GLIMPSES OF LIFE ON A COTTON PLANTATION BEFORE THE WAR BETWEEN
THE STATES
Among
the early colonists of the territory called Maryland was my first American
ancestor, an aunt of mine, who lived in Washington, D. C., in a house built by
her grandfather before the Revolutionary War. She has told me that she picked
whortle-berries on Capitol Hill. My great-grandfather, Jacob Clark, was wounded
in the Battle of Cowpens, had to undergo a trephining operation, and wear a
bandage over his skull, permanently. He was present at the surrender of the
British forces at Yorktown by Cornwallis, and the following story has been
handed down in the family.
The
combined American and French army was drawn up in two lines more than a mile in
length, the Americans on one side of the road and the French on the other.
Washington, attended by his staff, was in front of the Americans, and
Rochambeau and his staff in front of the French. The British were to pass
between this double line to stack their arms at a designated place and were led
by General O'Hara on horseback, instead of Cornwallis, who was eagerly expected.
Jacob Clark was the first to perceive the substitution, occasioned by
Cornwallis being too proud to deliver his sword personally, and cried out:
"No corn - all shucks." Immediately all the line took up the yell,
"Oh shucks," thus immortalizing a by-word.
My
grandfather, James Clark, went from Maryland (Cumberland County) to Ohio,
settling at the point on the Ohio River where the city of Cincinnati now
stands. His wife was Miss Charlotte Alter, daughter of a founder of the city of
Cincinnati. He was a very learned man, and, after he was an old man, translated
several of the books of the New Testament from the Greek to settle his own
religious convictions. Three of his sons became lawyers, one a doctor, and
several of his daughters were educated at Nazareth, Kentucky, and one at
Georgetown, District of Columbia. There were ten children, all but two of whom
came South, following my father, Charles Clark, who came to Mississippi in 1830
or 1831. One day, his uncle, Captain James Alter, who owned and operated a line
of fine steamboats from Cincinnati to New Orleans, asked my father to take a
round trip on his boat.
It
was a trip of a month or more then, and during the long journey he became
acquainted with a young man who introduced himself as Cicero Jefferson, also a
law student, and about the same age. They became companions, out for adventure,
and when the boat stopped to discharge or take on freight, they explored the
towns and cities. The spirit of adventure led them - the pioneer spirit. They talked
and planned their future. Their boat reached Natchez, Mississippi, one Sunday
morning. The city is built on a high bluff overhanging a flat strip of ground
formed by the silt deposited by the river, where in old days the scum of
humanity lived in cabins, dives, saloons, gambling dens, and low
boarding-houses.
Such
was the landing place of the boats, known as "Natchez under the
Hill." Farther down the river, where St. Catherine's Creek broke over
"Devil's Leap," there was, even then, "Brown's Garden," a
beauty spot known to all who travelled on the "Father of Waters";
this means everybody who went South from the inland states, for there were no
competing railroads. The founder of "Brown's Garden" had been head
gardener for the Duke of Argyle and was an intelligent and progressive
Scotchman. His sawmills, lumber yards, and other holdings made him a great
fortune, are today owned by his descendants, and comprise an important industry
in that section. But his garden was his pleasure, hanging to the side of the
bluff, and blossoming to the water's edge for a mile or more; and the fragrance
of the sweet olives, magnolia, and roses mingled to greet the tourist as he
steamed on his way, making the trip one long to be remembered.
But
the two young adventurers did not explore the garden. They climbed the hill to
the city proper. They wandered about the streets, which were silent for it was
Sunday. On a side street they stopped to laugh at a small red-brick house,
consisting of one room opening onto a small porch. They noticed it was opposite
the courthouse square and that it had a sign "For Sale" on it. What a
fine place for a law office; why not see if it could be bought on credit by two
embryo lawyers? They looked about and found a man sitting on his porch with his
feet on the banisters. He told them that the house had been a bakery but was
for sale and could be bought for a small cash payment. The boys hurried back to
the boat and borrowed the money from the captain, grabbed their luggage, and
the next day their sign was to be seen on the small
brick house. But my father was not to stay long in Natchez. Whether or not he
found the suave Mr. Jefferson uncongenial, I know not, as he does not appear
again in history, but Mr. Jefferson was quite a success, professionally and
socially, and was about to marry into one of the old Southern families when it
was discovered that his name was not Cicero Jefferson, but Joe Pepper, whose
ambition to appear more than he was ruined him.
