On the old plantation; reminiscences of his childhood

Dedication

To my sister, Ellen Bates, who shared with me the joys and sorrows of my childhood, and whose unselfish life has meant so much to me, this book is affectionately dedicated. J. G. C.

CHAPTER I PAGE " Unc' Essick " — A Nobleman in Black 7

CHAPTER n Dick — A Cripple Slave Boy 37

CHAPTER m Christmas and the Moving Picture. : 52

CHAPTER IV First Trading Expedition 59

CHAPTER V The Eel and the Skeleton 73

CHAPTER VI The Little Mountain School 78

CHAPTER VII "De Baby " 98

CHAPTER VIII " A Whole Plug o' Manifac " 136

Foreword

These chapters are written primarily for the benefit of my own children and grandchildren, and with the hope that they may not be wholly uninteresting to many others whose parents lived through the days of which I write.

Too many of our young people know of the institution of slavery only what theyVe learned from " Uncle Tom*s Cabin." Knowing only the negro who has grown up since the Civil War, and knowing nothing whatever of " de ole-time slav'ry nigger," they cannot have a correct idea of " a civilization that is gone."

If what Mrs. Stowe wrote was true, and only that, then our children's children must conclude that their fathers were only half -civilized and worthy of all the horrors of the Reconstruction. Slavery was not all bad. It had its evils, God knows; but, on the dark picture, there were many bright spots: our children should be allowed to see them. J. G. C.

CHAPTER I ''uNc' essick/' a nobleman in black

Essex was his name, but to all the children on the plantation he was " Unc' Essick/' When I first knew him, Unc' Essick was a very important personage on my father's plantation. I was a little late arriving, being the eleventh of a family of twelve children, and was bom some years before the outbreak of the Civil War.

As far back as I can remember, Unc' Essick was my father's foreman, general director — ** right-hand man." On many of the Southern plantations the foreman was called " The Driver," and he was the driver literally. He carried his heavy whip, and did not fail to lay- it on the backs of his indolent or disobedient fellow-slaves. Some of these drivers were the most merciless task-masters, and some were pitilessly cruel. My father would' have none of that. His foreman was not allowed to touch one of his fellows. His business was to counsel, encourage, direct, and lead the others. Every morning he received his orders from my father, and every night he made his report. Intelligent readers know that it was against the law to teach a slave to read or write. Essex could neither read nor write, but I remember having heard my father say that the old man's reports were marvelous for accuracy and detail.

In ante-bellum days there were in the middle section of South Carolina, and particularly in the coast counties — the rice-growing section — many plantations measuring many thousands of acres. On many of these slaves were numbered by the hundred ; on a few, there were more than a thousand. Some of the "large slave-owners," that is to say, the owners of more than a thousand, did not know their own negroes. In such cases, master and slave came in touch with each other only through the overseer, or driver.

In the Piedmont section of my State, now, since the decline of the rice industry, the most prosperous, there were few large plantations, and comparatively few slaves. The attachment between master and slave was, in some cases, very strong and very beautiful.

My father's plantation, "Broadway," lay between Johnson's Creek and Little River on the one side, and Penny's Creek on the other, and in Abbeville District, now Abbeville County, the home of Secession. In the entire tract there were only twelve hundred acres, and on it only one hundred and ten slaves. Their owner knew them all by name.

The institution of slavery, such a curse to the South, so misunderstood and so abused, developed some great characters among both races. And both are rapidly passing. The number of men in the South who were slave-owners is rapidly growing smaller, and only occasionally does one meet an old negro who fixes his place among that rapidly decreasing number of citizens by doffing his hat and saying with evident pride : '* Yas, suh. Boss ; yas, suh, Fs a ole-time slav'ry nigger."

Those of us who know the '' ole-time slav'ry nigger " best and honor him most, are unwilling for the rising generation of both races to know so little of his virtues. Of one of these worthies I! would tell the readers of this chapter.

