The white boys at the college were numerous and of all kinds. Many bloody fights often occurred among them. Colored boys had no show in those days, as reading and writing was unknown among them. It was not lawful for negroes to read and write; and if some should happen to steal a chance to learn it from the white boys, they endangered their sight, for in some cases their eyes were put out. Very much depended upon the kindness of their owners. Thus my chance to become educated was indeed limited.

But now spring came, and everybody had to chop cotton. So they carried Frank and his brother John to the plantation of Mr. Tom Best, nine miles northeast of Talladega. Here we were shown for the first time the true meaning of slavery. All our lives we had been free as compared to the treatment received at Mr. Tom Best's.

There were two overseers, a Mr. Taylor, a white man, and Aunt Harrietta Best, a colored woman. Of the two, the white man was the kinder and easier to please. Aunt Harrietta, as she was called, was the most cruel creature in the form of a human being that I had ever seen. She would cut and slay right and left. During each day she would lay it on to some of us. In fact, we children took her for the devil untied, and we were not much mistaken.

Near Mr. Best's farm lived a Mr. Gooden, whose overseer carried with him wherever he went a little black fellow about five years of age. Many a hot day this man would bring this little chap into the field and cause him to preach to the boys, about fifteen in number. He would preach and preach; and when well in the midst of his sermon, he would shout aloud: “My heart's alive! My heart's alive!” O, it was certainly amusing to the newcomers, who would be hoeing cotton, two in a row. This little fellow created so much mirth that even Aunt Harrietta would smile. I say smile because she laughed very seldom. I shall never forget Aunt Harrietta.

While all this devilment was going on out at Tom Best's, my mother was praying for her boys to return to her. Her prayers were answered, for in September of the same year Mr. Jamison bought us (the boys).

Thus ended the first twelve years of my life. Up to this time I knew not God, and really did not know there was a God. True, I can remember something of mother's going to church with the white people, and sometimes I went along with them; but I could not understand the preacher, for the people, white and colored, all shouted so while he preached. When mother shouted, I would cry. That I was so devoted to her, I guess, accounted for it.

The situation at Mr. Jamison's was entirely different and presented a new state of things. Mr. Robert Jamison was an old man about seventy years of age. His first wife having died, he made the mistake which is so common among men and women nowadays— that is, marrying persons much younger than themselves. He married a Miss Sallie Hankle, who became the mother of three beautiful children. I loved her; for of all the boys, I appeared to be her favorite. It was here that I formed the best associations of my youth.

Old man Jamison, being too old and frail to attend to the farm, had overseers, of course; and he also had men who never allowed any man to whip them but their master. So whenever he employed overseers he would tell them whom they could whip and whom they could not whip. But at times the overseers would go beyond their limits and attempt to whip those who were forbidden to be whipped. Then there was somebody hurt; for if Bob Anderson and others were tackled, they would fight at any cost the man who attempted to whip them. I was but a boy, yet I remember that once it rained too much to go to the field, so we all worked the road. Dave Irvin was overseer—a mean, selfish bigot. That morning he concluded that he was authorized to whip going and coming. Being young and foolish, he was going to whip Bob. He commanded him to lay aside his shovel and come out. “Lay off your coat, sir; I am going to whip you this morning.” “No; no man whips me but old master,” said Bob. Bob knocked him down, and would have beaten him shamefully had he not been taken off of him. Irvin cried out for help, but we laughed. As soon as Irvin was freed from Bob he went for old master, requesting him to come down and correct Bob. O, it was so cruel of Mr. Jamison to leave Bob to the mercy of that beastly Dave Irvin, yet that is what he did. He tied Bob, stripped him, and told the beastly Dave to take his satisfaction out of him. Dave whipped him until we all felt like going out there in the woods and putting an end to him, let come what might. The greatest objection I had to old man Jamison was his disregard for the feelings and rights of men because they were slaves. It was not a question of justice when it came to a dispute between overseers and slaves. He always took it for granted that the overseers were right, and generally gave one over into their hands; and therefore many negroes went to the woods or ran away before submitting to it.

