That is not what you said, I didn't misunderstand. Maybe you ought to read up on slavery in the north or some of the slave narritives.
From the "Slave Narratives" on CD Rom, Published by "MyFamily.com Inc", (can be obtained on "Ancestry.com")
Irwin, Hannah, Alabama
(Baldwin County, AL. Gertha Courie, John Morgan Smith, Federal Writers Project)
On a high knoll overlooking the winding Chewalla Creek is a little one room shack. Its rusty hinges and weather-beaten boards have seen many a glowing sunset; have stood against many high winds and rains, they have for many years sheltered Aunt Hannah Irwin, ex-slave. Now the old Negro woman is too old and feeble to venture very often from her small home. She lives almost in solitude with her memories of the past, and an occasional visit from one of her old friends who perhaps brings her some fruit or a little money.
"Yas'm, I'll be pleased to tell you 'bout whut I remembers aroun' de time of de War." Aunt Hannah sat stolidly in a chair that virtually groaned under her weight; and gave utterance to this sentiment through a large thick mouth, while her gold ear rings shook with every turn of her head, and her dim eyes glowed with memory's fires. "Dere ain't much I can tell you, dough," she went on, "kaze I was only twelve years old when de war ended.
I was bawn on Marse Bennett's plantation near Louisville, Alabama. Ma Mammy's name was Hester an' my pappy was named Sam.
"I remembers one night raghtatter de war when de re'struction was a-goin' on. Dere was some niggers not far fum our place dat said dey was a-goin' to take some lan' dat warn't deres. Dere massa had been kilt in de war an' warn't nobody'ceptin' de mistis an' some chilluns. Well, Honey, dem niggers, mo'dan one hundred of 'em, commenced a riot an' a-takin' things dat don't belong to 'em. Dat night de white lady she come ober to our place wid a wild look on her face. She tell Massa Bennett, whut dem niggers is up to, an' wid out sayin' a word massa Bennett, putt his hat on and lef' out de do'. Twarn't long atter dat when some hosses was heered down de road, an' I look out my cabin window which was raght by de road, an' I saw a-comin' up through de trees a whole pack of ghosties; I thought dey was, anyways. Dey was all dressed in white, an' dere hosses was white an' dey galloped fasten dan de win' raght past my cabin. Den I heered a [censored] say: 'De Ku Klux is atter somebody.'
"Dem Ku Klux went ober to dat lady's plantation an' told dem niggers dat iffen dey ever heered of 'em startin' anythingmo' dat dey are a-goin' to tie 'em all to trees in de fores' till dey all died f'um being hongry. Atter dat dese niggers all 'roun' Louisville, dey kept mighty quiet.
"No m'am, I don't believes in no conjurin'. Dese conjure women say dat dey will make my hip well iffen I gives 'em half my rations I gits fum de gover'ment, but I knows dey ain't nothin' but low-down, nocount niggers."
"Speaking of the Ku Klux, Aunt Hannah. Were you afraid of them?"
"Naw'm, I warn't afered of no Ku Klux. At fu'st I though dat dey was ghosties and den I was afeered of 'em, but atter I found out dat Massa Bennett was one of dem things, I was always proud of 'em."
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Brown, Gus
(Alexander B. Johnson, Birmingham, Alabama)
"They is all gone, scattered, and old massa and missus have died." That was the sequence of the tragic tale of "Uncle" Gus Brown, the body servant of William Brown, who fought beside him in the War between the States and who knew Stonewall Jackson.
Uncle Gus recalled happenings on the old plantation where he was reared. His master was a "king" man, he said on whose plantation in Richmond, Virginia, Uncle Gus waited on the tables at large feasts and functions of the spacious days before the War. He was entrusted to go with the master's boys down to the old swimming hole and go in "washin'." They would take off their clothes, hide em in the bushes on the side of the bank, put a big plank by the side of the old water hole and go in diving, swimming, and having all the fun that youngsters would want, he said.
Apparently his master's home was a plantation house with large columns and with all the glitter and glamour that the homes around Richmond have to offer. About it were large grain storage places, for the master was a grain dealer and men on the plantation produced and ground large quantities into flour.
Gus worked around the house, and he remembers well the corn shuckings (as he called them) on which occasions the Negroes gave vent to emotion in the form of dancing and music: "On those occasions we all got together and had a regular good time," he said.