When I first knew Unc' Essick he was in the prime of a vigorous, powerful manhood, though more than fifty years of slave-life lay behind him. Five feet ten, he tipped the beam at one hundred and ninety pounds, and was as sinewy and as active as a Texas pony. Though unlettered, he was to us children a very prodigy : he knew so much and could do so many things. His uniform kindness to us and his unfailing patience with us very greatly endeared him to us.

From our mother and from the old negroes " at the quarter " — among the cabins — we learned the story of Unc' Essick's early life. In his young manhood he had been a " runaway nigger." I remember that this revelation came as a distinct shock to me. I could not understand how this man, my devoted friend, this trusted servant of my father, could have been a " runaway nigger." That was the bogy with which the nurse had frightened us into silence when we were unduly noisy or impatient. How this man, my Sir Galahad, could have been a ** runaway nigger," I could not understand, and I indignantly refused to believe when told so for the first time by another servant ; refused to believe it, and cried about it until the story was corroborated by my own mother. After that, I loved Unc' Essick none the less, but rather had greater respect for the " runaway nigger." I would not rest, however, until mother had told me everything about my hero's checkered career.

On Southern plantations before the Civil War there was often comedy — sometimes tragedy ; nor was romance always wanting. On my father's plantation two of his young men were rivals for the hand of a dusky maid : one, Essex, a common laborer who herded with twoscore of his kind, and the other, Griffin, one of my father's teamsters, a crack driver and an acknowledged aristocrat among the negroes. Nowadays one seldom sees a wagon drawn by six mules ; in those days they were very common, and a plantation that could not boast of one or more such teams was looked upon by

ON THE OLD PLANTATION ii

the negroes as of inferior grade, and the owner thereof as but slightly removed from the " po' buckra " class. To be the driver of a six- mule team, well matched and well equipped, was a mark of no little distinction. Griffin, my father's second teamster (Big Tom was his chief), though young, had made himself quite a name throughout the neighborhood by holding on to a runaway team until he was dragged from his saddle and had one ear cut off by the front wheel of the wagon. This almost fatal accident occurred while Griffin was taking a load of furniture to Smyrna Camp Meeting Ground.

Today only a few scattered stones and a gnarled, dwarfed tree or two mark the old Smyrna Camp Ground, the annual meeting place of the best people on the western side of Abbeville County. The people were well-to-do, so the matter of expense was entirely negligible. Instead of the ordinary shack one sees nowadays at the few camp meetings kept up in South Carolina, the people built comfortable two-story frame dwellings, and for two weeks, sometimes longer, literally enjoyed the meeting. Every '' tenter " kept open house, and not a few Georgians crossed over the Savannah to " get religion " and enjoy the meeting. Nowadays the people of my old county go to the mountains of North Carolina a few weeks in the summer for rest and recreation; then they went to the banks of the Savannah, to the Smyrna Camp Meeting. And I dare say they got about as much from that annual meeting as their children and grandchildren get from their yearly pilgrimage to the blue hills of our sister commonwealth.

Besides being the best muleteer in the district, Griffin was a fiddler] whose reputation extended far beyond the boundaries of his master's plantation. Not only did he furnish music for his own people at their annual '' cake-walks," but he helped often to furnish music at the dances of the white race. That fact,, together with his recognized ability as a wagoner, made him an aristocrat. He deigned to associate with men and women of his own color, but for " po' white trash " he had a contempt. When he left home with the load of furniture and provisions for the camp meeting, Griffin was in a jolly, good humor. He called back to one of his fellows : '' I don't mind camp meetin*, ef dey des let me play my fiddle." In two hours Griffin was picked up at the foot of Crosby's Hill on Rocky River in an unconscious condition and minus one ear. Regaining consciousness, he declared : " Dis is de judgment ob de Lord; I'll nuver tech dat fiddle ag'in." And he didn't. Other things he would do — curse, fight, and drink ; but play the fiddle — never.

