THIS was a very happy year to me and to mamma. My little sister made her début, and she was so pretty and so charming that she was greatly admired and had a great many adorers. This added immensely to my pleasure in going out, and I think it was a great relief to mamma to have another very pretty daughter to be proud of. Two or three of the older girls were allowed to go to parties, too, and they were a charming lot, abounding in youth and joy. I cannot remember all, but some I was especially fond of come to me: Rosa Evans, a tiny little thing, as bright as a steel trap, with very fair skin and brown hair almost touching the floor, and so thick that it was hard for her to dispose of it on her small head; she had many serious admirers; she came from Society Hill, where every one had been so good to us during the war; Sophie Bonham, a charmingly pretty brunette, as quiet as a mouse, but none the less having many admirers, Charley and herself being great friends, he having by a miracle escaped without a broken heart from the all-conquering Serena; then came Maggie Jordan, who though not nearly so handsome, looked very like her sister Victoria, who had been one of the beauties of madame’s school when I was a little girl, and who was blown up on a steamer on the Mississippi when on her wedding-trip. I can remember the faces and individualities of others, but their names are too vague to attempt to record them. All this time I was too happy and too busy sometimes to be able to sleep! It was the greatest joy to me to have Jinty going out with me, and to see her so much admired; she had many charming steadies, and then we had some friends in common; I remember at this moment one man, older than the majority of our friends, Bayard Clinch, such a delightful man; he was her admirer but my friend. Altogether we had a very gay time. My own special friend was working so hard on the rice-plantation in the country that he did not very often get to town, and then, though I always knew when I entered a ballroom if he was there, without seeing him, by a queer little feeling, I always treated him with great coolness and never gave him more than one dance in an evening, for there were two kind of people I could not bear to dance with—the people whom I disliked and those I liked too much, and he was the only one in the second class. Besides, he had learned to dance in Germany, and had practised it at Heidelberg, and shot about the floor in an extraordinary manner, which endangered the equilibrium of the quiet couples, and that made me furious.
Charley was a beautiful dancer, and very popular, and I am afraid something of a flirt, with his great, sleepy, hazel eyes, but he was most sedate as an escort, as solemn as a judge, and the girls minded his injunctions absolutely in all social matters, which was a great mercy, for the etiquette in their home towns was by no means as strict as that dictated by St. Cecilia standards.
Before the school term was over this spring I received an invitation from Mrs. David Williams, to spend two months with Serena and Mary at their farm near Staunton, Virginia, which I accepted with delight, and began the preparation at once for my summer outfit, which would have to be a little more elaborate than what I prepared for a summer at Plantersville. When the time came for leaving, my uncle Chancellor Lesesne took me to the station and put me on the train. He gave me many directions as to my conduct on the journey, as it was looked upon as a very hazardous departure from custom for me to make the journey alone; among other charges that he gave he said: “My dear niece, let nothing induce you to let a young man speak to you! It would be most improper to enter into conversation with any man, but the natural questions which you might have to ask of an official of the road, whom you will recognize by his uniform.” Then he bade me an affectionate and solemn farewell, which started me with a lump in my throat. The end of the eight months of teaching, not to speak of my other activities, always found me in a shattered condition. Toward the end of the last month the dropping of a slate startled me into disgraceful tears, which were almost impossible to stop. I used to be quite touched at the great care the girls took not to drop a book or even a pencil, and those who had annoyed me the most by their recklessness in this respect were the most careful now; this was wonderful, for I was awfully cross and irritable. After settling myself in my place, and getting out my book and fan and everything else I could possibly need, Uncle Henry’s words came to my mind with renewed force. I had insisted that I was not at all afraid, and would rather travel alone than waste two weeks of my good holiday and invitation, waiting until a party was going on to Virginia, who said they would take charge of me. But Uncle Henry had succeeded in making me feel that I was courting danger, disaster, and insult, and my strained nerves were delighted to seize and elaborate that theme, so that when we got to the place where I had to change cars for Staunton (I am not sure, but I think it was Alexandria), I got out and stood by my trunk (which had to be rechecked here) in perfect despair; a very nice-looking, gentlemanly young man came up and said: “Can I do anything for you?” With the last remnants of composure, I said, “No, thank you,” and watched him with dismay disappear into the car. At last the conductor came and stood a second at the door of the car and called: “All ’board!” I made a dart to the car, saying to myself, “Let the trunk go; I don’t care,” and got up the steps and into the car, to find not a seat, so I stood in the middle of the crowded car, with my heavy blue veil down to conceal the marks of agitation on my face, and my valise in my hand. Fortunately, the conductor rushed through, and I managed to say: “My trunk is out there.” In his great haste he looked where I pointed, rushed to the baggage-car and sent two men, who ran, seized the trunk, and pitched it aboard just as the train started. The conductor came back and asked me why under the sun I had not spoken to him before, “that it was a very near thing, and that if the trunk had been left there, in all probability it would never have been seen again, as things were pretty unsettled in these parts.” I was in no condition to enter into conversation; my throat ached so that when I tried to tell the man that I had not spoken to him because I had not seen him, he had trouble in understanding me. The rest of my journey was short, fortunately, and my hearty reception restored my equanimity, but it was some time before I had recovered my voice and spirits enough to be able to narrate all my experiences, to the great amusement of the party. I tell all this because it is hard to believe that such a state of things could have ever been possible, when we see the ease and aplomb with which very young girls move about the world, from end to end literally. But that was fifty-three years ago, and surely there is no one who would not say that we have made a wonderful advance in sense.