They had an old man by the name of Dick Jamison who was known as head man. He had two sons, Bob and Noah Anderson. His only daughter was Patsy. She was really pretty and, indeed, beautiful to behold. Dave Irvin, the overseer, outraged her by brute force. For this act the bitterest hatred was heaped upon him.

Old man Dick was Mr. Jamison's most trusted servant; yet he was deceptive, and would sometimes get even with those whom he disliked by falsely telling tales. John, Orange, Elisha, Noah, Stephen, John (my brother), and Steve were my equals as playmates. Noah was near my size; and many times did he contend manfully in fights with me, but could never become winner in a single round. So one day we fought one of the hardest of all our fights. Old man Dick, his father, must have witnessed this fight, which was our last one. Both of us felt perfectly willing to close the fighting scenes thereafter, but old man Dick promised himself to even up with me. How to succeed in so doing was the question. I suppose it must have been twelve months or more before his opportunity presented itself, but to my sorrow it came at last. It being the season of fodder-pulling, old Uncle Charles and I were left at the house to pack away the fodder as it was brought in from the field. It happened to be so one day when Mr. Jamison decided to go visiting. Steve was the boy who generally drove the master's carriage. The horses were usually turned into the pasture, except those that were to be used for the carriage. On this day these were left in the lot, and of course had to be watered at noon. Old man Dick had his son Noah and me to take them to water. This being done, I inquired what should be done with them after watering. “Put them in the pasture,” was the answer. So away I went to put mine in the pasture; but Noah was told, after I had gone, to put his back in the lot. Somebody was acting wrongly, because if one went to the pasture both should go; but I contented myself with the fact that I was obeying the orders of the head man. Noah was too, but I did not know it. I was ignorant of the trap into which they were getting me. I was absolutely innocent as to any wrong intention. At about half past two o'clock in the afternoon there was a great stir downstairs in the barn. We stopped to learn what the trouble was, and found that it was Steve and old master ripping and roaring about one of the horses being gone. “Where is the horse?” said old master. “In the pasture,” answered Steve. “Who put him in there?” he asked. “Frank,” answered Steve. “Where's Frank?” was asked. “He's overhead in the loft packing fodder,” said Steve. “Bring him down here,” said old master. “Frank,” said Steve, “old master said come down there.” I went down, and then old master was on me like a “duck on a June bug.” He pinched me, pulled my ears, gouged my eyes, kicked and abused me shamefully. All this he did before hearing a word from me in my defense. Finally I got a chance to say: “Uncle Dick told me to put him in the pasture.” Then he turned off, saying he would ask Dick, and if Dick denied it he would whip me to-morrow. Uncle Dick was out in the fodder field. I went aloft and told Uncle Charles what master said he would do in case old man Dick denied telling me to put the horse in the pasture. “You will be whipped again then,” said he, “for old Dick will be mighty apt to deny it.”

Night came, and old master called old man Dick up to the house. I do not know what passed between them, but, whatever it was, it proved unfavorable to me. That much was manifested about noon the next day. I went to fetch some drinking water. Passing the front gate on returning, a Mr. —, brother-in-law of Mr. Jamison, was at the gate under instructions to detain me until old master came out with his switches. “Your master said to wait until he returns,” said the man. “I ain't got time. Uncle Charles told me to hurry back,” said I; and I was going right on, too, for I meant no foolishness that day. I felt almost willing to fight my old master, but was not large enough to hope to get the best of him; so I stopped upon being halted by him.

Standing with my pail on my head, I waited to see what he would do. “Pull off them breeches,” he demanded. I whined, saying, “I ain't done nothing,” and I refused to do it; but two men were stronger than one little boy, hence they soon had my breeches off, and the old master “wore me out,” saying he would show me how to resist him after telling him lies. “I don't want to live wid you,” I murmured. “I will never stay here. If you don't sell me, I'll go to the Yankees.” “You will never live to be grown. You will be hung, you son of a—,” said he.

Thus old man Dick was even with me for whipping his son Noah.