Late one evening, about " feed time," a great commotion was heard at the barn. Father ran out to investigate. At the rear of the barn he found Essex and Griffin engaged in a fight. A dozen other slaves were enjoying the diversion. Now, these two powerful animals were fighting, not according to the rules of the ring, but just old-fashioned " fist and skull," science to the winds. Each of these splendid animals meant that to be a fight to the finish; and it would have been but for the timely appearance of my father on the scene.

The majority of my readers can have no understanding or appreciation of the pride a slave-owner felt in the physical strength of his men-servants. Most negroes were expected to do unskilled labor; great strength of bone and muscle was therefore the sine qua non. When my father discovered the cause of the commotion among the negroes, he stood for just a moment admiring the unflinching fortitude with which each of the two black men took his punishment. It was a pair of powerful men, and each was " dead game."

I can say of a truth, and for that truth I am profoundly grateful, my father's slaves not only respected and obeyed him, but loved him. So when his voice rang out sharp and clear, " Stop that fighting ! " the two combatants lowered their arms, stepped apart, and stood facing each other like two great wild boars ready for a death-struggle.

" What does this mean ? " demanded the master.

Essex was the first to speak, while Griffin simply showed his pearly teeth.

" Dis nigger want my gal, Marster, en 'e kyah git *er," said Essex, snapping his heavy jaws with bitter defiance.

" Dat a lie, Marster," growled Griffin ; " she, my

gal."

" Who is it you are talking about, Essex ? " asked my father.

" Hit Cindy, suh. Little Cindy."

There were two Cindys on the plantation — Big Cindy and Little Cindy.

Turning to a young girl who had been a witness to the fight, my father said : "Go tell Little Cindy to come here.''

Little Cindy was soon on hand, and was grinning as if perfectly delighted with what she had heard.

" Cindy," said my father, " these boys have been fighting about you — now which do you want ? "

The dusky damsel broadened her grin, shifted her weight from one foot to the other, dug her big toe into the soft earth, and said with a glance at the other girls now gathered for the fun : " I wants de one whut kin whup ; I want de bes' man. Dat whut I tell 'em."

That had been her decision, and the two rivals had met to decide the matter once for all in accordance with her decree.

" You know I do not allow the folks to fight, Cindy," said my father. " Now, Essex and Griffin shall not fight any more, but you may make choice between them : which one will you take ? "

"Well den, I'll tek Griffin," said Cindy, twisting her fingers together and blushing a blush that was never seen, because Little Cindy was as black as her great-grandmother, who came from the jungles of Africa.

'* Now then," said my father, " Cindy has settled this question, boys ; let that decision be final — we must have no more fighting."

Poor Essex! Resolute, game, tough, he would have fought Griffin to the death for Little Cindy, the apple of his eye, the fairest lily of the valley. Yes, he would have fought the whole world for Little Cindy ; but now all was lost. In his very presence, and with those very lips that to him had been so dear, Cindy had said without a tremor of the voice, " I'll tek Griffin." Without a word or even a glance toward the girl in ebony who had sealed his destiny, with eyes cast down, Essex slowly made his way toward his cabin door.

What did Griffin do? Well, not exactly what one would expect to see the fortunate lover in the " movies " do. Oh, no. Stooping to roll up one leg of his pantaloons above his knee, thereby exhibiting a bunch of magnificent muscles. Griffin opened his lips a little wider, showing two rows of as fine teeth as ever stuck in a human being's head, and said with suppressed delight: **Dat whut I tell dat nigger, Marster. Cindy love me. Dat whut make me fight Essick so hard."

The matter settled, my father made his way back to "De Big 'Ouse," where he related the whole affair i6 ON THE OLD PLANTATION

to my mother, who long years after that gave it to me in all of its details.