General Hinds, one of the heroes of the battle of New Orleans, a
large landowner and favorite citizen, came to Natchez from his home near
Fayette to attend court soon after the bakery became a law office. He met young
Clark, had him to attend to some business for him, and soon afterwards persuaded
him to open an office in Fayette. The young man's pleasing address, good looks,
and, ability quickly insured his success, and won for him one of the prettiest
and wealthiest young girls in the country, Ann Eliza Darden, my mother.
It
was before the Mexican War that my father gave up his law practice in Fayette
to become a cotton planter. He bought a large tract of land three miles from
Fayette, and not far from Natchez, on which there was a forest of pines
skirting the road; there he built beautiful "Forest Home," where open
house was kept for friends and family.
One
of my earliest impressions is of coming home in the big carriage delighted, yet
dreading to turn from the glaring sunshine on the red clay road through the big
gates into the soft, deep shadows of the piney woods, so mysterious and dark,
the road winding beneath the big trees with their lofty branches; the wheels
made no noise on the thick carpet of pine-needles, and it seemed a long time
before the great trees stood aside and we drove into the gravel circle that
enclosed a bed of bright colored flowers; and then, there in the sunshine,
stood the big white house, with its green blinds and long wide gallery and
white columns. At the sides and back were the gardens and orchards, the
overseer's house and stables, and long rows of negro cabins, each with its
garden and chickens, and in the background, the ginhouse and everything that
goes to make a cotton plantation.
I do
not remember much of the house, except the hall, and faintly, the parlor where
my sister used to play on the piano and sing me to sleep. But in that
well-remembered hall we lived throughout the hot summer days, and we shivered
as we went through its cold length to the dining room in the winter time. Here
it was, that after a day in town, my father would dismount from his horse and
stretch himself in one of his easy chairs, while Warren, his faithful black
boy, who had gone through the Mexican campaign, and afterwards went through the Civil War with his beloved master, was always
on hand with a pair of slippers and a glass of toddy, or water from the great
hall sideboard.
It
was sometime after the Mexican War that I was born in this home. My father went
into this war a captain and came out a colonel. Although examined by a
celebrated physician and pronounced consumptive, with one lung already gone,
and advised to return home as he had but a short time to live, he served
throughout the whole campaign under General Zachary Taylor. Among the many notable
persons who frequented "Forest Home" was Sergeant S. Prentiss, one of
the most brilliant orators of the South. It is said that he always spoke under
the influence of whiskey. I have been told that he would always have our butler
mix his drinks, and would carefully direct that a crockery water pitcher
containing whiskey instead of water be placed on
the stand, . . . "and
forget to put a glass, Warren," he would say.
My
sister, Mary Adelia, was fourteen years old and Sister Emma nine, when I was born.
My father had won his great lawsuit that stirred the whole state and Washington
too, for it was over an Indian claim against large tracts of land in Bolivar
and Sunflower counties that had been pending for years. At that time, there
were no levees to protect these lowlands from the high waters of the
Mississippi River, swollen by the melting snows of the Rocky Mountains -
brought by the Missouri River - and by the great water sheds of the Ohio and
Tennessee rivers. These overflows every spring left rich deposits of loam. A
few planters, braving these floods, had established themselves on these rich
lands. Before winning the lawsuit, my father had bought several hundred acres
of this land and with Mr. Newman had established negro settlements and planted
cotton successfully. Now, large additional holdings were added, for his fee was
paid in lands. There were no country town banks in those days, and instead of
saving money, planters bought more land.