THE Civil War had been raging in full, and was now nearing its close. We were all thinking of freedom and its attendant blessings. Though sad as it may be and sad as it was, the blessings freedom had in store for Uncle Dick, Bob, and Anderson were of short duration; for the war closed in April, 1865, and in February, 1866, the smallpox broke out in Talladega and spread over the country around. These and many others caught it. Many died from the disease, and among them were old man Dick and Bob and Anderson, his two grown sons. Hence I lived to see Uncle Dick taken before God the Just.

Anderson had married a refugee woman in Talladega, whom he went to see every Saturday evening. The war had softened the hearts of many white people or changed their views so that not much objection was made to negroes visiting their wives.

The Yankees had made several raids through our portion of Alabama; and at the time of such raids we would gather up the horses, mules, meat, sugar, coffee, and flour and go to the mountains. After a few days the Yankees left, and we returned home with the stock unhurt. The white people always remained at home and left the provisions, horses, and mules in our care; and, as a matter of course, we always cared well for the stock, but would always eat the best of the provisions.

It was distressing when runners were sent out to herald the news of the approaching Yankees. One man would sometimes have to ride fifty miles sounding the alarm. Coming by our place about four o'clock in the morning, he would shout: “The Yankees! the Yankees!” We were up with a bound, for old master was extending this thrilling cry. The runner would continue to cry, “The Yankees are coming!” until everybody on the place was aroused. “O Frank, take a mule and carry the news to Mr. Carter's; John, you do the same to your Master Shack's; Adam, you go to Mrs. Curry's.” Thus old master sent us flying to the neighbors round about.

I was up and off like a rider myself, for it was in the pride of my life that I rode that dark morning before day. I went in a lope all the way to Mr. Carter's, and attempted to do the same on my return home, but had not gotten far before reaching a mudhole in the road. My trusty mule dashed to one side of the road to shun the mud and ran under the branches of a tree, which came near resulting in the loss of my eyes. I was done for that day, Yankees or no Yankees.

Returning home, to my sad surprise everybody had gone to the mountains. I went straight to my house and went to bed in great pain. Finally Miss Sallie came down there and tried to scare me off to the woods by telling me that the Yankees would catch me and carry me off from mother; but that eye was giving me more trouble than I feared would come from the Yankees, so I kept my bed. The dreaded Yankees failed to come to our place this time; and at times, acting like a summer cloud, they went around. One knowing my age would think that I would have been afraid to make that trip. But I was my mother's “little man.” Many a cold night, when the earth was white with snow, did I go miles away on errands for mother, as I was her tradesman.

Old man Joe Hall lived near us, and I traded a great deal with his people for my mother. This took me away from home many rainy nights when it was so dark that I would have to push along assisted by the light of the lightning. No, I was not afraid. Indeed, while writing this (1889) it seems to me that I can hear the tramping feet as they crushed the snow beneath them in the cold nights of 1862, 1863, and 1864. I was but a chump of a boy, too young to court the girls who loved me.

One day the white folks received good news from the war, and things about the house wore a different appearance. Old master was everywhere, cheery and lively; and, best of all, he was in a good humor. “What's the news?” “Why, old Lincoln is dead.” “Dar, by George! I told you boys you would never be free,” said Adam.

That “good news” plunged us into the deepest gloom. Not only was Mr. Lincoln dead, but the spirit of the boys died then and there. But that did not end the war. The battles went on, and in a few days news—good news— came that we were all free. Who brought the news? Why, the birds that chanted on the branches of trees sang to us the news: “Free, free, free indeed!” “Boys, wait a while; Anderson will be in from town pretty soon, and then we shall know the truth of this matter.”

Things looked dead about the big house. Finally Anderson was sighted. Old master beat us to him. “What's the news, Anderson?” “Why, master, the town is full of Yankees, and they told me I was freed from my master.” “Great heavens! What's that?” All of the boys sprang into life again.

FREEDOM now having been declared, a new aspect of things was readily seen. The old master agreed to share with the negroes in the crop, and they all agreed to remain; but I left at once and went to the Yankees. I was now even with old master for the whipping he wrongfully gave me. I had never forgotten it. I wanted none of his crops. I cannot say that my course was better than that of the others who remained with old master, for I really think that it would have proved much more beneficial to my real comfort to have remained at home; but that unjust thrashing he gave me stuck to me so intensely that I decided upon the moment what to do.