I loved Unc' Essick so that when my mother told me of Cindy's decision against him, I burst into tears. Then my loving, sympathetic mother, who had given twelve children to the world, drew the eleventh to her bosom, kissed away his tears, and said with a voice full of tenderness: "Never mind, my son; after a while you will be old enough to know that slavery has its tragedies."

II

Essex did not respond to roll-call the next morning when the big farm bell called the " hands " to work. The foreman investigated, and, after a thorough search of the premises, reported to my father that Essex was missing and could not be found.

Never before had Essex failed to respond for duty, being of perfect health and a willing, cheerful worker. So my father was naturally puzzled by his absence, the more so as it came so soon after the incident of the evening before.

" Dat coon done run'd off," said one of his fellow-slaves with a chuckle. " Uh-huh ! Dat right ! " chimed in a half-dozen. And then their speculations as to his future were amusing and ridiculous.

Essex had not blown out his brains, like some rejected lovers do, but had " jined the bird gang" sure enough, and was not seen again on the plantation for three long years — Essex was now a " runaway nigger."

My father was worried that the incident of the evening before should have had such a sequel, but he had such confidence in the sanity of the runaway that he believed he would return to his place after a few days, or after a few weeks at most. In that, however, he was mistaken. Essex had gotten a taste of freedom, and, though it was purchased at a terrible cost, he preferred it to slavery and ihe regular grind of farm life.

Of course, the runaway was legally advertised and reward offered for his capture. But week after week and then month after month passed, and nothing was heard of Essex. After a year, the reward offered was doubled, for Essex had been an obedient servant and valuable slave. Still no word of the runaway came, and father concluded that his negro was dead or had been captured by some unscrupulous parties and carried to the far South, as was sometimes done. Many a South Carolina negro found a grave in the canefields of Louisiana.

Not so with Essex. South Carolina and Georgia were good enough for him; and the Savannah River was to him a joy forever. Essex had been by odds the best swimmer on my father's place, and with that fact Cindy was twitted after she rendered her decision against him and in favor of Griffin, the expert wagoner. So when chased by the " nigger dogs," Essex, like the shrewd old buck of the forest in which he i8 ON THE OLD PLANTATION

slept, took refuge in the Savannah. Once in the river, he was perfectly safe ; for, besides having the endurance of the wild animal, he had intelligence and judgment far above the average slave. He knew the instinct and habits of the hound perfectly, and could fool him with greater ease than any buck or wildcat could.

Essex lived in the swamps and forests on both sides of the Savannah, not many miles from the City of Augusta, Georgia. He laughed at the ringing of the farm bells he heard, and, like the other wild animals of his habitat, he did most of his sleeping in daylight. Many a time he was chased by the besttrained dogs on either side of the river, but his fleetness of foot and uncommon shrewdness enabled him always to elude his pursuers and make good his escape. In the summer, he wanted no better sport than to slip into the river and kiss good-by to hound and hunter. When necessary, he could remain in the river as long as an otter. When the weather was favorable and the moon not too bright, he did his foraging for food after nightfall. The henroosts along the Savannah he knew much better than some of their owners knew them, and thought it not a crime to levy toll whenever his appetite called for fresh, fat fowl. A copper-colored woman on a Georgia plantation baked a ** pone of bread " for him occasionally, and regularly washed and mended his scanty supply of clothing.

The position of the runaway was unique. His freedom was purchased at a terrible price. With the silent stars his only sentinels, his house a hollow log or a hole in the ground, he had to be as sly as a fox and as alert as an Indian. Hunted by day and night, sometimes hungry and often cold, and with a constant dread of being betrayed by one of his own race, his life must have been a very hell. Essex stood it for three long years. He felt the pangs of cold and hunger, and many of the dogs that chased him he knew by name. These, the loud-mouthed, tireless " nigger dogs," were his most dreaded enemies. Firearms and poison he could not get; but, finding a bottle, he crushed it into small fragments, baked it in some bread, and fed it to the dogs, when their owners little dreamed that he was near. That meant sure death to the dogs.