Above
Vicksburg was an almost unbroken forest. Few ventured to send their slaves into
the "Swamps" as that district was then known. My father saw the
wonderful future of this rich black land. His small plantation in Bolivar
County yielded a bale and a half and two bales to the acre; his Negroes were
generally healthy; and owning so much land now, he decided to devote himself to
the development of his Delta lands. In a few years, nearly all of our family
who had followed Pa from Ohio to Jefferson County, Mississippi, now followed
him to the Delta. These were Grandpa and his three sons and five daughters; all
but one son moved to the Delta, bought wild land, and cleared it for cotton.
The old pioneer spirit was revived. A levee was built by private subscription,
and every year thereafter until the war stopped everything, a Mr. Bayne used to
bring a large force of Irishmen in the fall
to build more and better levees. Three years after we came to live on the
plantation named "Doro" (because the Indian suit had been brought in
that name, John Doe vs. Richard Roe), my brother, Fred was born. I can remember
the great canebrakes and virgin forests of that time. I remember the great
forest fires that burned the negro cabins, the great trees with their
fire-brands falling, and the terrible fear that the wind might change. I
thought we would all be burned alive like the old martyrs.
When
I was about five years old, the levee broke in front of our home at
"Doro." The chimneys fell, and the galleries were washed away.
Afterwards, the house was moved and rebuilt. We always went away in summer, as
all good Southerners still do, if they can raise the money. Sometimes, we paid
a visit to old friends or relatives in Jefferson County. At that time, visiting
was a system, carefully conducted. On their way up or down the river, friends
would stop over for a visit with us and wait for the next boat; we always had a
crowd of company. The "land hunters," as they were called, spent days
with us at "Doro," in bad weather, or when consummating a deal in
land. Pa had a surveyor who lived on the place and spent his time selecting and
laying out suitable tracts for sale, mapping timber land sections, swamp land,
and other types. When I was a very small girl, Pa or Grandpa used to take me
with them to ride around the fields, or to the sawmills, going through the big
timbers where there was no undergrowth. Suddenly we would see a bear hurrying
off to the canebrake from a pecan tree, where he had been feasting on nuts; or
a deer with great antlers staring at us with startled eyes. And fishing - I
can't recall the time I did not know how to catch fish, for whenever the
weather permitted, Grandpa would take me with him and we would bring home a
mess of trout or catfish. He always left off when we had enough.
Girls
of the nineteenth century used to rave over their heroes, dashing, handsome,
fighting young fellows, but I had only one hero - my father. He was my
"Pa" then, as he is now, and shall be throughout these pages. He was
the idol of his family, of his friends, and of his Negroes. He was tall and
slender, measuring six feet and three inches. He had a pure, oval face,
brilliant complexion, brown eyes and dark hair, soft and curly. He was a quiet,
kindly man, with a keen sense of humor. He cared not for fine clothes or for
display or notoriety of any kind. There was no time in his life that he was not
doing for someone. Many orphans were his wards; if homeless, they came and
lived with us, or were sent to school at his expense. There was John Flowers,
for instance, who, after finishing school, came to our home and helped the
overseer, and in time, became overseer himself. There was much to do, and there
were no idle hands; my mother saw to that. The
girls helped in preserving, cake baking, arranging cut flowers, and performing
similar duties. The boys helped in gardening, breaking young colts, and
rounding up missing cattle.
I know little of my father's political
activities, except that he spent much time in Jackson as a legislator and was
frequently in Washington on business.
Money
was to my father a means to help others. My mother did the spending, and, as
she used to say, "kept up the family." He was a politician of the old
school - a patriot - who had his country's good to spur him on. He was never an
office seeker, but served his people when called upon to do so.
When
Pa came back from the Mexican War, he was greatly improved in health. The open
air and camp life, military exercise and campaigning had caused his lungs to
heal. He was then wealthy and one of the leading citizens of his state.