I wish to say just here to the reader that the smallpox which seemed to have swept the country during the winter of 1865 was, it is sad to say, mostly the result of the wickedness of the freed people. I found on reaching town hundreds of these people in camps around the towns, and they had to draw supplies from the government. If this state of affairs could have been avoided, the moral standing of the colored women would have been much higher; but being thrown among soldiers who disregarded their chastity, we should not wonder that thousands of girls whose virtue was as pure as could be were ruined in these camps. But negro women and girls were not the only victims of this evil and wicked influence. Many of our best and purest white women became the victims of them.

The negro part of society was so exultant over its freedom that nothing appealed to its reason. The other part was so cast down and dejected that nothing could cheer nor stimulate it to thinking. The Yankees and the freedmen had all the glory, and the Southern masters and their families had all the woes. God's justice was taking vengeance upon the hard and cruel masters of the South.

While the war was raging, the blacks were giving themselves over to balls and dances. I can remember when we would walk ten miles, dance all night, and go home after daylight next morning. The time of patrolling negroes had passed. All men who were fitted for such mean work found a better place for it on the field of battle among their comrades who were bleeding and dying while the negro was frolicking and flying.

It was the negroes' time to frolic, and they made much of it. Indeed, they went too far. Samuel Jamison's mill seemed to have been the selected place, and here the gatherings were held by the hundreds. One night it was said that the ball was going to be held at Master Shack's. We went there, only to learn that it was to be held at Master Sam's, three miles farther. Turning north, we struck out, fully determined to dance there that night. The larger boys outtraveled the smaller ones; and just as they crossed the bridge they met what they took for a little squad of soldiers, but who really proved to be patrolers. It was a complete trap. They soon surrounded the boys and had them; but suddenly Adam made a dash, and was gone over a fence into a field with the men flying after him, but all to no effect. With Adam's dash several of the others followed. So, after all, the main birds—big birds—were out of danger. These patrolers, however, had the small boys, whom they gave a light brushing. Then, pushing south, they passed within twenty feet of me and three others without knowing it. That was the closest I ever got to any patrolers. While waiting in our hiding place the other boys came along, feeling quite sad that they had missed their dance and had caught a thrashing. In fact, there was no ball that night. We came out of our hiding place and joined them in their homeward tramp, but did not talk much until the next day. Adam turned up all right next morning. A nine-mile walk and run was all he enjoyed that night.

Uncle Charles Hall was a kind of hoodoo. He could prevent the white folks from mistreating you, hence those of us who could believe in such would visit him and have him “fix” us. He would make us “jacks” and direct us where to get certain kinds of roots to chew and to anoint with three times daily. This we did, for Mr. Golden, the overseer, was pretty tight on us. The most amusing sight was presented when the overseer would ride among us. Every little fellow would begin to chew his root and spit toward the overseer. One day Noah spit too close to him, and he took offense at it; and in spite of Noah's roots the overseer “wore him out.” I laughed so that the overseer, not knowing why I laughed, turned on me; but I could not help it, for I would have laughed at any

I WAS absorbed and lost in the whirl of things on reaching Talladega. The question that confronted me was, Where was I to lodge, live, or get support? as the Yankees had no work for me to do. My mother soon came and hired to Dr. McCallipen as cook. This brought my brother John to town also. Soon he and I hired to the Dodwells. Now we were happy and doing well, though our pay was small. Prior to mother's moving to town I used to go back to see her. This was offensive to old master, who threatened to thrash me in case he caught me on the place. It was said that they watched for me, but I don't believe they did. However, I was armed, and woe to them had they bothered me! One morning I was returning to town and met Miss Amanda Adams. She spread the news that I went armed, after which no one interfered with me.