"Uncle," he was asked, "do you remember any of the old superstitions on the plantation? Did they have any black cat stories?""No sir boss, we was educated Negroes on our plantation. The old bossman taught his Negroes not to believe in that sort of thing. I well remember when de war came. Old massa had told his folks befo' de war began dat it was comin', so we was ready for it."
Beforehand the master called all the servants he could trust and told them to get together all of the silver and other things of value. They did that, he explained and afterward they took the big box of treasures and carried it out in the forest and hid it under the trunk of a tree which was marked. None of the Negroes ever told the Yankees where it was so when the war ended the master had his silver back. Of course the war left him without some of the things which he used to have but he never suffered.
"Then de war came and we all went to fight the Yankees. I was a body servant to the master, and once a bullet took off his hat. We all thought he was shot but he wasn't, and I was standin' by his side all the time.
"I remember Stonewall Jackson. He was a big man with long whiskers, and very brave. We all fought wid him until his death. We wa'n't beaten, we was starved out! Sometimes we had perched corn to eat and sometimes we didn't have a bite o' nothin', because the Union mens come and tuk all de food for theirselves. I can still remember part of my ninety years. I remembers dey fought all de way from Virginia and winded up in Manassah's Gap.
"When time came for freedom most of us was glad. We liked the Yankees. They was good to us: 'You is all now free; you can stay on the plantation or you can go.' We all stayed there until old massa died. Den I worked on de Seaboard Airline when it went to Birmigham. I have been here ever since.
"In all de years since de war I cannot forget old massa. He was good and kind. He never believed in slavery but his money was tied up in slaves and he didn't want to lose all he had.
"I knows I will see him in heaven and even though I have to walk ten miles for a bite of bread I can still be happy to think about the good times we had then. I am a Confederate veteran but my house burned up wid de medals and I don't get a pension.
"Thank you, mister bossman fer the quarter. It will buy me a little grub. I's too old to work but I has to."The reporter left him sitting with his little pack and a long fork in his hands; in his eyes, dimmed with age, a faroff look and a tear of longing for the Old Plantation.
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Mcalpin, Tom
(Alabama. John Morgan Smith)
"Mornin' Boss," said uncle Tom McAlpin, "how is you dis mornin'?" The old slave spoke cordially with a definite twinkle in his muddy eyes though his age had passed
the for-score and ten mark. His mind was alert; his memory vivid, and his faculties of speech quite unusual. Tom McAlpin was indeed a remarkable man. There was really a sincere note of welcome in his voice as he came forward, placed a large piece of cast-iron pipe against the steps of his house, 1928 Ave. D. So., Birmingham, and looked up at me showing a mouth of straggly teeth in a warm smile.
"Yassuh," he continued in his high-pitched voice after our salutations, "I'll be glad to serve you as bes' I kin wid my knowledge of de pas' years. Jus' you set down in dat chair," he pointed to what was left of an ante-bellum wicker seat; "I'll set on dese steps an' us'll go over de whole thing from de beginnin's.
"Fus' thing I guess you wants to know is whar an' when I was born. Yassuh, an' who I b'long to. Well, Boss, I was born in Martersville, Alabamy. Dat's five miles southwest of Talladega. I come into dis ole worl' on a sunny day in June, eighteen fawty fo'. I belonged to Dr. Augustus McAlpin, an' from dat day to dis, I is seed many things come an' go, an' I is aimin' to see a lot mo' befo' I cross to de udder side.
"De docta Jus had a small plantation, 'bout 100 acres, I s'pose, an' he didn't have but 12 slaves, 'caze dere warn't no need for no mo'. He was busy in town adoctorin' folks. He didn't have no time to do any real farmin'.
"My job aroun' de place was to nuss de chilluns, white an' [censored]. We all played 'roun' together. Sometimes we play coon an' rabbit, fox an' houn' and snatch, but what was de mostes' fun was aridin'
ole Sut. Sut was a donkey an' us useta hitch him to a wagon, an' six of de chilluns would ride in de wagon an' I'd ride on his back. Sometimes us'd ride all de way into Talladega wid Sut.
