American Slaves Tell Their Stories by Octavia V. Rogers Albert

Author:Octavia V. Rogers Albert [Albert, Octavia V. Rogers]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Social Science, Ethnic Studies, African American Studies, Biography & Autobiography, Cultural; Ethnic & Regional, General, Slavery
ISBN: 9780486441900
Google: yqYqAwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Courier Corporation
Published: 2005-04-01T04:26:36+00:00

CHAPTER XII

SALLIE SMITH’S STORY

Sallie Smith living in the woods—Death of her mother—The ill-treatment she suffered.

THE subject of this sketch is another faithful sister of Aunt Charlotte’s church. She was born in the State of Louisiana, on Bayou Bœuf. As I had the pleasure of meeting her very often, and, seeing she manifested much interest and real devotion for her church, I became much attached to her. So once as she passed I asked her, if it was not unpleasant to her, if she would please spend a while with me and tell the story of her life as a slave.

She readily assented, saying: “Yes, my dear child. There aint a day but what I think how good my blessed Jesus has been to me and all of my people. O, sometimes I think of my old slave-days, and begin to cry for joy when I remember how good the Lord has been to me. Well do I remember when my poor mother died and left me and my little brother. She called us as she was about to die, and said, ‘My dear children, I am going to leave you. The angels is waiting for me. I am almost over. Promise me you will follow me.’ I said, ‘Mother, is you going to leave us?’ and before she could answer she was dead. Madam, I cried night and day; it seemed my mother’s death would nearly kill me. We was slaves, and had nobody to care any thing for us. We both had to work hard just like the others on the place. I was about fourteen, and my brother about one year old. The overseer got mad whenever he saw me cry. He told me to hush crying, and said, ‘Your mother is dead and in hell, and could not come back here; and if you don’t hush I’ll beat you half to death.’ He was a Catholic, and hated my mother’s sort of religion. When he said my mother was in hell that made me cry more; and he beat me and kicked me all ’round in the field. I had to pick one hundred and fifty pounds of cotton every day or get a whipping at night.”

“Were you always able to get one hundred and fifty pounds every day?”

“No, my child, I could not. Sometimes I’d pick it, but I could not get it every day. One night I got up just before day and run away; and I tell you I stayed in the woods one half of my time. Sometimes I’d go so far off from the plantation I could not hear the cows low or the roosters crow.”

“Where did you sleep at night, and how did you get something to eat?”

“I slept on logs. I had moss for a pillow; and I tell you, child, I wasn’t scared of nothing. I could hear bears, wild-cats, panthers, and every thing. I would come across all kinds of snakes—moccasin, blue runner, and rattlesnakes—and got used to them.

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