Jesse Williams
From:
South Carolina
=Project #1655=
=W.W. Dixon=
=Winnsboro, S.C.=
=JESSE WILLIAMS=
=EX-SLAVE 83 YEARS OLD.=
At the end of one of the silent streets of west Chester, S.C., that
prolongs itself into a road leading to the Potter's Field and on to the
County Poorhouse, sets a whitewashed frame cottage. It has two rooms,
the chimney in the center providing each with a fireplace. A porch,
supported by red cedar posts, fronts the road side. In this abode lives
Jesse Williams with his daughter, Edna, and her six children. Edna pays
the rent, and is a grenadier in the warfare of keeping the wolf from the
door.
"You say I looks pretty old? Well, you's right 'bout de old part but I's
far 'way from de pretty part. I got a hand glass in my house and when I
shaves on Sunday mornin's, I often wonders who I is. I doesn't look lak
me. My best friend couldn't say I got much on looks, but my old dog rap
his tail on de floor lak he might say so, if him could speak.
"I's been off and on dese streets of Chester for eighty-three years. I
was born a slave of Marse Adam C. Walker and my old miss was Mistress
Eliza, dat's his wife.
"My pappy name Henry and mammy name Maria. I can see them plowin' in de
field right now. Mammy plowin' same as pappy and me runnin' 'long
behind, takin' de dirt off de cotton plants where de twister plow turnt
de clods on de plants. Then, when dat cotton field git white and red wid
blooms in summer and white agin in de fall, I have to shoulder my poke
and go to de field and pick dat cotton. I 'members de fust day dat I
pick a hundred pounds. Marse Adam pull out a big flat black pocket-book
and gived me a shinplaster, and say: 'Jesse, ever time your basket h'ist
de beam of de steelyards to 100, you gits a shinplaster.' I make eighty
cents dat year but I have to git up when de chickens crow for day and
git in de field when de dew was heavy on de cotton. Does I think dat was
cheatin'? Oh, no sir! I wasn't 'ceivin' old marster. Him wink at dat,
and take a pound off for dew. I'd a made more money but they took me out
de field in November, to drive de mules to de hoss-gin. Dat was play
work, just a settin' up dere and poppin' de whip.
"Marster live in a big two-story, eight-room house. De kitchen was out
from de house. After Christmas, dat year, I was house boy and drive de
buggy for Miss Eliza when her want to go visitin'. I was fed well and
spent my money for a knife, candy, and firecrackers.
"My marster and missus have chillun. They was Peter, Jerry, Miss Elnora,
and Miss Sallie, dat I play wid in slavery time.
"De Yankees didn't come as far up as Chester. They branched off down
'bout Blackstock, took de sunrise side of dat place and march on 'cross
Catawba River, at Rocky Mount. I stay on wid Marse Adam and Miss Eliza,
after freedom. I marry a handsome gal. Yes, sir, she dark but not too
shady. I harks back to them days, as I sets here in dis rocker a talkin'
to you. Did I tell you her name? Her name just suit her. Not Jane,
Polly, Mag, Sallie, and de lak of dat! Them was too common for her. Her
name Catherine, dat just fit her. Us have ten chillun and her and all
them 'cept me and three chillun done gone over to Jordan. Dere was just
one thing 'bout Catherine dat I's dubious 'bout. She lak to dance, and I
was too clumsy for to ever cut a double shuffle. I 'spect I cut a poor
figure at de frolics us went to. Does you think burnin' a candle for her
would do any good at dis late day? Why I ask you dat? Well, I has heard
them say dat white folks does dat sometimes for deir gone-on ones. My
daughter, Edna say: 'It might do you good and it could do mama no harm.'
I b'longs to Mount Moriah Church in dis very town of Chester. De
preacher am Rev. Alexander. He 'low it was superstition to burn dat
candle but if I live I's gwine to light one nex' Christmas.
"Us had a good marster and mistress. They was big buckra, never 'sociate
wid poor white trash. They wore de red shirt. De time come 'round when
they send me to Marse Will Harden and he pass me on to go see Marse
Judge Mackey, who live here then. Did I know Judge Mackey? Sho' I did!
While he was a settin' up dere on de bench in de court house, he have
all de people laughin'. One time de father of Marse W.B. Lindsey beat up
a Radical nigger and de case come up befo' him for trial. Great
'citement 'bout it, over de whole county. Court house packed dat day.
Solicitor rise and say: 'Please your honor, de 'fendant, Lindsey, put in
a plea of guilty.' You might have heard a breast feather of a chicken
fall, so very still was de people in dere, though de niggers and
'publicans was a grinning wid joy. Then Judge Mackey 'low: 'Let de
'fendant stand up.' Wid a solemn face and a solemn talk, him wound up
wid: 'Derefore, de court sentence you to de State Penitentiary at hard
labor for a period of ten years (Then him face light up, as he
conclude), or pay a fine of one dollar!' De white folks holler: 'Three
cheers for Judge Mackey!' De judge git up and bow, and say: 'Order in de
court.' As dere was no quiet to be got, clerk 'journed de court. De
judge take his silk beaver hat and gold headed cane and march out, while
de baliffs holler: 'Make way! Make way for de honorable judge!'
Everybody took up dat cry and keep it up long as de judge was on de
streets. Oh, how dat judge twirl his cane, smile, and strut.
"Did I ever see a spirit? 'Spect I has and I sho' have felt one more
than once. 'Spect I was born wid a caul over my eyes. When de last
quarter of de moon come in de seventh month of a seventh year, is de
most time you see spirits. Lyin' out in de moon, befo' daybreak, I's
smelt, I's heard, I's seed and I's felt Catherine's spirit in de moon
shadows. I come nigh ketchin' hold of her one night, as I wake up a
dreamin' 'bout her but befo' I could set up, I hear her pass 'way,
through de treetops dat I was layin', dreamin' under.
"Then another time, I was settin' here 'bout four o'clock in de
moonlight a lookin' 'cross de street to de town hall. I see sumpin' rise
and jump upon dat rock a lyin' dere 'ginst de town hall. It was de
figger of a man. Who it was I don't know, though they de call de rock de
'Aaron Burr Rock', 'cause he made a speech standin' on dat rock, long
befo' I was born. De people in de library can tell you 'bout dat speech.
Maybe Dr. Lathan tell you 'bout it. Him ninety-five years old dis last
past twelfth day of May and knows all 'bout de days dat are gone.
"I live wid my daughter, Edna, and I just can make it back dere from de
post office every day."
Next:
Mary Williams
Previous:
Bill Williams
