Slave Narratives, Oklahoma

V >> Various >> Slave Narratives, Oklahoma

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I went over the battlefield at Knoxville, Tennessee, two or three
hours after the Yankees and the Rebels had a battle. It was about a
mile from our house, and I walked over hundreds of dead men lying on
the ground. Some were fatally wounded, and we carried about six or
seven to our house. I saw the doctor pick the bullets out of their
flesh.

When the Yankees came they treated the slave owners awful mean. They
drew a gun on my mother, made her walk for several miles one real cold
night and take them up on the top of a mountain and show them where a
still was. They would make her cook for 'em. They took every thing we
had. I was about twelve years old at that time.

I stayed there with my mother until after my father died, then we
moved to Alabama. I was about 22 years old. I married a man named
Kelley. He and my brothers were railroad graders. We traveled all over
Texas.

I made the Run. Came here in '89 with my mother, husband and eight
children. My husband and brothers graded the streets for the townsite
of Oklahoma City and platted it off.

When we made the Run, we just stood on the property until it was
surveyed, then we'd pay $1.00, and the lot was ours. I camped on the
corner of Robinson and Pottawatomie Streets and Robinson and
Chickasaw. I owned the Northwest corner. I later sold both lots.

I am a Christian, Baptist mostly, I guess, and I believe in the Great
Beyond. I don't think you have to go to church all the time to be
saved, but you have to be right with the Man up yonder before you can
be saved.

I am a Republican, and it makes my blood boil whenever I hear a negro
say he is a democrat. They should all be Republicans.

I have been married twice. I married William Cunningham here in 1922.
He is dead; in fact, both my husbands are dead, so I don't see much
need of talking about them.

Oklahoma Writers' Project
Ex-Slaves
[Date stamp: AUG 19 1937]

WILLIAM CURTIS
Age 93 yrs.
McAlester, Oklahoma

"Run Nigger, run,
De Patteroll git ye!
Run Nigger, run,
He's almost here!"

"Please Mr. Patteroll,
Don't ketch me!
Jest take dat nigger
What's behind dat tree."

Lawsy, I done heard dat song all my life and it warn't no joke
neither. De Patrol would git ye too if he caught ye off the plantation
without a pass from your Master, and he'd whup ye too. None of us
dassn't leave without a pass.

We chillun sung lots of songs and we played marbles, mumble peg, and
town ball. In de winter we would set around de fire and listen to our
Mammy and Pappy tell ghost tales and witch tales. I don't guess dey
was sho' nuff so, but we all thought dey was.

My Mammy was bought in Virginia by our Master, Hugh McKeown. He owned
a big plantation in Georgia. Soon after she come to Georgia she
married my pa. Old Master was good to us. We lived for a while in the
quarters behind the Big House, and my mammy was de house woman.

Somehow, in a trade, or maybe my pa was mortgaged, but anyway old
Master let a man in Virginia have him and we never see him no more
'till after the War. It nigh broke our hearts when he had to leave and
old Master sho' done everything he could to make it up to us.

There was four of us chillun. I didn't do no work 'till I was about
fifteen years old. Old Master bought a tavern and mammy worked as
house woman and I went to work at the stables. I drove the carriage
and took keer of the team and carriage. I kept 'em shining too. I'd
curry the horses 'till they was slick and shiny. I'd polish the
harness and the carriage. Old Master and Mistress was quality and I
wanted everybody to know it. They had three girls and three boys and
we boys played together and went swimming together. We loved each
other, I tell ye.

Old Master built us a little house jest back of de tavern and mammy
raised us jest like Old Mistress did her chillun. When I didn't have
to work de boys and me would go hunting. We'd kill possum, coon,
squirrels and wild hogs. Old Master killed a wild hog and he give
mammy her ten tiny pigs. She raised 'em and my, at the meat we had
when they was butchered.

They had lots of company at de Big House, and it was de only tavern
too, so they was lots of cooking to do. They would go to church on
Sunday and they would spread their dinners on the ground. My, but they
was feasts. We'd allus git to go as I drive the carriage and mammy
looked after the food. We had our own church too, with our own
preacher.

We had a spinning house where all the old women would card and spin
wool in de winter and cotton in de summer. Dey made all our clothes,
what few we wore. Us boys just wore long tailed shirts 'till we was 12
or 13 years old, sometimes older. I was 15 when I started driving the
fambly carriage and I got to put on pants then.

Our suits was made out of jeans. That cloth wore like buckskin. We'd
wear 'em for a year before they had to be patched.