I loved Amanda Lewis, who lived a mile from Mr. Jamison's. We were but children. However, we loved each other with all the fervor that is implied by that term. About the first of January, 1865, her owner sent her to Columbiana, forty-six miles away. We sat up nearly all night, just as though we were grown persons; and when the train came next morning I cried. I promised her that I would visit her soon, but some of her brothers told her to look for the general judgment when she saw me in Columbiana. This created much laughter. True to my word, as soon as the Yankees declared us free and started trains to Selma I was aboard one pleasant May morning and off to Columbiana, where I arrived and went straight out to see Miss Amanda. “O, is this you?” she exclaimed. “It is,” was the reply. I was there, and yet no general judgment has come. But, after all, some one else married the girl I first loved.

It is with much pleasure that I reflect upon the years of 1859, 1860, and 1862. Those days were noted for the great religious awakening which seemed to be deeply fixed within the souls of the people, white and colored.

Uncle Henry Seay was the most celebrated colored Methodist preacher of his day. Red Bone, Owen Springs, and other churches were made the scenes of great rejoicing by his preaching. He used to preach on the plantations to the masters and their slaves. I speak the truth when I say that Uncle Henry Seay made all of his hearers have a high hope of heaven. There was power in his speaking. Many went into a trance while listening to him.

Rev. Mr. Patterson was another powerful preacher. Though a white minister, he generally stirred up the people. I have seen Owen's Chapel all ablaze with religious fervor, with more than a hundred souls crying for mercy. I hear them shouting even now, with thirty years intervening. Revs. Seay, Patterson, and Joe Gross seemed to have been walking with Christ, and nothing else was so dear and precious to their souls.

These have all fallen asleep—dropped their mantles and gone up higher. The last time I saw Rev. Henry Seay he was in Talladega during the time of Yankeedom. In June, 1865, a large Yankee preacher preached for the people at the white people's church. Uncle Henry shared with him in the glories of that June Sunday. It was hard to tell which one was the most exultant. The Yankee minister had met a people toward whom his soul had often turned, and seemed to have lost sight of everything else. But there was Rev. Seay, to whom the Yankee minister was everything but Christ. That Yankee minister might have been taken for a savior. He looked every inch a Christian.

I shall relate here another incident which occurred near Talladega. Mother and Dr. Callipen's family had the smallpox. At that time I was hired to a Mr. Boswell, whose rules did not allow any passing to and from town. I had not seen my mother in three weeks. I wanted to go to see her regardless of the smallpox, yet I disliked very much to break the rule. There were some pretty girls at Boswell's, and I was attending a night school there, which they all attended, with Miss Dollie as teacher. It was this which caused me to respect the rules so long. I knew that I should have gone and attended to my mother; but if I did, I would have to withdraw from this society of sweet girls, which I was loath to do. But finally we boys went hunting one night; and unfortunately for me, we went within four miles of town, and I determined to visit mother. I did so, and found her quite sick with that dreaded disease smallpox. I did what I could for her and finally went to sleep. When I awoke it was daylight, and I was five miles from home (Boswell's). I went five miles in an hour, but was ten minutes late. When I reached the top of the hill overlooking the place, I heard them calling and inquiring for me. Mr. Boswell asked me where I had been. I told him: “Down the road apiece.” “You have been to town,” he said. I refused to deny the charge, and this seemed to pain him, for he hated to drive me off. “I'll see ma,” he said, referring to Mrs. Boswell; “and if she consents, you may stay here.” But she said: “No; he will give us the smallpox.” So I left and went to mother, and there I remained until she recovered.

I then went to Jamison's mill and hired out. It was there that the smallpox had been raging, and it was there also that Uncle Dick and his two sons had died of it. I had been there just one week when I too took the smallpox, and they sent me back to town. I was two days walking the nine miles. I got as far as General McClellan's the first day, and went to the fodder loft and put up for the night. Before day the next morning some white men came to feed their horses. They took fodder off of me and did not know that I was there ill with smallpox. A few minutes afterwards others came and did the same; and when they had gone, I pulled out and crept off from that dangerous hiding place and was off again for town. Reaching town, I went to mother's. They fed me and sent me to the hospital.

I tried to get religion out there, but the devil chased me so that I gave it up. There were seventeen cases in the hospital. All got well but Uncle Jack, who was blind and without religion. When he learned that I was seeking religion, he asked me to take him along to the place of prayer. I did so, and on reaching the place we sang and prayed. We sang only two songs, “Amazing Grace” and “Hark! from the Tomb.” These were all he knew.