"Nawsuh I ain't neber got no whuppin' but one, and it was a sho' 'nough complete one, boss, wid all de trimmin's. It all happened when de Massa told me he better not cotch dem hogs in de corn, an' iffen he did, I was agoin' to git a whuppin'. Well, boss, dere was one ole hog dat I jus' couldn't keep outten dere so I tuk a needle an' sewed up his eyes. 'Course I was jus' a little black 'un an' didn't know whut I was adoin', but I sho' sewed up dat hogs eyelids so's he couldn't see nothin'. Dat kep' him outten de corn all raght, but when de Massa found it out he gave me a lickin' dat I ain't forgot yit. Boss, dat was de onlies' lesson I ever needed in my life. It done de wuk.
"Yassuh, dere was pattyrollers 'roun' our place, but dey never cotched me, 'caze I was too swif' for 'em. Boss, I could take holt of a hosses tail an' run 'roun' de pasture an' keep up wid him. I was sho' fas' on my feets.
'Nawsuh, us wan't never given no money for nothin', but I learnt how to make baskets an' I would take 'em in to Talladega on Sat'day evenings an' sell 'em to de white folks for fifteen cents. Den when I needed somp'n lak 'bacca or a little piece of chocolate, I could go to de sto' an' buy it. Lots of slaves on yuther plantations warn't 'lowed to make any money dough.
"Nawsuh, I ain't never had no schoolin', 'ceptin' what I could git outen de little white folks' books myself. Ue niggers useta tote dere books to school for 'em an' on de way I would look in de book an' git a little learnin'.
"When us niggers on de McAlpin place at, us et raght at de same table dat de white folks et at. Atter dey finiched dere meal, us slaves would sit down raght atter dem an' eat de same kinda food. Yassuh
"Sho' I 'members de war. I 'members when do war commence, Jeff Davie called for volunteere; den a little later when de south needed mo' mens to fight, Jeff Davis' officers would go th'ough de streets, an' grab up de white mens an' put ropes 'roun' dere wrists lak dey was takin' 'em off to jail. An' all de while dey was jus' takin' 'em off to de war. Dey made all de white mens go. It was called de 'seription. Some niggers went too. Dem niggers fought raght side of dere masters. Some went as body guards an' some went as soldiers.
"Yassuh, Boss, I recalls de time dat de 'federate soldiers, bless dere souls, hid dere few hosses in de basement of de old Masonic Institute in Talladega an' hid dere amunition in de hollow stone pillars. Gen'l Wilson an' his raiders come th'ough dar, but dey never did fin' dem 'Federate supplies. Dem Yankees jus" lak to scare eve'ybody roun' de place to death. Dey shot up de town an' dem blue coats tuk eve'ything we had: cotton, sugar, flour, hams, preserves, clothes, corn; eve'ything, Boss, eve'ything. Dey even burned up some houses.
"But Boss, dere ain't never been nobody afightin' lak our 'Federates done, but dey ain't never had a chance. Dere was jes' too many of dem blue coats for us to lick. I seen our 'Federates go off laughin' an' gay; full of life an' health. Dey was big an' strong, asingin' Dixie an' dey jus knowed dey was agoin" to win. An' boss, I seen 'em come back skin an' bone, dere eyes all sad an' hollow, an' dere clothes all ragged, Boss, dey was all lookin' sick. De sperrit dey lef' wid jus' been done whupped outten dem,
but it tuk dem Yankees a long time to do it. Our 'Federates was de bes' fightin' men dat over were. Dere warn't nobody lak our 'Federates.
"I was in Richmond dat cold day dat Gen'l Lee handed his sword over to de yuther side, an' I seen Jeff Davis when he made a speech 'bout startin' over. I seen de
niggers leavin' dere homes an' awanderin' off into de worl' to God knows whar, aeeyin' good-bye to dere white folks, an' atryin' to make dere way de bes' dey kin. But, white boss, it jee' seem lak you let a [censored] go widout a boss an' he jes' no good. Dere ain't much he kin do, 'caze dere ain't nobody to tell him. Yaseuh, I was sont to Richmond to bring home some of our wounded Federates. Dey sont me 'caze dey knowed I was agoin' to do my bes', an' caze dey knowed I warn't afeered of nothin'. Dat's de way I've always tried to be, white bose, lak my white people what raised me. God bless 'em."