We made our own brogan shoes too. We'd kill a beef and skin it and
spread the skin out and let it dry a while. We'd put the hide in lime
water to get the hair off, then we'd oil it and work it 'till it was
soft. Next we'd take it to the bench and scrape or 'plesh' it with
knives. It was then put in a tight cabinet and smoked with oak wood
for about 24 hours. Smoking loosened the skin. We'd then take it out
and rub it to soften it. It was blacked and oiled and it was ready to
be made into shoes. It took nearly a year to get a green hide made
into shoes. Twan't no wonder we had to go barefooted.

Sometimes I'd work in the wood shop, dressing wagon spokes. We made
spokes with a plane, by hand on a bench.

I didn't have much work to do before I was 15 except to run errands.
One of my jobs was to take corn to the mill to be ground into meal.
Some one would put my sack of corn on the mule's back and help me up
and I'd ride to the mill and have it ground and they'd load me back on
and I'd go back home.

I remember once my meal fell off and I waited and waited for somebody
to come by and help me. I got tired waiting so I toted the sack to a
big log and laid it acrost it. I led my mule up to the log and after
working hard for a long time I managed to get it on his back. I
climbed up and jest as we started off the mule jumped and I fell off
and pulled the sack off with me. I couldn't do nothing but wait and
finally old Master came after me. He knowed something was wrong.

Old Master was good to all of his slaves but his overseers had orders
to make 'em work. He fed 'em good and took good keer of 'em and never
made 'em work iffen they was sick or even felt bad. They was two
things old Master jest wouldn't 'bide and dat was for a slave to be
sassy or lazy. Sometimes if dey wouldn't work or slipped off de farm
dey would whip 'em. He didn't whip often. Colored overseers was worse
to whip than white ones, but Master allus said, "Hadn't you all rather
have a nigger overseer than a white one? I don't want to white man
over my niggers." I've seen the overseer whip some but I never did
get no whipping. He would strip 'em to the waist and whip 'em with a
long leather strop, about as wide as two fingers and fastened to a
handle.

When de war broke out everthing was changed. My young Masters had to
go. T. H. McKeown, the oldest was a Lieutenant and was one of the
first to go. It nigh broke all of our hearts. Pretty soon he sent for
me to come and keep him company. Old Master let me go and I stayed in
his quarters. He was stationed at Atlanta and Griffin, Georgia. I'd
stay with him a week or two and I'd go home for a few days and I'd
take back food and fruit. I stayed with him and waited on him 'till he
got used to being in the army and they moved him out to fighting. I
wanted to go on with him but he wouldn't let me, he told me to go back
and take care of Old Master and Old Mistress. They was getting old by
then. Purty soon Young Master got wounded purty bad and they sent me
home. I never went back. I got a "pass" to go home. Course, after the
war nothing was right no more. Yes, we was free but we didn't know
what to do. We didn't want to leave our old Master and our old home.
We stayed on and after a while my pappy come home to us. Dat was de
best thing about de war setting us free, he could come back to us.

We all lived on at the old plantation. Old Master and old Mistress
died and young Master took charge of de farm. He couldn't a'done
nothing without us niggers. He didn't know how to work. He was good to
us and divided the crops with us.

I never went to school much but my white folks learned me to read and
write. I could always have any of their books to read, and they had
lots of 'em.

Times has changed a lot since that time. I don't know where the world
is much better now, that it has everthing or then when we didn't have
hardly nothing, but I believe there was more religion then. We always
went to church and I've seen 'em baptize from in the early morning
'till afternoon in the Chatahooche river. Folks don't hardly know
nowadays jest what to believe they's so many religions, but they's
only one God.

I was eighteen when I married. I had eight chillun. My wife is 86, and
she lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

[Illustration: Lucinda Davis]

Oklahoma Writers' Project
Ex-Slaves
[HW: (photo)]
[Date stamp: AUG 16 1937]

LUCINDA DAVIS
Age (about) 89 yrs.
Tulsa, Okla.

"What yo' gwine do when de meat give out?
What yo' gwine do when de meat give out?
Set in de corner wid my lips pooched out!
Lawsy!

What yo' gwine do when de meat come in?
What yo' gwine do when de meat come in?
Set in de corner wid a greasy chin!
Lawsy!"

Dat's about de only little nigger song I know, less'n it be de one
about:

"Great big nigger, laying 'hind de log--
Finger on de trigger and eye on the hawg!
Click go de trigger and bang go de gun!
Here come de owner and de buck nigger run!"