Finally I was pronounced well and was made nurse in the hospital, remaining one month. I continued praying, and the devil chased me so at night that I knew not what to do. When I went to have my voucher cashed, the Yankee postmaster paid it, but said some older person ought to have that easy job. I then quit, but they could get no person in my place. Uncle Jack died, and they had to hire me to help bury him. I do not know whether or not he succeeded in finding peace for his soul. I know that I didn't. In fact, I decided that I could not.

I shall always remember Aunt Rose Bowie. Had I been deprived of her most tender care, I would have died also. I know not where she is now. Mother died the same year (1866).

Talladega was too poor, and too many people were there, hence I went south in search of better wages. I passed through Selma and lodged at Newbern, where the renters of a Mr. Rommore's farm hired me. This was where they raised cotton on a large scale, hence it was common to see from one hundred and fifty to two hundred hands on one farm.

I witnessed a powerful awakening, religiously speaking. It capped the climax of all I had ever seen. But there was a great deal of dancing going on over at Mr. Scott's; and instead of my enlisting with the Christians, under the leadership of Uncle Chris and O. C. Ola, I followed Eli, the leader of the dances.

MY brother John and I decided to visit our kindred living in Rome, Ga., as we were now almost grown young men, and had not seen them since we were four and six years old, respectively. We started from Uniontown, Ala., which made it a journey of nearly two hundred miles. On reaching Rome we first went to the home of Uncle Benjamin, my mother's oldest brother, where we were most royally entertained. He was much like mother in disposition. We visited as many of our people as we could find, and were nicely treated by them all. For some cause we did not care to remain in Rome, though it was in some respects a better town, we thought, than Talladega. Selma, Marion, and Uniontown excelled either of them for good wages. When we left Selma and Uniontown for Rome, we were pretty well supplied with money, but on reaching Rome it was soon exhausted. We then began to think we would have to get back by way of “counting ties,” but were fortunate enough to get jobs as brakemen on the Selma, Rome, and Dalton Railroad, by which means we returned to Selma. We never visited Rome again. When it became difficult to get work in the city, we would go to the railroad, gravel train, wood yard, or to steamboats, and thereby manage to keep at something to make a living, as we had fully decided to quit farming.

The hardest taskmasters with whom we came in contact were on the Selma and Montgomery Railroad gravel train. There were two brothers who worked about twenty-five hands, with whom they were very strict. If one of the hands decided to quit, he would have to do so without letting them know of it, else they would club him shamefully. This they would do alike to both white and colored. Brother John and I thought this too bitter a pill to swallow, and assured the men that we would never slip off when we decided to quit the job, but would go right up to the boss and ask him for our time. The white hands begged us not to do this, as we would be maltreated as others had been. I laughed at them and told them never to believe that those men would hurt us. We felt able to take care of ourselves in any sort of encounter with them, and would do so at any cost. Things went on lovely. The boss did not care how much one talked so long as he kept constantly at work. That just suited the Jamisons. We would throw sand and gravel at a lively rate, but kept talking about things which would really interest the boss. On Wednesday he carried us out to Benton, thirteen miles from Selma, expecting to return to the city on Saturday for the purpose of spending the Sabbath royally. The hands were in the habit of calling the boss “captain” —so much so, in fact, that he told them there were too many captains, and that they might call him by some other name. I asked him if he intended to return to Selma that evening, and called him “colonel,” at which he took great offense. “You told us to call you”—said I. “You are a—liar!” said he. “And if you repeat it, I'll rub your head with a brick.” “I can prove it by all the hands,” I said. I watched him to see if he would go for a brick; but he did not, though he turned very red. He said that I was a “—good hand,” but was too impertinent, and that I could do one of two things, not be impertinent and remain or be impertinent and leave. I went down to the dinner table and consulted the boys, who urged me to slip off at night and avoid further trouble. But I was determined to test his bravery. I stepped up to him and said that, inasmuch as we could not get along together, I guessed I would quit. He looked off and did not say a word. Thus the hands had lived to see a young man go and tell their boss of his intention to leave without being kicked. Really he acted like a different man from that he was reputed to be. If that boss had made a dash at me, he would have suffered severely, for I was prepared for mischief.

