickly, who had served the Overleys for twenty-five years, betook himself to the Overley plantation to apply for the position.

With much fear and many misgivings he finally mustered up courage enough to pass the portals of the big gate and make his way to the great house, where he expected to find the master. As Nick neared the house he removed his hat and walked slowly up the gravel path, where he was accosted by Old Abe, who inquired of him who he was, whom he wanted to see, and upon what business.

At first, Nick was inclined to feel insulted and hurt that a big black "nigger" should ask him what he wanted. But, upon second thought, he remembered how near Old Abe was to the "throne," so he answered very civilly that he wanted to see Mr. Overley and wanted the job of overseer.

After some thought Abe concluded he would conduct him to his master. This was done with many misgivings as to the future, should he be selected. Nick was cautioned to keep close to Old Abe, lest the dogs should attack him, as they did not like "no po' white man, nohow," and to keep his hat under his arm, where it belonged ; all of which Nick was glad to do ; but making a mental vow, however, that he would skin Old Abe if he succeeded in getting the place of overseer.

Turning a sharp bend in the path, Nick, without warning, came suddenly upon Mr. Overley and his family under the shade of a large tree, and the sight seemed to deprive Nick of power of speech. He stood looking at his ragged boots and holding his hands before him. Mr. Overley sprang to his feet, looking first at Old Abe, then at Nick, not seeming to comprehend the meaning of the intrusion. At last he spoke, and demanded of Old Abe what this man had done, and why he had brought him there, the man's demeanor leading him to believe that he had been trespassing. When he was told that the man wanted the position of overseer, Mr. Overley laughed heartily, and the women drew close and examined him very attentively.

Abe said:

' ' Dis po ' white man come up de walk an ' say he want to see you 'bout being yo' oberseer. I say he kin see you, but I guess he kin talk for heself, maybe. Say, Mr. Oberseer, dat am Mr. Overley. Kin you talk? You hab to talk mor'n dat to git work outten dem 'niggers' back in de cotton patch."

Nick, thus goaded by Old Abe, finally said :

"Sah, Mr. Overley, I heah thet Old Pete was gone an' daid, an' that you war in need of a man to look arter yo' 'niggers.' My 'oman she say you mought take me on, in Old Pete's place. I've been hankerin' arter yuse job for a long time, sah."

"Well, — you have, have you? Where did you work last, and why did you leave ? ' '

"I worked for Mr. Jim Connors, down on the bottom in Grove Neck. He sol' all his 'niggers' an' gone 'way. He never did lek plantation life. He gin me one 'nigger,' but I couldn't feed him, so I took an' sol' him. He was as no count 'nigger' as you ever see; couldn't git him to do nothin'. Sell a bad 'nigger,' sah, same as you sell a bad hoss."

"I have no bad 'niggers,' neither have I any bad horses; all my people are happy and content. I am afraid you would cause them to become dissatisfied. What do you want per year?"

"Mr. Jim gin me $180 a yeah an' house an' ten acres, the house free. I git along on that very well, sah."

"Well, you can see me in two days."

"Yes, sah; my 'oman she say "

"That is all, sir; you may see me in two days. Abe, see that the dogs do not molest him."

Nick, with his hat still under his arm, bowed most profoundly and turned to leave by the path through which he came.

Old Abe called to him, saying :

"Come dis way, white man. Dem dorgs will eat you up down dat path by yo'sef. What you go dat way for, nohow? You inns' tink yo' Mars Jim Cornors. De nex' time yo' come heah yo' come in de way I am now showin' yo' out. If dem dorgs had seed yo' fust — well, dey don't like yo' kin' people, nohow. ' '

"It strikes me, Abe, yuse a mighty peart 'nigger.' I suppose yuse is boss heah ? ' '

"Yes, Ise de boss of dis house, an' dem stables, an' dat garden patch, an' all dem chickens an' fowls — yo' dunno dat, does yo'?"

"Oh, I tink it war somethin' like that — yuse welcome."

By this time their walk had led them to the barnyard, out of which a lane ran through the cornfield to the main road. Abe's parting shot was:

"Look out, white man, for dem dorgs when yo' come back through dis corn patch, an' git yo' hat off befo' yo' come through dis gate."

"Abe, you kin do me a good "

"Dat am all, sah; yo' kin see me in two days," said Old Abe, with the most aggravating composure.

Nick stood for a moment glaring at Old Abe ; then he turned and walked hurriedly down the lane toward the main road.

Owing to Abe's thoughtfulness, Nick had about three-fourths of a mile farther to walk to get out to the main road on his way home. Abe watched Nick until he passed out of sight; then he laughed and remarked to himself:

"Dat man goin' raise de debble on dis heah place some day."

Turning to a large brindle hound that watched Nick very closely during his visit, Abe said to the dog:

"Joe, yo' jus' watch fo' dat po' white man day arter tomorrow, an' if he try to open dat gate yo' jes' stop him; dat 'sail."

The dog seemed to understand what Abe had said, for he gave Nick's direction a contemptuous glance and walked away with Abe.