And I think I learn both of dem long after I been grown, 'cause I
belong to a full-blood Creek Indian and I didn't know nothing but
Creek talk long after de Civil War. My mistress was part white and
knowed English talk, but she never did talk it because none of de
people talked it. I heard it sometime, but it sound like whole lot of
wild shoat in de cedar brake scared at something when I do hear it.
Dat was when I was little girl in time of de War.

I don't know where I been born. Nobody never did tell me. But my mammy
and pappy git me after de War and I know den whose child I is. De men
at de Creek Agency help 'em git me, I reckon, maybe.

First thing I remember is when I was a little girl, and I belong to
old Tuskaya-hiniha. He was big man in de Upper Creek, and we have a
purty good size farm, jest a little bit to de north of de wagon depot
houses on de old road at Honey Springs. Dat place was about
twenty-five mile south of Fort Gibson, but I don't know nothing about
whar de fort is when I was a little girl at dat time. I know de Elk
River 'bout two mile north of whar we live, 'cause I been there many
de time.

I don't know if old Master have a white name. Lots de Upper Creek
didn't have no white name. Maybe he have another Indian name, too,
because Tuskaya-hiniha mean "head man warrior" in Creek, but dat what
everybody call him and dat what de family call him too.

My Mistress' name was Nancy, and she was a Lott before she marry old
man Tuskaya-hiniha. Her pappy name was Lott and he was purty near
white. Maybe so all white. Dey have two chillun, I think, but only one
stayed on de place. She was name Luwina, and her husband was dead. His
name was Walker, and Luwina bring Mr. Walker's little sister, Nancy,
to live at de place too.

Luwina had a little baby boy and dat de reason old Master buy me, to
look after de little baby boy. He didn't have no name cause he wasn't
big enough when I was with dem, but he git a name later on, I reckon.
We all call him "Istidji." Dat mean "little man."

When I first remember, before de War, old Master had 'bout as many
slave as I got fingers, I reckon. I can think dem off on my fingers
like dis, but I can't recollect de names.

Dey call all de slaves "Istilusti." Dat mean "Black man."

Old man Tuskaya-hiniha was near 'bout blind before de War, and 'bout
time of de War he go plumb blind and have to set on de long seat under
de bresh shelter of de house all de time. Sometime I lead him around
de yard a little, but not very much. Dat about de time all de slave
begin to slip out and run off.

My own pappy was name Stephany. I think he take dat name 'cause when
he little his mammy call him "Istifani." Dat mean a skeleton, and he
was a skinny man. He belong to de Grayson family and I think his
master name George, but I don't know. Dey big people in de Creek, and
with de white folks too. My mammy name was Serena and she belong to
some of de Gouge family. Dey was big people in de Upper Creek, and one
de biggest men of the Gouge was name Hopoethleyoholo for his Creek
name. He was a big man and went to de North in de War and died up in
Kansas, I think. Dey say when he was a little boy he was called
Hopoethli, which mean "good little boy", and when he git grown he make
big speeches and dey stick on de "yoholo." Dat mean "loud whooper."

Dat de way de Creek made de name for young boys when I was a little
girl. When de boy git old enough de big men in de town give him a
name, and sometime later on when he git to going round wid de grown
men dey stick on some more name. If he a good talker dey sometime
stick on "yoholo", and iffen he make lots of jokes dey call him
"Hadjo." If he is a good leader dey call him "Imala" and if he kind of
mean dey sometime call him "fixigo."

My mammy and pappy belong to two masters, but dey live together on a
place. Dat de way de Creek slaves do lots of times. Dey work patches
and give de masters most all dey make, but dey have some for
demselves. Dey didn't have to stay on de master's place and work like
I hear de slaves of de white people and de Cherokee and Choctaw people
say dey had to do.

Maybe my pappy and mammy run off and git free, or maybeso dey buy
demselves out, but anyway dey move away some time and my mammy's
master sell me to old man Tuskaya-hiniha when I was jest a little gal.
All I have to do is stay at de house and mind de baby.

Master had a good log house and a bresh shelter out in front like all
de houses had. Like a gallery, only it had de dirt for de flo' and
bresh for de roof. Dey cook everything out in de yard in big pots, and
dey eat out in de yard too.

Dat was sho' good stuff to eat, and it make you fat too! Roast de
green corn on de ears in de ashes, and scrape off some and fry it!
Grind de dry corn or pound it up and make ash cake. Den bile de
greens--all kinds of greens from out in de woods--and chop up de pork
and de deer meat, or de wild turkey meat; maybe all of dem, in de big
pot at de same time! Fish too, and de big turtle dat lay out on de
bank!