The home life of this family always remains in my mind as a beautiful picture, each member doing his or her own part as perfectly as it could be done. Mr. Williams had shown his foresight and common sense in an uncommon way, for during the war, when it was by no means necessary, as they were wealthy, he had insisted that his daughters (who were attending a school kept by the De Choiseul family and were having a first-class education) should be taught to cook and to wash, for he said that to him it seemed likely that they would have much more use for these domestic arts than for the more ornamental branches; the combination had been altogether charming. Finding his property all gone, making it impossible to spend his winters in Florida and the summers in the mountains at their beautiful place at Flat Rock, he determined to sell both these delightful homes, not being willing for his family to live altogether in the enervating climate of Florida, and there was no chance of making a living at Flat Rock. So he sold them and bought a farm in Virginia, where they could spend winter and summer in a fine climate, and where he could cultivate the land and make a living. It had been almost impossible to bring on their handsome furniture, and it would have been most unsuitable to this farmhouse, so he had a workshop in which he manufactured the most delightful rustic chairs and couches and dressing-tables, which with pretty chintz cushions and curtains made the interior fascinating and unique. I would like to run on and give a full description of my perfect visit; but I must hasten to a close; only one little thing I must tell. Soon after I arrived we were invited to a dance. As I was sitting up in my room, reading, as I always did in the morning while the girls went to do their respective duties in the household—for they would not let me help in the smallest way, saying I was there for rest and must have it, and after a short struggle I gave in completely—Serena came in and asked what I was going to wear to the dance that night; I answered, my barège frock. “Oh, no, wear your white muslin, please.” I answered truly that it was not fresh enough, as I had worn it constantly before leaving home and had not had time to have it done up. Nothing would content her until I took it out for her to look at; then, to my surprise, she said: “Why, that is quite fresh enough; I will take it down for Mollie to smooth, and it will do nicely.” Of course I yielded, as I always did to Serena in the end, but I wondered over it, for the dress was really dirty. In the afternoon, when I came up to get ready, there was my frock spread out on the bed, beautifully done up! I flew down to the kitchen to thank Mollie, but she said: “You needn’t to thank me, ma’am; shure an’ ’twas Miss Serena as don it; she washed it, an’ she starched it, and she i’oned it, an’ her just drippin’ with the sweat.” I was overcome; to think of this beauty and belle, adored and spoiled by so many, doing this in order that her work-weary, plain little friend should look her best, for the barège was a pretty, nice new frock, but she did not think as becoming. I think such friendship is rare. I was to go to Baltimore for a short visit when I left the farm, and it was decided that I needed another frock; after discussing the important matter thoroughly Mrs. Williams said she thought a black silk was what I should have; I quailed at the expense of such a thing, but she said: “Bessie, you send and buy the silk and I will make it up.” So I sent and got ten yards of beautiful black silk, and my wonderful hostess cut, fitted, and made a most stylish walking-suit, the very joy of my heart. Of course, I helped with the sewing, but I could never have undertaken so handsome a costume alone. I left my dear friends with tears; it was leaving peace and joy and love behind.
March, 1869.
I AM holding on to every moment of my full happy life, for this is to be our last year in Charleston. Mamma has applied for her dower, and when it is assigned her, we will move into the country, as Charlie is to graduate this spring at the college, and Jinty’s education is complete, and Mamma prefers the country where Charlie can make a living by planting rice. Every one is happy over it but me; I cannot bear the thought of giving up my full life; but I try not to think about it until it comes, but to enjoy the present without alloy. Anyway we would have to give up this beautiful house for the creditors of the estate want to sell it.
I have so many delightful friends; one specially who has actually taught me to love poetry, by his persistence in reading it to me. I do believe I have always liked it in my heart, for among my most cherished books from the time I was fourteen are Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales given me by my first hero Cousin Johnston Pettigrew, and a little fat leather-bound copy of Homer’s Iliad, I never moved without these two. Then I liked Evangeline, and Hiawatha, but I never could get up any enthusiasm for The Lady of the Lake, so I had got into the habit of saying with a certain pride that I did not like poetry.