Essex had a half-score of aliases. The wily, foxy, dog-killing runaway became the most notorious and best-hated negro in the two States. But the end came with Essex. Malinda, his " Georgia gal," was his Delilah. They quarreled, Malinda and Essex did, one night, and she betrayed him. In less than forty-eight hours he was behind prison bars in the City of Augusta.

Advised of the capture of his slave, my father went to Augusta, paid all costs, and brought Essex back to the home he had left three years before. Augusta was only seventy-five miles from home, so father drove through in his buggy.

Master and slave talked freely on the return trip. Essex answered with manifest sincerity all the questions my father put to him, and talked freely of his trying experiences and narrow escapes during those long years.

" Dat gal tell on me, suh ; dat Malinda tell de white folks. I could fool de dogs, but when dat yaller gal tell dem white folks, dey trap me."

Essex had been such a faithful negro, my father was curious to know just what motive prompted him to run away. He said to him : *' Essex, you have told me all about the hard times you have had, how you had your toes frost-bitten and how you suffered for food at times ; now I want you to tell me why you ran away. Did I not feed and clothe you well? And was I not kind to you 1 "

" Yas, suh, Marster; yas, suh, I nuver did get hongry at home, en you nuver did hit me narry lick. But it was dis way : I des nachily couldn' stan' it when Cindy say she tek Griffin an' lef me. I des couldn' stay on de same place an' see Little Cindy livin' wid Griffin. Marster, I sho would a kilt dat nigger — I des had to leave. Den, arter I git away, I taste how it is to be free, en I didn' come back. Marster, is Little Cindy livin'?"

" No, Essex ; Cindy is dead, and Griffin has married again."

"Gawd, Marster! Is Little Cindy dade?"— and the poor fellow rubbed the tears from his cheek on the rope with which his hands were tied.

** Yes, Cindy is dead."

" She was a good gal, Marster ; I loved dat 'oman."

Then the two men, master and slave, rode many miles without a word.

When the second day out from Augusta, and they were within a few miles of home, the black man said to his owner : " Marster, you alius treat me mighty good, en I bin a mean nigger to run'd off dat er way. I got nuff sleepin' in log, en runnin* tru brier patch. Ef you'll let me off dis time en not whup me, I'll be de bes' nigger on de place, en I won't run'd off no mo'."

My father looked the black man straight in the eye, then said deliberately : *' Essex, you never did tell me a lie; I believe you are speaking the truth now. I'm going to trust you."

" Fo' Gawd, Marster, I tellin' de trufe."

Then my father took out his knife and cut the rope with which Essex was bound.

" Now, Essex," said father, " you will live in the house with Big Tom and his wife until you can find you a wife. As soon as you get married, you shall have a house of your own."

In six weeks Essex had married Dinah, a good woman, and got a house of his own. He became the father of London, one of the two negroes that Mr. Lincoln freed for me. My father gave me London and Jack for my own.

III

Essex redeemed his pledge. He developed into " de bes' nigger on de place " ; and, after a few years of faithful service, was made the foreman. When I first knew him, though he was still in the prime of a vigorous manhood, his kinky hair was turning gray, and to all the children he was " Unc' Essick."

The average black man loves authority. Not so with Unc' Essick, though he accepted the place of foreman with all its responsibilities without a protest. He was prompt, accurate, exact, and demanded firstclass service from his fellows, but was always sympathetic, never arrogant. For an uncultured man — a black slave-man — he had high ideals of what constituted righteous living ; and up to these ideals he tried to hold his fellow-slaves without harshness or unkindness. The negroes, with few exceptions, loved Unc' Essick and trusted him impUcitly. My father, now in bad health, actually leaned on him, and counted himself fortunate in having as foreman a man of such fine judgment and one in all respects so absolutely trustworthy. Like the white people, the negroes, though slaves, had their petty jealousies. There were two or three men on the plantation who did not like Unc' Essick, and for no other reason than that he was promoted over them. They could not understand how the reformed runaway deserved more at my father's hands than they did. Through all the years they had been faithful, they claimed; now this man who had been away for three years was freely pardoned and highly honored. History was repeating itself, but they could not understand it.