Leaving the gravel train, we returned to Selma. I got a job as roustabout on board the Mist, a steamer on the Alabama River, running from Mobile to Wetumpka. I was a young convert; and seeing that the steamboat business was not the thing for young converts, I therefore selected “Savannah Joe” as my partner and went aboard at nine dollars per round trip, a week being required to make a trip. I made three trips, which were indeed most perilous. I fought on every trip except the first. It was a bad place for a young convert to be. My last fight was with John Peoples, of Mobile. John was a terror to nearly all of the roustabouts. He was a scientific boxer, and was the cause of the fight. He and I belonged to the same watch, which had just ended, and we had retired for four hours' rest. Just as we fell asleep the watchman shouted: “Land the boat! Go forward!” “That's too bad. Where are we?” I inquired. “Selma,” was the reply. That settled it, as that meant three hours of hard work unloading the boat. When all was done, the vessel moved upstream. This being our hour to watch caused us to work eight hours without rest. This made John so mad that he was like a snake in dog days, striking at everything which chanced to pass him. I passed him, and he struck me in the face. I could not return the blow, as I had a load on my shoulders. However, I made haste to unload myself and hurried back to return the blow. He squared himself and defied me, but before he knew it I was giving him some timely blows. He at once returned the blows, and was soon getting the best of me. Blood was flowing profusely. I clinched him, seizing his throat. I choked him almost breathless ere he could extricate himself. Finally they loosed me from him, and he darted out of the engine room and, seizing an ax, was about to lay me out; but fortunately for me, the two steel doors caught him. By this time the mate had come and wanted to know the trouble. They told him that John had imposed on me and that I ought to kill him. I stood within the engine room, bleeding and crying. Finally my temper got the best of me. I rushed by them, gathered the ax, and went off to kill John. Just as I passed a crowd some one caught the ax as I drew back to strike John. This caused me to fall, and before I could rise John caught me while flat on my back. Then the mate said: “Let him give Frank —.” This John resolved to do. He beat me up and down and tried to throw me overboard with the boat running at full speed. But turning from off my back, I grabbed a hatchet and let it fly. John fell, screaming in a loud voice. Those who stood around us made haste to take John Peoples out of further danger. Before I was a convert fighting was my profession. “Ha! ha! John met his match last night,” said one of the bystanders. “Yes, and he would have made a finish of him if let alone,” said another. We both were bleeding shamefully. I was sorry for John the moment I saw him refuse to eat his breakfast that morning.

That bloody fight occurred about sunrise one Sunday morning in March, 1871. Savannah Joe, my partner, was in the hatch hole, and knew nothing of it until it was all over. “I'll put John ashore,” said the mate. “Put me too,” said I. “No, I won't,” he said. “Yes, but I'll quit,” I answered. Reaching Benton, he put John off five hundred and ninety miles from Mobile. I got off too. Savannah Joe did the same thing and resolved to whip John because he had imposed upon me in his absence. I told Joe that if he touched John he would have to whip me too; that no man could impose upon another in my presence. We walked back to Selma, thirteen miles, without a ripple. Next morning I met my brother John, who laughed at my black eyes and bruised nose. As we were going uptown we met John Peoples, who, though looking worse than I, took us and treated to cold drinks.

Times having become dull in Selma, we hired to a man to cut cordwood. Here brother John experienced one of the most painful nights of his life. His pain seemed greater than he could bear, and I thought he would die before morning in spite of all that I could do for him. His trouble was cramp colic. Next morning we both rejoiced that he yet lived, though feeble indeed.