April. Every Friday evening Mr. Sass comes and we read Italian together, which is delightful. I have studied a little alone, and when I was about thirteen, to every one’s great amusement, I used to take an hour’s lesson in the afternoon, once a week, from M. Pose. I have always loved languages and Italian is especially beautiful, and in singing it is such a help to know it. Now we are reading Goldoni’s plays, and the Italian is so simple, it is very easy to read, very different from the Jerusalem, which we read first. My mind is so eager for knowledge, it is positively uncanny, it springs forward so to meet things, I fear me it is more than usually true of me that “Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers.”
I need ballast so much, if I had only had a man’s education. A good course of mathematics under a severe master would help me greatly, and I need help.
The only form of amusement that the young men could afford was boating, and soon after we began the school, Charlie sent to the plantation and got Brother to send down to him one of the rowboats. Rainbow, the pride of the plantation, had been lent to the Confederate Government, for use on the fortifications and we never got her back, but Brother sent the next best and it was a fine rowboat. Charlie named it the Countess, and he and his friends had great pleasure in her; Tom Frost, Arthur Mazyck, William Jervey, James Lesesne and himself were the crew, and they invited their girl friends to the most delightful moonlight rows. They went on long fishing trips on Saturdays and all their holidays, coming back happy but their faces pealing from sunburn. The exercise kept them in good health and spirits.
May, 1869. Things are moving on rapidly. When Mamma applied for her dower, she said she would take a sixth of the real estate in fee simple, instead of a third for life only; she has received information that the creditors appointed a board of Appraisers, to value the property and decide, and after careful valuation they have decided that the plantation, Chicora Wood, where she has always lived will constitute a sixth of the land in value, and have awarded her that. It is too delightful! and she is so happy, and we are all so happy, for the idea of giving up Chicora was dreadful, and we feared they would think it too valuable for a sixth. It has all to be repaired as the house is all torn to pieces, but Mamma has been so wonderful that she has invested more than a thousand dollars every year of the school, and she has begged Brother to engage carpenters and begin the restoration of the house and out-buildings at once, so that it will be ready for us next winter. I only wish my heart was not so heavy about going.
The packing up of all our belongings was a tremendous business, but in this as in everything else Charley was most efficient, and he did it with a good heart, as it was the greatest happiness to him that we were moving back to Chicora, and that he was going to plant the place. Jinty was also perfectly happy, the thought of being able to live on horseback once more filled her with joy. I, only, was downhearted; to me human nature had become more interesting than plain nature, and people more fascinating than plants. So I determined to apply for a place as music-teacher in the town of union, S. C., which had been held by a very charming friend of mine who played beautifully, Caro Ravenel. The family did not approve of my doing this as mamma thought I needed rest; anyway, we were to go to the pineland for the summer and I would not have to leave for union until the autumn.
I remember well the last Sunday we were to be in Charleston; during the service I was so moved that I had to put down my heavy veil to conceal my tears!
Just at this time a most wonderful thing happened: mamma got a letter from our cousin, John Earl Allston, of Brooklyn, N. Y., saying:
“My dear Cousin:
“I have placed to your credit in the Bank of Charleston the sum of $5,000, which I hope will be useful to you.
“You need feel no sense of obligation in receiving it, for it is not one-half of what my Cousin Robert, your husband, did for me and mine in the past. When my mother’s house was to be sold over her head, he bought it in and gave it to her, and many other things he did for us, and it is a great pleasure to me to be able to do this for his widow and family.”
Of course, this was as great a blessing as it was a surprise. It so happened that my mother had, in looking over some old papers recently, come upon a letter to my father, with a memorandum on the back in papa’s handwriting: “Application from John E. Allston, for an increase in the amount of allowance made to his brother Washington, as his health is much worse, and the expenses heavier; have directed that it be in future $500, instead of $300, as heretofore.” But she knew nothing about the purchase of the home.
It was too wonderful that this great good luck and mercy should come to us just at this moment, when it would enable mamma to buy things necessary to the beginning of the planting; for she not only had to repair the house at Chicora, but she would have to buy in her own horses and cows and oxen (which last are absolutely necessary to ploughing the rice-lands, as their cloven hoofs do not sink in the boggy land, in which a horse would go down hopelessly); also ploughs and harrows and wagons and carriages, all had to be paid for; so dear, unknown Cousin John had chosen the psychic moment to appear as deus ex machina.
Afterward Cousin John visited mamma at Chicora Wood, and we came to know and love him. He told with the most beautiful simplicity of the long and terrible struggle he had to make a living; like many an Allston he lacked entirely the commercial instinct, and it was much easier for him to spend money than to make it; but he had managed to have a home in Brooklyn, and support his wife and one daughter in very moderate comfort, until this adored only child reached the age of sixteen; then she grew pale and thin, without life, or spirit, or appetite, and terror seized the parents; the doctor called in said: “She must travel; this city air is killing her. Take her away at once to the mountains, and you may save her.” He had prescribed what to him seemed simple, but to the distracted father, who was straining every nerve just to provide daily food, it was utterly out of reach!
