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Phyllis Green, when asked by her mistress if she did not think the slaves were better off in this country where they were taught religion and better ways of living, replied: "I aint know, cause dem as could fly flew home. Dat same ting happen down at Sol Legare fore rebble time."
Phyllis was referring to a legend of Solomon Legare Island (part of James Island). An extensive slave owner had brought over a new batch of blacks direct from Africa. According to the custom of the time this group was given two weeks in which to adjust themselves to their new surroundings before they were set to work. But in the opinion of Phyllis, supported by the legend itself, these were not ordinary beings. "When dey left by dey self you could hear a tapping, tapping, tapping all day and all night. And dey would not crack dey teet to dem" (would not speak to anyone).
Finally, the time came for the slave driver to call them to work with the crack of his whip. "Dey come out and dey stretch out dey han jest like dey gwine to tek de tools to wuk like de rest. But when dey stretch dey han dey rise. At middle day you could see dem far out ober de ocean. At sundown you could hear 'o voice, but dey couldn't shum no mo'. Dem gone home."
Source: Phyllis Green, servant of Mrs. J. F. Townsend, 29 Rutledge
Boulevard, Charleston, S. C.
(Green, Phyllis, Cassells R. Tiedeman, Charleston, S.C.)
The mistress was telling her old servant about a call that her pastor had to go to Georgia to take charge of a church there.
"O! miss, don't you know 'bout Georgy, 'o musn't go dere."
"Why Phyllis?"
"Well it dis a way. It was Christmas morning an' de Lord was looking ober all 'o property. 'E was walking along down de road an' de debbul jump out an' say, 'Christmas gift', to 'em, den when de Lord see how 'e done caught, 'e know he hab to gib de debbul somet'ing, so 'e look round an' steady (study) what de best t'ing to do. An' den 'e say to de debbul, 'I gib you Georgy.' Dat why Georgy been so bad a place."
Phyllis was laughing to herself one morning when her mistress came into the kitchen.
"Miss - when I came to wuk dis morning I pass a colored man, 'e was dat drunk I bus out laughing right off an' 'e say, 'Phyllis, don't you laugh at no drunk man, aint you know dat what made you black, cause Ham 'e laugh at 'e pa when 'e was drunk an' 'e cuss em. Dat why we is black today.'"
Phyllis Green, a splendid type of the low country Gullah negro, described the services taking place in two churches that she passed on her way home as follows: "You know when I been come home an' pass dat church on de corner, I hear de poor choir dis strain so, an' aint a God's soul in dere to he'p em, an' when I look an' saw 'nough of people to come out, I say 'do Jesus is dat de best dey can do?' Dat church been full up wid rustycats. (aristocrats). Dem don't want to hear 'e boice, (voice) but nebber mind when death come den you hear dem sing. Dey dast not sing den. Den I gone on down de street an' pass an oder church. I could hear dat preacher mos' two blocks. I aint mind hear em ef 'e stick to what 'e been wanna preach. 'E warn't any wishpering (whispering) preacher, an' dem does sing in dat church as sweet an' loud as any colored people.
In we church we pay em for hear 'e boice. I aint mind ef 'e mash me foot, I can draw em een (in) enty. I want em mash me foot ef I gib em 'casion.
(Hampton, Wade D., Columbia, S.C., Stiles N. Scruggs, Columbia, S.C.)
Grey, Adeline
82 YEAR OLD Ex-Slave
Adeline Grey seemed in good health as she sat before her granddaughter's comfortable fire. She spoke quietly, with little excitement, and a ready recall of events of her early childhood.
"I was a girl when freedom was declare, an' I kin remember 'bout de times. My Ma used to belong to ole man Dave Warner. I remember how she used to wash, and iron, an' cook for de white folks durin' slavery time.
"I member when de Yankees come through. I was right to de old boss' place. It was on de river side. Miss Jane Warner, she was de missus. De place heah now - where all de chillun raise. Mr. Rhodes got a turpentine still dere now - jes after you pass de house. Dey burn de ginhouse, de shop, de buggyhouse, de turkeyhouse an' de fowlhouse. Start to set de cornhouse afire, but my Ma say: 'Please sir, don't burn de cornhouse. Gie it to me an' my chillun.' So dey put de fire out. I member when dey started to break down de smokehouse door, an' ole Missus come out an' say: 'Please don't break de door open, I got de key.' So dey quit. I remember when dey shoot down de hog. I remember when dey shoot de two geese in de yard. Dey choked my Ma. Dey went to her an' dey say: 'Where is all de white people gold an' silver?' My Ma say she don't know. 'You does know!' dey say, an' choke her till she couldn't talk. Dey went into de company room where de ole Miss was stayin' an' start tearin'
up de bed. Den de captain come an' de ole Miss say to him: 'Please don't let 'em tear up my bed,' an' de captain went in dere an' tell 'em 'Come out!.
De ole Miss wasn't scared. But de young Miss May was sure scared. She was courtin' at de time. She went off an' shut herself up in a room. De ole Miss ask de captain: 'Please go in an' talk to de Miss, she so scared'.' So he went in an' soon he bring her out. We chillun wasn't scared. But my brother run under de house. De soldiers went under dere a-pokin' de bayonets into de ground to try to find where de silver buried, an' dey ran 'cross him. 'What you doin' under heah?' dey say. 'I'se jes runnin' de chickens out, sir,' he say. 'Well, you kin go on out,' dey say. 'We aint gwine to hurt you.'