My
mother never liked the Delta; all of her family lived around Fayette and
Natchez. I never heard of any of my mother's relatives that were not cotton
planters; and such community of interest and close contact with the soil made
very close the bond of love that has distinguished the families of French and
Spanish extraction in the old South. My mother's ancestors were Huguenots, who
fled from France during the persecution that took place after the massacre of
St. Bartholomew. With a colony from Carolina, they moved to Mississippi, and
rich or poor, they clung together and, as Pa used to say, "claimed kin to
the forty-seventh remove." So Ma hated to give up her people and friends,
for a wonderful social life it was, where a party or even a dinner brought
friends from one end of the county to the other, and one felt slighted if an
acquaintance passed without paying a visit; and all strangers were asked to
dine or spend the night. My mother liked all this - how I would like to record
some of the old fun making, in a way to make, it as laughable as she did; for
she had an exceptionally merry laugh and was always ready for fun. Ma used to
give the house servants as much time as she could spare them; and sometimes the
family, with our guests, would go to witness the fun at a quilting bee. The
slaves enjoyed giving a quilting party and always served refreshments
(sometimes there would be two or three families and several quilts) ; and they
did it with as much pride as the white folks. Everything in the way of pumpkins
for pies, and milk for custards was given freely by "Mistiss," but
the best was pot-pie of chicken and pig. A dance always closed the festivities,
and the man who could cut the best double pigeon’s wing was given a prize by
the master.
The first
thing I had to do every day was to practice my piano lessons; and then Venie,
my nurse, braided my short hair into the ribbon of my sun bonnet so I could not
get it off, and out I went into the garden. There was a deep drainage ditch
with a wide bridge at the gate, over which was built a latticed arbor covered
with a grape vine, and on the other side I could sit and watch the crawfish
catching minnows. Springtime in Dixie! There were countless birds of every kind
in those days; tall cranes fished in the bayous, and flocks of wild pigeons
flew over in such numbers that one would think a big black cloud was obscuring
the sunshine.
After
we had spent a morning in the garden playing, we were put at our books with our
governess, after which we had to do a certain task of sewing, on the shady back
porch where Aunt Mary Pine and Aunt Martha (all Southern children were taught
to call their nurses "Mammie" and old colored men and women
"uncle" and "aunt") showed our negro maids and me how to
sew. I disliked sewing, for the time required to finish the seam appeared
interminable, but I heard much guarded talk of plantation affairs, negro
superstitions, and scary ghost stories. Worst of all, those poor ignorant
creatures imbued me with great fear of our loving Father in Heaven. Often, one
of the women, coming to the "big house" to get something would sit on
the gallery to tell of some happening, and Aunt Mary would say she ought to
pray mighty hard to the good Lord to be saved from the Judgment, or "You
better look out that your name ain't writ down in the Recording Angel's
Book"; and when I asked what these things meant, Aunt Mary Pine would tell
me a livid story of the anger of the Lord, and Aunt Martha would rock back and
forth and groan, but she would always bring in something about te1ling Ma and
Pa, like this: "You know your Ma don't 'low you to ask Negroes questions,
and you know what she will say to you if you ask her any questions." Nor
did I ever tell, for it is a sacred law of the negro race not to tell on each
other, or on their white folks. I might, in justice to our servants, say that
everybody, with few exceptions, had some superstitions. I have heard itinerant
preachers, the only kind we had in the Delta at first, preach of the Last Day
and the Fearful Judgment, the gnashing of teeth and the terrors of evil and
hell, and I, an impressionable child, have seen strong men weep and women
shouting and praying. It would have been terrible had not my father understood
how I felt and explained to me the hope of reward of the good.
I was
an impulsive, high-strung, imaginative, and absent-minded child, careless of my
dress and appearance, and no doubt taxed my mother's patience to the breaking
point. A beautiful baby I was, at two or three years of age, when I was
selected to be the model for the cherubims of a wonderful fresco of the
Annunciation. This painting was over the altar of a church in New Orleans and
was done by a celebrated artist from Rome. People used to come up to the
plantation to see the "Angel Child"; but a severe attack of pneumonia
and the malaria of the new grounds of the Delta destroyed the rosy complexion,
changed the flaxen curls to dark, straight hair, and I used to wonder how the
lovely portrait in the parlor could ever have resembled me.