John Earl Allston had a very rich uncle, his mother’s brother, but once in the past, being in distress for money, he had written to ask a loan from him, not a large sum, and promising to pay by a certain date, when his income should come next. He not only did not receive the loan, but the refusal was almost insulting, to the effect that he, the uncle, had worked for his money, and he strongly advised his nephew to do the same, and not try to borrow. So Cousin John knew there was no use to apply to him again, and there was no one else; the war was going on, and so my father was not accessible, and he had just to watch his darling fade away and die. Then his wife was so agonized over the misery of seeing death creep nearer and nearer and finally take her lovely child, that her health gave way. The doctor when called made the same prescription: “The only way to save her is to give her change of air and scene.” As before, this was impossible, and she soon was laid beside her child. About a year after Cousin John was left desolate and alone, the uncle died, and he was notified that he had inherited a fortune! It was most terrible to him. All that money, one hundredth part of which could have saved his beloved wife and daughter, to spend on himself alone!
It was truly dust and ashes, and intensified his sorrow. Then, when he found himself getting bitter and unlike himself, he called a halt. “Cousin,” he said, “I made up my mind to spend my time in giving away my money while I was alive, and have at least the enjoyment of making people happy by a little timely present, and you don’t know how their letters have helped me, for I find so many to whom a few thousand dollars are as great a boon and relief as a few hundred would have been to me in my poverty. I did not know how much happiness I was going to get out of it.”
I think this is a good place to stop, for all of us were happy in the thought that my dear mother’s laborious life as the head of a large school was to end so happily, and that she would be able to rest and have time for the reading she so loved, and return to the country life which had become second nature to her, though conditions were so greatly changed, and she would certainly not have to complain of too many servants. I hope I have drawn her portrait and that of my father clearly enough for their children’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren to form some idea of their characters. It is with that hope and desire I have drawn this imperfect sketch, and I will be perfectly repaid for my efforts if I succeed in interesting them in the past.
I ASKED Daddy Ancrum to come some day and tell me all he could remember about the past, and this morning while I was reading the lessons to Clarinda in the front piazza we saw him coming through the gate, dressed in his Sunday clothes, with a very clean white shirt and a rather battered derby, but worn with such an air that you knew it was superfine and not worn every day. I wish I had a picture of the old man; seems to me he has such a lovely face in his old age; his figure is now bent, but up to a few years ago it was very erect and powerful. Old as he is, he gives me a better day’s work than any of the young ones. This is what he told me:
My mudder and fader was Ancrum and Henny, bought from Mr. Withers after de storm. The creditor come in and we haf fu sell. My ma tell me I ben five year old the March after the big storm. Maussa was a big man, he was just as supple, why maussa stan’ too fine. When he walk in Georgetown every man and woman had to look ’pon hum. When I cum to Georgetown dere was only two full selling stores in town. All was big house for lib in. When dem bring we to town for sell, dem put up all de fambly, my uncle, my aunty, my pa, my ma, and der cousin all together. Ole Mister Ben Allston come up to maussa and trow ’e arm round maussa neck, and he say: “Robert, step forward, the old Indigo Bank ain’t bruk yet.” Den maussa gon up and ’e buy we all; Mr. Waterman want to buy me for mek pilot on de sea, and he offer one tousand dolla, but maussa woodn’ let him have me. Ole maussa used to live in dat little house you got for study house. Maussa used to have all we chillun cum to de house and bring a shell and fill um with molasses, and we chillun ben dat happy and play round and maussa ben in de piazza and drop sleep, and we chillun lauf and say: “Luk a’ buckra de sleep.” De fust chile I min’ ben Clanda Ma Maria. When I tak dat chile fu nurse ober ribber I see maussa been dat supple dat I seen him myself jump across dat kenel. Den he choose me