'I remember when dey kill de hog an' cook 'em. Cook on de fire where de little shop been. Cook 'em an' eat 'em. Why didn't dey cook 'em on de stove in de house? Didn't have no stoves. Jes had to cook on de fireplace. Had an oven to fit in de fireplace. I remember when my Ma saw de Yankees comin' dat mornin' she grab de sweet potatoes dat been in dat oven and throw 'em in de barrel of feathers dat stayed by de kitchen fireplace. Jes a barrel to hold chicken feathers when you pick 'em. Dat's all we had to eat dat day. Dem Yankees put de meat in de sack an' go on off. It was late den, 'bout dusk. I remember how de Missus bring us all 'round de fire. It was dark den.
'Well chillun,' she say, 'I is sorry to tell you, but de Yankees has carry off your Ma. I don't know if you'll ever see her any mo.' Den we chillun all start cryin.' We still a-sittin' dere when my Ma come back. She say she slip behind, an' slip behind, slip behind, an' when she come to a little pine thicket by de side of de road, she dart into it, drop de sack of meat dey had her carryin, an' start out for home. When we had all make over her, we say to her den: 'Well why didn't you bring de sack of meat 'long wid you?'
Dey took de top off ole Marse John carriage, put meat in it, an' made him pull it same as a horse. Carry him way down to Lawtonville, had to pull it through de branch an' all. Got de rock-a-way back though - an' de ole man. I remember dat well. Had to mend up de ole rock-a-way. An' it made de ole man sick. He keep on sick, sick, until he died. I remember how he'd say: 'Don't you all worry'. An' he'd go out in de orchard. Dey'd say: 'Don't bother him! Jes let him be! He want to pray!' Atter a while he died an' dey buried him. His name was John Stafford. Dey Massa wasn't dere. I guess he was off to de war.
"But after freedom was de time when dey suffered more dan before. Dese chillun don't know how dey blessed. My Ma cooked for de white folks for one year after freedom.
I remember dey cook bread, an' dey ain't have nuthin' to eat on it. Was thankful for a combread hoe cake baked in de fireplace. But dey had some things. Had buried some meat, an' some syrup. An' dey had some corn. My Ma had saved de cornhouse. De rice burn up in de ginhouse. After freedom, dey had to draw de best thread out of de old clothes an' weave it again. Ole Miss had give my Ma a good moss mattress. But de Yankees had carry dat off. Rip it up, throw out de moss, an' put meat in it. Fill it full of meat. I remember she had a red striped shawl. One of de Yankee take dat an' start to put in under his saddle for a saddle cloth. My brother go up to him an' say: 'Please sir, don't carry my Ma's shawl. Dat de only one she got.' So he give it back to him. To keep warm at night, dey had to make dere pallet down by de fire; when all wood burn out, put on another piece. Didn't have nuthin' on de bed to sleep on.
"I remember when de ole Miss used to have to make soap, out of dese red oaks. Burn de wood, an' catches de ashes. Put de ashes in a barrel wid a trough under it, an' pour de water through de ashes. If de lyewater dat come out could cut a feather, it was strong.
"Used to weave cloth after freedom. Used to give a brooch (hank) or two to weave at night. I'se sometimes thread de needle for my Ma, or pick out de seed out de cotton, an' make it into rolls to spin. Sometimes I'd work de foot pedal for my Ma. Den dey'd warp de thread. If she want to dye it, she'd dye it. She'd get indigo - you know dat bush - an' boil it. It was kinder blue. It would make good cloth. Sometimes, de cloth was kinder strip, one strip of white, an' one of blue. I remember how dey'd warp de thread across de yard after it was dyed, an' I remember seein' my Ma throw dat shuttle through an' weave dat cloth. I member when de ole Miss made my Mamma two black dresses to wear through de winter. She'd keep 'em clean; had two so she could change.
"I don't know why dey didn't burn de house. Must have been 'cause de captain was along. De house dere now. One of de chimney down. I don't think dey ever put it up again. Colored folks are in it now.
"I never did know my Pa. He was sold off to Texas when I was young. My mother would say, 'Well, chillun, you aint never known your Pa. Joe Smart carry him off to Texas when he went. I don't guess you'll ever see him.' My father was name Charles Smart. He never did come back. Joe Smart come back once, an' say dat our father is dead. He say our Pa had three horses an' he want one of them to be sent to us chillun heah; but no arrangements had been made to get it to us. You see he had chillun out dere, too.
"Atter freedom, my Ma plow many a day, same as a man, for us chillun. She work for ole man Bill Mars. Den she marry again. Part of de time dey work for Mr. Benny Lawton, de ono-arm man, what lost his arm in de war. Dese chillun don't know what hard times is. Dey don't know how to preciate our blessings.
Source: Adeline Grey, 82-year old resident of Luray, S. C.
(Project #1655, Everett R. Pierce, Columbia, S. C.)