My
mother believed that the "switch is mightier than the word," and my
absent-mindedness brought me to grief many times. I loved to study, but hated
to practice on the piano or to sew. If my mother sent me with a message or an order
to a servant, as likely as not I would fail to deliver it. Once, my brother
Fred and I were dressed nicely for company, and he had on a little white suit
of linen, freshly starched. When she looked us over, Ma shook her finger at us
and said, "If you get soiled before company comes, I will whip you,"
Pretty soon I saw Buddy all muddy and wet, brought into the yard by a negro
boy. He ran into the parlor screaming, "Oh, Ma, don't whip me. I was just
walking along and the mud jumped on me." It created a laugh in the parlor,
but I did not feel comfortable.
On
rainy days, when lessons and tasks were over, I would lie on the floor of the
library before the log fire reading some book that Pa had selected for me. He
had a splendid collection of books, and I had a very retentive memory and
delighted to learn the poems of Burns, Longfellow, and Scott, who were familiar
friends. The Book of Golden Deeds, Plutarch's Lives, and works of this
standard were the only ones that fell into my hands. We were made to cultivate
a taste for the best reading when children: this proves the wisdom of the
parents of that day.
My
two sisters were at home very little when we first went to the Delta. They were
at boarding school, and in vacation we were at the different health resorts, or
travelling. Before Christmas, Pa and Ma always went to New Orleans to settle up
the cotton accounts with his brokers, to enjoy the theatres and operas, to do
the buying for the family for Christmas, and to purchase the year's supply of
clothing for the Negroes. Sometimes they would take Buddy and me and our
governess, Miss Dupuy; sometimes they would send us to Aunt Mary Miles; and
sometimes we would stay at home.
Christmas was a wonderful time on the plantation. The darkies
always looked forward to it from the Fourth of July, when they had their second
best holiday, a big barbecue and dance. But at Christmas they had a whole week,
with Santa Claus at the "Big House" and prizes for the year's work;
every woman tried to finish a quilt for a quilting bee, and there were dances
every night. I can never forget Christmas on the plantation before the war. We
then knew nothing of Christmas cards or presents to friends and acquaintances.
Reaching to the high ceiling, there was a big tree with strong branches,
lighted with many candles, and on or under it, wonderful presents for Buddy and me and Aunt Mary's children, who always spent
Christmas with us. There were nice presents for each of the two hundred
Negroes. For the men, there were hats, neckties, or vests; for the women,
figured lawn or calico dresses and needle books; for the children, ribbons,
dolls, and toys. What pleased them most was their names on the tree. I can
remember hearing a darky say to another, "You better not do that; you won't
get your name on the Christmas tree."
I
must not forget the prizes that were distributed every year at Christmas - a
twenty dollar gold piece for the best all-around man on the place, and ten
dollars for the best woman. The smaller prizes were for the best special work.
The work and the private lives of our Negroes were never talked about or even
mentioned in the family. My mother was up early every morning to see to the
work of the day, which started before breakfast. A cup of coffee was sent to
each guest's room, but she always took Pa a sweet toddy - I know, because I
always got the sugar left in the glass when I was around. Breakfast, to suit Pa
and the girls, was not before nine; dinner was in the middle of the day; and
supper was late. Meals were always a function; the table was always set for
guests, and John Burch, the butler, and William were always there in their
white aprons. Everybody had to come to breakfast and bring his company manners.
Meals were a family reunion, with cheerful chatter and jokes and laughter.
I
remember one day when I asked for a second helping of sugar in my "cambric
tea" (hot milk flavored with coffee), William handed me the mashed
potatoes, and I absent-mindedly put a spoonful in my cup. Of course, there was
a big laugh, and Pa said it reminded him of his friend,
Judge Scott, who went to the post office and called for his mail. There was a new postmaster who called loudly,
"What name ?"
"What name?" said the Judge.
"Your name," said the postmaster.
"Oh," said the Judge and walked out of the door.
Walking down the street, he met a friend who said, "Good
morning, Judge Scott."
Then
he rushed back to the post office and said, "Please give me Judge Scott's
mail."
And
what a laugh when Buddy came down to breakfast one morning in a night cap.