to send me up to Marion to old Uncle Joe, ’bout two miles from Warhee. I ben dey when maussa married and de nex’ yeah, when he gwine to de mounting, him gone trough day for see de place, and when he bring miss and Mas’ Ben just been ole nuff fu miss to travel, and Amy ben a nussing, Maum Milly and Da Jeam’s sister. Uncle Joe send me fu bring de colt out de field and I bring dem up so miss can see dem. Uncle Joe pint to me and he say: “Robert, that’s a smart boy. Please God you must take good care of him.” Den maussa laff and say “Yes.” Dem eat dinner under de wagon shed an de two sarvan, Amy the nuss and Hynes dribe de wagon, de Josey wagon, and maussa dribe de carriage. No, didn’t ben a carriage, ben a baruche, wid de top tun back. Dem gon on after dinner—den I nebber seen miss or maussa till I hear say de place in Marion sell to Mr. Tommy Godbald. Maussa had a hundred head of cattle and Mauma Milly mild 30 head ebery year and send down butter to miss and ebery year Uncle Joe drive from 60 to 100 head o’ hog. Dem had 500 acre of wild land—Oh, my Lawd, if you wanna see plum you must go dey, an’ apple an’ peach an’ walnut an’ eberyting to eat. Bob been a big young man, an Peter and Sampson and David, dem ben an’ outlan’ people Afrikan, one ben Gullah and one ben a Guinea—the Gullah ben a cruel people—and de Fullah ben a cruel people, but Guinea ben a tough workin’ people, an’ Milly ben a Guinea, milk de cow, mak de butta, and bile and scald—and ma Laud, you could pick up hominy off de flo’. Now, after mauss sol’ de place and all de cattle an’ hog, ’e only fech down de pepple and de hoss. When we come down him ben on de beach and he had annoder son name Robert. Him ben a longer jinted boy, him was a pretty boy, an’ I seen him grown till he had on long ap’un. Maussa say when I come hom I mus’n’t stop on de plantation dat night, I must go right over to the sheashore, but de day I come an’ Mary ben jus’ out of him time wid Billy, and him was to go down at dat time back to de beach wid de baby, and dem had to ge’ befo’ ’twas too late in de ebening, kase de baby was so young. My business was to cut marsh fo’ de hoss and pick clam fo’ de duck; dat was at Kerneern an’ I do dat an’ Mary Grice was de cook, te Amy ben de nuss, Uncle Hynes was de coach driver, Moses Barren was de butler, C?sar was de hosier, Maum Ria was de seamster, an’ Lavina was de fine seamster, and a gal name Cotter—an’ Uncle Jeams Gallant was a fisherman—I met dem dere when I cum fus and Sandy was de house boy, clean knife, rub mahogany, I tell you we had someting to do den. Den Miss Bly habe him sarvant ol’ lady Mary Bly was ’e right hand, Uncle Aleck was de coach driber, ol’ Uncle Stephen Bly ben de butler, but when him come to stay wid miss, him fish principal kase de was no wuck for him in de house. All dem supply cum from Friend-Field. Haklus was de cook, when Miss Bly ben home, but now him had not’ing to do but cut mash for de hoss, Miss Bly had t’ree horse, Hope, Victory, and Active. Jack was de tailor an’ Fannie his wife was Miss Bly seamster, Binna was de house gal, F’ederick was de boy go behind de carriage, open gate an’ ting. You ain’t know dat maussa own nearly all of Georgetown? Dat Pint used to plant in corn and dat place make all ’e own provision. I sell too much grass out o’ dat place. Mauss used to rule de whole shubang—gracious Lord, Miss Bessie, when I study an’ look back and ting—an’ fin’ out—you say you ben so po’ I kyant believe, kase ole maussa ben too rich—I know befoh de death of my ole maussa, he put on de pole boat 50 jimmy john o’ brandy an’ gin an’ rum foh tek up to Cheraw Bridge and put dem in Mr. Coker in sto’, and one boat carry 160 barrel of rice an’ one carry 140 barrel, an’ dem barrel hol’ 9 bushel an’ you ken pack 10 in ’em, not dem little kag you call rice-barrel now.
Maussa see somet’ing in me I didn’ see in myself, an’ he hol’ me bak all ’e cud, den after I ben in de house, an’ den he put me in de field for a while, and den he pint me to plow, an’ den when he put Peter in de field for ditch, an’ den ’e pint me to wait on Mr. Ellis. I wait on ’im about seven years, but one summah maussa wen’ travelling an’ to de No’th, den Mr. Ellis treat me so mean I run ’way an’ lef’ um. I done all ’e wuk an’ cut wood an’ do eberything an’ he pa cum dere sick, an’ when nite cum I hab to brush muskita off ’e pa, an’ I brush de muskita as long as I could keep awake, but I drop ’sleep and den Mr. Ellis cum in and fin’ me ’sleep, and take egvantage o’ me and beat me, an’ den I clean up an’ lef, and I ben in de wood till I hear maussa cum