I think every man looking back over his past life can call up some event or some incident that marks his first intelligent conception of the existence of things outside of himself; or the first distinct consciousness of his own identity. I do not remember Unc' Essick farther back than the day the first Secession speech was made on Secession Hill in the town of Abbeville, South Carolina. Unc' Essick and I were there. Father was there. I was still wearing dresses. That day I can never forget. I remember the great crowd of men and boys as they surged by me and around me. I recall even the frantic gesticulation of one of the speakers — the one, I guess, who promised to drink every drop of blood spilled in the War,

That was a strange, new world to me — the crowd, the speaking, the yelling, the little old women with the ginger cakes and cider — everything. And I stood it all with wide-open eyes and attentive ears until the cannon began to boom. That was more than I could stand. So I ran screaming to Unc' Essick. The faithful guardian pressed me trembling to his great, throbbing heart, and, brushing the tears from my cheeks with his big, rough hand, said with peculiar tenderness : ** Nuver min', honey, nuver min' ; don'

you know if dat big gun bodder dis chile, Unc' Essick chaw it up an' spit it out on de groun' ? "

Then I smiled, and I rested my head on his great, broad shoulder and pressed my cheek against the rough face of the black man. I felt safe now, perfectly safe. And I was. That man would have died for me. Did not my mother say to him when we left home that morning, " Now, Essex, take care of the baby ? " Yes ; Unc' Essick would have died that day for Missus's baby. And the baby knew it, and Missus knew it.

That evening, when the day's excitement was over and we were nearing home, Unc' Essick said to my father: " Marster, who gwine fight? I hear dem ge'men talk 'bout war, en fight, en blood — whut dey mean ? Do dey shoot one nudder ? " He really understood but little more of what he heard than the child that sat upon his knee.

My father explained the situation as fully as he could to Unc' Essick, and made him understand that war was terrible.

" Does dey stan' up en shoot one nu'er, Marster.'* "

" Oh, yes ; and thousands are killed in war, Essex."

" Gawd, Marster, how kin dey stan' up en let men shoot at 'em bedout runnin'? Why, dat night when dem paterrollers down in Georgia shoot at me en nip off a little piece of my year, I des quit runnin' en flewd. Yas, suh, I flewd."

I looked up into my father's face in time to catch a broad smile. " Yes/' he said, " I guess you came as near flying as a man ever did."

" Yas, suh, I sho flewd. A man kin fly when 'e git skeered 'nuff. All 'e got to do is to guide 'e foots — dey take 'im whar 'e gwine."

The next day a half-dozen neighbors called to discuss the political situation with my father, and with my mother, for she was a great reader and took as lively interest in public affairs as my father did. I was too young to understand much of what they said. But this much I caught: My father, shaking his head emphatically, said more than once : *' Gentlemen, it's a mistake — a terrible mistake — and the South will regret the day she brings on war."

But the South did secede; and though my father opposed the step, he seceded with his State. More than that, he invested his money in Confederate bonds.

The baby that heard the first speech on Secession Hill grew and grew rapidly, and, I am sure, was no better than the average boy with Irish blood in his veins. To me life was very real. The great out-ofdoors appealed to me strongly, as it does to this good day. Constantly exposed to the danger of being kicked or thrown by the mules, gored by the bulls, or butted by the billy goats, I was an object of special concern to my mother. In her solicitude for my safety, she appealed to Unc* Essick. She couldn't keep me in. Being courageous herself, she did not desire to do so. So she said : " Essex, do watch him as closely as you can ; he is so imprudent, so reckless, that I do not know when I may see him brought in mangled and torn."