Someone had given my sister six embroidered night caps, which she did not want,
so she gave them to me. I was so proud of them that Buddy made me divide with
him and he wore the cap to breakfast; but when Pa called him "Miss Nancy,"
he threw the cap across the room.
Buddy
was the young lord of the plantation; nobody refused him anything. He and I
were entirely different in our tastes and never quarreled, were never jealous;
he never wanted my possessions norI his, with the single exception of the night
caps.
I
remember my mother as a beautiful, vivacious lady, full of laughter and fun, a
glance at whose flashing dark eyes was enough to inspire fear as well as
admiration. She had but little trouble with her house servants because they
feared her as well as loved her; she was kind and considerate of them, and at
the same time exacting. Everything was kept under lock and key, and no one used
the keys but her. Beyond giving the young maids a slap, I never knew her to
punish one of the servants. The fear that misconduct would send
them "to the cotton patch" kept
them in order.
After
the Christmas holidays, everybody at Doro got busy. Wagons, plows, farming implements
were repaired and sharpened. Wagons with long lines of oxen yoked in pairs
went, to the woods to haul timber to the mills, and house building was always
in progress. How I loved to go to the woods with Pa. I could ride my pony now,
and he always took me when he was not going too far, as the doctors had
recommended outdoor life for me.
From
January to June or July was the busy season on the plantation. All those bolts
of linsey and cotton stripes and heavy domestic had to be cut up into garments
and made into clothes for the field hands. Every morning the women came and
were given the garment marked for them and their families. There was a big
Singer machine for sewing the heavy garments. There was the general spring
cleanup and the whitewashing of the cabins, houses, chicken houses, and fences.
Oh, the joy of watching the little seeds sprouting up green leaves, the fruit
trees budding, and the flowers blooming. I can hear Ma calling me now -
"Toodie, Pa's waiting for you." And with my long riding-skirt hastily
fastened on, I mounted my pony, saddled with the old fashioned sidesaddle, and
was soon out in the field watching the big double plows cutting their deep
furrows and turning the ground into ridges on which the cotton seed were thrown
by handfuls from sacks strapped across the shoulders of the sowers. When the
cotton came up, it was as thick as grass over the rows. I liked to sit on my
pony and watch the hoe hands, men and worn chopping it to a stand, first
leaving several stalks together, that, the final process, were chopped to a
single stalk by experts.
The
best hoe hands were nearly all women. Their prestige was recognized by white
and black. I never saw a negro woman plow until after the War Between the
States. But they were expert hands, and their work was keeping down weeds and
cultivating young plants while the men, with single plows and sweeps, did their
part. The singing of the workers; the plowman's "Gee-haw" to mule; on
the road the wagoner calling to his oxen as they moved along, five or six yoke
to the wagon; the countryside in bloom and everybody happy after the hard
winter was gone - all this made a lasting impression on my young mind.
The
winters were all hard because of so much rain; and the roads were impassable,
sometimes too boggy to trust even on horseback.
Great
preparations were made when Sister Mary Adelia graduated and came home. Her
room was newly furnished and things added to the house. I remember the big old
bedstead that was taken out; it took many men to take down the heavy canopy and
to carry out the head and foot pieces. Instead of springs or slats, the
mattress was on the bottom of woven rope, carried through holes bored in the
sides and in the head and foot pieces, and knotted at the intersections. First,
there was a rough mattress, then a feather bed, then a hair mattress; one
literally climbed into bed. The new set was of beautiful handcarved mahogany.
There was new china and cut-glass; the solid silver service was bright and
shining on the sideboard. A great change came over Doro from that day. There
was always company of young men and women. Sister was beautiful and charming,
and she had hosts of friends. She had not gone north to school as Sister Emma
had, and her school friends were all Southern girls who lived comparatively
near, so the house was full of attractive girls all the time when she was at
home.
Within a few years, the county seat, Prentiss, had become a
flourishing town, with young doctors and lawyers, in addition to young planters
from many states, who had come to begin their careers in this rich new country.
Doro became a social center for the community.