home. Den maussa didn’ keep Mr. Ellis anoder year, an’ after dat I gone in de held an’ after dat he take me fo’ plow-man ober ribber, an’ after dat on de high lan’—an’ den ’e make me captain of a gang in harvest, an’ I was a regular arrand man, I nebber wuck in de field no mo’—jes’ tek cha’ge of flat—carry supply to Waverly ebery week, when maussa was gov’ner, carry down poultry, vegetable, rice, butter to go down to miss in Charlestown, bring back molasses, sugar, rum, eberyt’ing, an’ one time I was to take de house sarvant to put on de boat to tek dem down to de town, dem was to cum on de flat, ’bout middle night, an’ dem nebber cum till day clean, an’ jus’ as dem come in, de boat gone. Nelson, William, and Fibby—Fibby in de house, was ole Daddy Thomas’ daughta, and he ask maussa to buy her, an’ ’e bought her and two chillun, Nancy and Jeams, an’ afterwards she married Leander, the mule tender. Cuffy was drowned swimming de ribber with Buie, an’ Sawney, too, dem had finish’ task soon, an’ so dem start home an’ swim de ribber, an’ Cuffy had a bucket tie’ round ’im neck and ’e fill with water an’ pull ’im down. I stan’ on de bank an’ seen ’im drown. When I get to Squirrel Crick wid de flat and de boat gone, an’ I hab to tek dat flat down to town, and dat tek me till after dinner, an’ I didn’t hab nuffin to eat ’cause I was only spectin’ to go to de mout’ of Squirrel Crick, an’ dat boat gone in to Waverly, tek a load of rice, an’ pass me on de way, an’ he gone into Keith field, an’ tek a load of rice, an’ pass me on de way, and when I get to town I ben mos’ dead, I ben dat hongry, an’ Fibby say to de captain, very polite, “Captain, can’ you gib these men something to eat, dey is mos’ dead.” Den de captain said: “Dinner is done, and there ain’t nutting but plenty of meat”; an’ he gib we plen’y of meat, an’ Fibby put ’e han’ in ’e pocket an ’e tek out a twenty-five cents, an’ give we, an’ he say you can each send a dozen eggs down to Charlestown sometime to me. An’ we gone an’ buy rice.
After de wah come on and de sea all blockage an’ maussa send me in charge o’ 22 han’ to wuck on fortification. In June I was wuckin ober de ribber an’ maussa sen’ foh me, fust de Driver Richard was to tell me, but he didn’t wan’ me to go, and I didn’t wan’ to go, and I gone ober ribber ’gen in m’ task—and Mr. Belflowers sen’ foh me, an’ after maussa cum an’ see me ben a fight foh hoe out m’ corn, den maussa tell me I ken tek dat day fu finish m’ corn, den Paul say we mus’ leave at twelve or we can’ ketch de train.
Maussa tell me, ’e say: “Boy, you see nobody hurt my hands, you ask the name of the person in charge and let me know, and when you go anywhere to work, you ask the captain to put you in a tent by yourself, with your own men, don’t mix up with other people.” Now maussa tell me dat t’ree time’, an’ “Boy,” he say, “go to my yaad when you get to Charleston.”
We ben dere a good while, an’ one day maussa cum in a bright kerrige, an’ eberybody hurrah, an’ maussa cum to we an’ ’e say: “Well, boy, how you gettin’ on?” An’ I say: “Not well, maussa. I los’ one of me man, Pompey, an’ de res’ sick, an’ dis place don’ ’gree wid dem.” He say: “Well, you can’t go till your wuck dun.” “My maussa, dis wuck’ll nebber done. We’ll dun, but de wuck won’t dun, we’s all sick.”
Maussa say: “Well, boy, if dat so you ken leave to-morrow. You meet me in Charlestown Monday; this is Saturday. Don’t let any of the hands go over to Charlestown until you go.” Jackson, Fibby’s brother, wen’ off, but I couldn’t stop him. Monday we was to walk to Charlestown, maussa tell de cap’ain put dem cross de bridge, but he didn’ put we over till eleven o’clock, so maussa had to put we on de mail train. When we get to Salters he tell Sam to give we each four quart of rice an’ then Paul Bryan drive we in de wagon four miles and maussa tol’ us to take two days to get home, bu’ we cum righ’ ’ome dat same nite. I tell you him been a number one maussa dat. Him’ll nebber back down from a man in trouble. He’ll save you if you is to save! The night we left the wuk, Mr. King was killed that day.
When we got home maussa send me to a place called Britton’s Neck, dere ’e was clearing up land to plant. After dat maussa bring me down and put me in a flat, and I carry de rice from Waverly Mill to Kingstree. He sent Saundy fust, den maussa cum to Britton’s Neck, an’ tell me: “Boy, I want one flat from Nightingdale Hall, three from Chicora, and two from Guendalow, take all to Waverly, and all take turns an’ load and then start together, and go up the Black River to Kingstree, to the double bridge.”