Dey always have a pot full of sofki settin right inside de house, and
anybody eat when dey feel hungry. Anybody come on a visit, always give
'em some of de sofki. Ef dey don't take none de old man git mad, too!

When you make de sofki you pound up de corn real fine, den pour in de
water an dreen it off to git all de little skin from off'n de grain.
Den you let de grits soak and den bile it and let it stand. Sometime
you put in some pounded hickory nut meats. Dat make it real good.

I don't know whar old Master git de cloth for de clothes, less'n he
buy it. Befo' I can remember I think he had some slaves dat weave de
cloth, but when I was dar he git it at de wagon depot at Honey
Springs, I think. He go dar all de time to sell his corn, and he raise
lots of corn, too.

Dat place was on de big road, what we called de road to Texas, but it
go all de way up to de North, too. De traders stop at Honey Springs
and old Master trade corn for what he want. He git some purty checkedy
cloth one time, and everybody git a dress or a shirt made off'n it. I
have dat dress 'till I git too big for it.

Everybody dress up fine when dey is a funeral. Dey take me along to
mind de baby at two-three funerals, but I don't know who it is dat
die. De Creek sho' take on when somebody die!

Long in de night you wake up and hear a gun go off, way off yonder
somewhar. Den it go again, and den again, jest as fast as dey can ram
de load in. Dat mean somebody dead. When somebody die de men go out in
de yard and let de people know dat way. Den dey jest go back in de
house and let de fire go out, and don't even tech de dead person till
somebody git dar what has de right to tech de dead.

When somebody bad sick dey build a fire in de house, even in de
summer, and don't let it die down till dat person git well or die.
When dey die dey let de fire go out.

In de morning everybody dress up fine and go to de house whar de dead
is and stand around in de yard outside de house and don't go in.
Pretty soon along come somebody what got a right to tech and handle de
dead and dey go in. I don't know what give dem de right, but I think
dey has to go through some kind of medicine to git de right, and I
know dey has to drink de red root and purge good before dey tech de
body. When dey git de body ready dey come out and all go to de
graveyard, mostly de family graveyard, right on de place or at some of
the kinfolkses.

When dey git to de grave somebody shoots a gun at de north, den de
west, den de south, and den de east. Iffen dey had four guns dey used
'em.

Den dey put de body down in de grave and put some extra clothes in
with it and some food and a cup of coffee, maybe. Den dey takes strips
of elm bark and lays over de body till it all covered up, and den
throw in de dirt.

When de last dirt throwed on, everybody must clap dey hands and smile,
but you sho hadn't better step on any of de new dirt around de grave,
because it bring sickness right along wid you back to your own house.
Dat what dey said, anyways.

Jest soon as de grave filled up dey built a little shelter over it wid
poles like a pig pen and kiver it over wid elm bark to keep de rain
from soaking down in de new dirt.

Den everybody go back to de house and de family go in and scatter
some kind of medicine 'round de place and build a new fire. Sometime
dey feed everybody befo' dey all leave for home.

Every time dey have a funeral dey always a lot of de people say,
"Didn't you hear de stikini squalling in de night?" "I hear dat
stikini all de night!" De "stikini" is de screech owl, and he suppose
to tell when anybody going to die right soon. I hear lots of Creek
people say dey hear de screech owl close to de house, and sho' nuff
somebody in de family die soon.

When de big battle come at our place at Honey Springs dey jest git
through having de green corn "busk." De green corn was just ripened
enough to eat. It must of been along in July.

Dat busk was jest a little busk. Dey wasn't enough men around to have
a good one. But I seen lots of big ones. Ones whar dey had all de
different kinds of "banga." Dey call all de dances some kind of banga.
De chicken dance is de "Tolosabanga", and de "Istifanibanga" is de one
whar dey make lak dey is skeletons and raw heads coming to git you.

De "Hadjobanga" is de crazy dance, and dat is a funny one. Dey all
dance crazy and make up funny songs to go wid de dance. Everybody
think up funny songs to sing and everybody whoop and laugh all de
time.

But de worse one was de drunk dance. Dey jest dance ever whichaway, de
men and de women together, and dey wrassle and hug and carry on awful!
De good people don't dance dat one. Everybody sing about going to
somebody elses house and sleeping wid dem, and shout, "We is all drunk
and we don't know what we doing and we ain't doing wrong 'cause we is
all drunk" and things like dat. Sometime de bad ones leave and go to
de woods, too!

Dat kind of doing make de good people mad, and sometime dey have
killings about it. When a man catch one his women--maybeso his wife or
one of his daughters--been to de woods he catch her and beat her and
cut off de rim of her ears!