You couldn’t pole in Waccamaw, you had to row, an’ you couldn’t pole in Black River ’til you get to Mr. Green, Rockingham, then you ken fin’ sum polin’ bottom. Sawny flat maussa put 111 barrel and one week after maussa sen’ me an’ tell me to ketch Sawny, an’ Sawny ben unload, an’ Mr. Shaw tek de rice an’ haul half a mile about to de depot an den de railroad tek dem. Was a good deal of bad weather, and dat way it tuk me two weeks—Nightingdale flat only make one trip, but de odder five flat tek rice from Waverly to Kingstree three years, an’ after dat maussa had two boat build, an’ send me an’ Joe Washington in charge of dem. My wife Maggie was a healthy woman ’til she begin to breed, but after that maussa put her to mind de sheep. Maussa say he nebber had any one fu’ mind sheep like she. When she call to de sheep “Come back here,” dey just wheel right round; when I gone on de boat up ribber, maussa say my wife is very sick, she was at de pint of death; I was near Cheraw—we wus aground three days, and we couldn’t go, and I pray, an’ I pray, an’ I pray, dat night, ’cause I couldn’t lef’ de boat on de road and de Lawd sen’ a big rain dat night and raise de ribber thirty feet, and we gone up an’ git out de load an’ gone right back home. An’ maussa tell me I mus’ put Maggie on de boat, to go up, an’ I must walk and drive up de sheep Mr. George Jeams had bought from him. “An’ you must drive them up to him, and then you go on to a place I bought with my own money, and I got ninety-five fine, good, prime people up there and I want you to take charge of the place—those people can’t make feed enough there to keep them four months; now I want you to see if you can make a crop up there.” Den I say: “Maussa, what can I do with my cow and calf; I kyant left them.” Him say: “Well, take them right along with you.” Den I say: “Maussa, I got ninety sheep fu’ carry, and my cow got a raging calf, an’ how can I tek them all along, on dat journey all by myself.” Den maussa say: “You can take Michael with you, till you get to Lynch’s Creek, where two men will meet you and take the sheep.”
Well, I start from de farm and de sheep travel so slow, and so tired, I never gone no fadder dan Mr. Blank way to union Church; I stay dere dat night, an’ de next day I gone to Lynch’s Creek, an’ I wait dere, an no man nebber come for de sheep, an’ I just gone on an’ tek de sheep and cattle, and when de man cum for de sheep dey had to follow me about twenty miles, an’ den I tu’n Michael back an’ I mek time on, an’ when I get to de place, maussa send me to take charge of Morven, an’ I tek charge, an’ fust I build a house for Maggie, when ’e come, and I ben dere three week before Maggie cum. She had Pattie, and Kissie, and Pauline, and Aham; an’ Peter, an’ Peter Sweet’s Louisa was on de boat, in delicate state, an’ Maggie had to put dem to bed on de boat. An’ when I ben dere one month maussa come, an’ I been a clear ground when he come—he call fo’ me and Mr. Yates, the agent, and Mr. Balentine, the obershear; Mr. Yates sit near de fire, wid maussa, I stand behind, and maussa say: “Well, Anchum, I bring you here to try and make a crop for me, and Mr. Balentine, I want you to put everything in his charge—he is to order the work, and he is to do the punishment, and I want you to put the keys in his hands too.”
An’ den I say: “Maussa, I well onderstan’ de wuck, an’ I’ll tek charge of dat, but I don’t want to tek no key.” An’ maussa say I must. But when maussa gone, I slip de key back in Mr. Balentine’s hand an’ say, “I don’ want de key, you keep de key,” an’ maussa say to me: “You feed my horse and you feed Mr. Balentine’s horse too, and your daughter Patty milk the cow.” But I wouldn’t let Patty milk, ’cause I wouldn’t run ’cross Amy, him been a’milk, and I know what was going on, an’ I knows dem people been eat de meat out o’ de smoke-house, an’ I know dem would tu’n it on me—so I wait till we fin’ out, an’ Mr. Balentine gib dat man, Chance Grate, an’ he an’ Abram Hynes an’ himself were partners, and when Chance tuk some one else in the smoke-house without tell Abram he get mad an’ tu’n State evidence an’ tell me, an’ I must ask Mr. Balentine: “Y’ miss any meat?” An’ he say “No.” An I say: “Dat strange, ’cause Chance has got some; you’d better look.” An’ he gone in de smoke-house, an’ miss a lot. He had kill an’ cure fifty hog, and the meat ought to ben dere. When Mr. Balentine gone to count de meat he find half gone, den he gone with me to Chance house, an’ dere he find two hams an’ a shoulder, an’ Mr. Balentine give him a big licking, ’til he confess how he done it. Den I stop him, I hold ’e hand an’ I say: “Maussa only want de trut; he don’t allow lick after dat, not another cut.” Dere was two rice-barrel pack wid 300 bottle of ole wine in de cellar at Morven. I wucked and wucked and made a fine crop of peas, corn, and potatoes. Mr. Evans come up with ole miss to look at de crop, w’en I let her know I had housed de corn, one passel was shucked clean, an’ Mista Evans, when he look at it, estimate 1,000 bushel of corn. Howsumeber, in de fall in February we hear de Yankees was bombarding Chiraw; eberybody was trying to get away from dat side, as de bridge was burned by we people. Two soldiers cum one nite an’ ask me to let them spend de night—dey was what de people call de “Georgia Wild Cat.” Dey say: “Ole man, de Yankees will be here before nine to-morrow morning.” Dey hadn’t sooner gone away from de house next morning, when de whole place was surround wid soldier, and dey call on de men to surrender. What dey call de picket guard cum fust, and ax dat Daddy Hammedy fo’ de key, an’ when him hesitate, dem say, “I don’t want no key,” an’ he just rushed up and kicked de door in, an’ rushed in, and run up-stairs, and cum down with a bag full of silver, an’ forks and spoons an’ plate an’ dat man say: “Ole man, de man dat own dis place must be a hell of a rich man, he got such fine tings.” An’ I say: “Yes, sir, my master is a powerful rich man.” Den de oders run in an’ git more; den dey gone—den we tought dey was all gone, when on a sudden de whole place full of people, from every corner—dey seem to rise right out de ground; now dis was de infantry, an’ dey cum to station dere, and dey station dere for one week. Dem people just run dat grits-mill from de time day cum; dey just grind all de corn we mek, an’ in a half hour de smoke-house was empty, and dey kill and dey fetch in, and dey kill and dey fetch in, and dey kill and dey fetch in, an’ I got tired of it, I was sassy to them; I was wore out. Me an’ Hammedy was de only man on de place; I jus’ had to stey by de captain to perteck me and dese womens—den he put a guard an’ tell dem to shoot any soldier dat went to burn or trouble de people. By de time dey was gone dere was nothing left but de rough rice—400 bushels—an’ dey couldn’t manage dat; dey took all de corn, and if it hadn’t been for de rice we would have starved. The Yankees left on Tuesday, an’ de next Sunday Mr. Yates sent me word, I must take de people an’ left at once; we must take de road, man, woman, and chillun; we must be gone Monday night—that I must take de hands and march off at once. I send George Green to tell miss, say “Come at once,” and Tuesday miss cum, Daddy Eleck drive ’um, and Miss Bessie cum wid um, an’ Mista Evans ride ’long side, an’ miss say “What’s matter?” an’ I say: “Mr. Yates drive we, say we must lef’.” Then miss say, “Well, turn to work, repair de land and plant what you can”; but I say: “Miss, I want to go home.” Miss laugh and say: “Where is your home, Acrum?” I say: “Wherever you is, miss, dere is my home.” An’ miss say: “Well, if you go home now, ’tis too late to plant crop, so you had better plant your crop here, so by fall you can go after you gather the crop.” So we done so, an’ we mek a fine crop of corn and peas, an’ when de time cum for to move, all de people what didn’t have chillun tek dey fut an’ gone, an’ we big fambly couldn’t do dat, an’ I study, an’ I study an’ at las’ I say to Daddy Hammedy: “You an’ your son is carpenter, and you can mek a flat; I can tek a man an’ cut down some big dead pine, an’ haul dem in, an’ we got saw-mill, and we can mek flat, and so we done, an’ in two weeks after we done gather in de crop we had de flat done and ready to start on a Saturday; den we say we will move next week, and de people say let’s go now, and so we done, but de oxen and ting worry me. Ole miss had send Mr. Yates and Mr. Balentine away an’ got a young man name John Shaw in charge, and he done just what I say. Den I puswade March—he had a ole horse he pic’ up—to tek de oxen down to ole miss to Society Hill, wid de hoss, and he done so. We started Sunday evening at four o’clock, and we did not get down to Chicora until de next Sunday night in de night. Me and Daddy Hammedy, an’ his wife Mary Ann, an’ my wife Maggie, an’ his daughter Tyra, an’ granddaughter Cherry, my chillun—Patty, Elizabeth, Pauline, Kizzie, Aham, and the baby Kilpatrick, then York Blye and Mary, his wife, and Joseph, Betsy, March’s wife, Leah, and Hetty, and Flora, Phenix, and his wife Elizabeth, and his daughter Mary, and his daughter Miley, and Lucy. When I got off to Chicora everything been tear up, people don gone crazy; now, when I left my house maussa tell me no one was to stay in my house till I come. I come back and find Moses in my house. I gone right in an’ mek Moses come right out. Now Mauss Ben he done puty by me; I had nine head to feed, an’ Mauss Ben say he feed them all fo’ my wuck, so Mauss Ben feed my family fu’ dat year, and feed dem well, an’ we mek fine crop o’ rice. The fust contract was you fu’nish land and seed and animals an’ get two-thirds; I fu’nish wuck and get one-third. Every day I didn’t wuck was deduct’ from my share.
Daddy Ancrum advised a change to one-half, the hands to furnish the work animals as well as their own work, and the owner furnish the land in good fix, and seed rice, and it was divided equally in half. (This proved very successful, as they had their own work animals.)
The End