People think maybeso dat ain't so, but I know it is!

I was combing somebody's hair one time--I ain't going tell who--and
when I lift it up off'n her ears I nearly drap dead! Dar de rims cut
right off'n 'em! But she was a married woman, and I think maybeso it
happen when she was a young gal and got into it at one of dem drunk
dances.

Dem Upper Creek took de marrying kind of light anyways. Iffen de
younguns wanted to be man and wife and de old ones didn't care dey
jest went ahead and dat was about all, 'cepting some presents maybe.
But de Baptists changed dat a lot amongst de young ones.

I never forgit de day dat battle of de Civil War happen at Honey
Springs! Old Master jest had de green corn all in, and us had been
having a time gitting it in, too. Jest de women was all dat was left,
'cause de men slaves had all slipped off and left out. My uncle Abe
done got up a bunch and gone to de North wid dem to fight, but I
didn't know den whar he went. He was in dat same battle, and after de
War dey called him Abe Colonel. Most all de slaves 'round dat place
done gone off a long time before dat wid dey masters when dey go wid
old man Gouge and a man named McDaniel.

We had a big tree in de yard, and a grape vine swing in it for de
little baby "Istidji", and I was swinging him real early in de morning
befo' de sun up. De house set in a little patch of woods wid de field
in de back, but all out on de north side was a little open space, like
a kind of prairie. I was swinging de baby, and all at once I seen
somebody riding dis way 'cross dat prairie--jest coming a-kiting and
a-laying flat out on his hoss. When he see de house he begin to give
de war whoop, "Eya-a-a-a-he-ah!" When he git close to de house he
holler to git out de way 'cause dey gwine be a big fight, and old
Master start rapping wid his cane and yelling to git some grub and
blankets in de wagon right now!

We jest leave everything setting right whar it is, 'cepting putting
out de fire and grabbing all de pots and kettles. Some de nigger women
run to git de mules and de wagon and some start gitting meat and corn
out of de place whar we done hid it to keep de scouters from finding
it befo' now. All de time we gitting ready to travel we hear dat boy
on dat horse going on down de big Texas road hollering.
"Eya-a-a-he-he-hah!"

Den jest as we starting to leave here come something across dat little
prairie sho' nuff! We know dey is Indians de way dey is riding, and de
way dey is all strung out. Dey had a flag, and it was all red and had
a big criss-cross on it dat look lak a saw horse. De man carry it and
rear back on it when de wind whip it, but it flap all 'round de
horse's head and de horse pitch and rear lak he know something going
happen, sho!

'Bout dat time it turn kind of dark and begin to rain a little, and we
git out to de big road and de rain come down hard. It rain so hard for
a little while dat we jest have to stop de wagon and set dar, and den
long come more soldiers dan I ever see befo'. Dey all white men, I
think, and dey have on dat brown clothes dyed wid walnut and
butternut, and old Master say dey de Confederate soldiers. Dey
dragging some big guns on wheels and most de men slopping 'long in de
rain on foot.

Den we hear de fighting up to de north 'long about what de river is,
and de guns sound lak hosses loping 'cross a plank bridge way off
somewhar. De head men start hollering and some de hosses start rearing
and de soldiers start trotting faster up de road. We can't git out on
de road so we jest strike off through de prairie and make for a creek
dat got high banks and a place on it we call Rocky Cliff.

We git in a big cave in dat cliff, and spend de whole day and dat
night in dar, and listen to de battle going on.

Dat place was about half-a-mile from de wagon depot at Honey Springs,
and a little east of it. We can hear de guns going all day, and along
in de evening here come de South side making for a getaway. Dey come
riding and running by whar we is, and it don't make no difference how
much de head men hollers at 'em dey can't make dat bunch slow up and
stop.

After while here come de Yankees, right after 'em, and dey goes on
into Honey Springs and pretty soon we see de blaze whar dey is burning
de wagon depot and de houses.

De next morning we goes back to de house and find de soldiers ain't
hurt nothing much. De hogs is whar dey is in de pen and de chickens
come cackling 'round too. Dem soldiers going so fast dey didn't have
no time to stop and take nothing, I reckon.

Den long come lots of de Yankee soldiers going back to de North, and
dey looks purty wore out, but dey is laughing and joshing and going
on.

Old Master pack up de wagon wid everything he can carry den, and we
strike out down de big road to git out de way of any more war, is dey
going be any.

Dat old Texas road jest crowded wid wagons! Everybody doing de same
thing we is, and de rains done made de road so muddy and de soldiers
done tromp up de mud so bad dat de wagons git stuck all de time.

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