Leaving there, I secured work as a brakeman on the Selma and Meridian Railroad. Brother went with surveying parties on the Mobile, Alabama, and Grand Trunk Railroad. I knew nothing whatever about braking on a train. The conductors would not have hired me but for the fact that the Ku-Klux Klan was so bad that the old brakemen found it best to quit. The brakemen were now all green hands. One rainy morning the engineer wanted water. The tank was at the east end of a heavy grade. He gave a signal for brakes. I guess I turned on at least half a dozen, but the train kept going and he kept whistling. The other brakemen were afraid of their feet slipping, hence they sat down and threw on the brakes as best they could; but the train passed on by the tank. Being mad, I then went to another brake and snatched it as though I was an old hand at the business and made a strong pull, when suddenly my feet slipped and I dropped between the running cars. The mist obstructing my sight, I therefore fell my full length and with all of my weight; but I held on to the brake with a deadly grasp, and this saved my life. After this incident I, of course, quit the braking business. I was a young convert, but did not care to run such a risk. Then, again, expecting at any moment to be pulled off by the Ku-Klux, I therefore decided that this was not a safe job for me.

To my surprise, I never saw a Ku-Klux in all of my life, though thousands of them were said to have been in Alabama. Up on the North and South Railroad the Ku-Klux would swarm out at night, and not only whip but actually kill some of the colored hands. One night a great stream of them poured out; and it is said that there would have been more of them, but something destructive happened and a part of them mysteriously disappeared, which checked the ravages of the Ku-Klux Klan.

PROVIDENTIALLY, brother and I were once more thrown together in Selma, where I attended the Annual Conference of the African Methodist Episcopal Church and met Bishops Ward and Brown, Elder Young, Elder (now Bishop) Turner, and others, among whom was the Hon. Benjamin Turner, then the negro Congressman. These negroes certainly had a royal time of it. It was a sort of royalty that turned the white people into Ku-Klux Klans, “White Riders,” etc. They could not stand to see such demonstrations on the part of their former slaves at their very doors, hence they sought to put an end to it by foul means.

General Grant was President at this time, but could do little to protect the negroes in those days of trial. There was scarcely safety for any one. Finally the leading negroes went out of politics into religion; and some of them became elders, some bishops, and some nothing. Half of them had but little or no religion. Of course it is understood that some of them have none yet, as they carried their old political tricks into the Church and largely destroyed its sacredness. While this was being done the white man rushed in and took control of politics and left the negro on the outside with his religion, wrangling about what Paul said. The white man having accomplished his purpose, the Klan, “White Riders,” etc. ceased for a season. I shall say more upon this subject later on.

While the idle days were upon us we amused ourselves as doth the cooing doves of the spring. We courted the girls, at least I did (brother was a little slow along this line). I highly admired Miss Sarah German, Miss Elizabeth Bryant, and Miss Esther Pickens. With these I spent some of the most pleasant days of 1871. I started to enter a marriage contract with the German girl, but several claimed that I had made similar contracts with them. I might have made some agreements of a compromising nature; but as that was not a rare thing in those days, I thought that should have made but little difference. I also thought that a young man ought to court his girl a long while before marrying her; and as marriage should be a lifetime agreement, I thought it not out of place to talk with more than one on the same subject for the purpose of studying the different traits of character.

I think one should be quite familiar with the disposition of the one whom he selects to make his bride; and if she is found not suitable, do not marry her. I shall pause a while just here and drop a few words of advice to young people respecting courtship and marriage. Don't be too hasty about marrying; for every good-looking girl is not fitted to be a wife, nor will every handsome young man make a good husband. Seek the association of the wisest and best, for upon this depends a good moral turn of mind as well as a healthy body. Therefore, young man, be afraid to associate with any but the purest girls; and, young ladies, avoid the young man who is not a gentleman. Think yourself above the baser sort. I find from consulting learned men that a man's health in old age depends largely upon the associations he formed in his youthful days. This being true, it is of the greatest importance that our youths be brought to think and act upon this principle, with an eye single to their future days. Since health in middle and old age depends upon the conduct in youth, it is absolutely necessary to keep the youths pure. Pure thoughts in the heart will make the whole body pure, healthy, and vigorous. If you will take these rules as the guide of your youth, my son or daughter, your home will ever be bright and happy until the latest sun of your declining days has set. Suffice it to say, young people, let your lives be as chaste as the ice and as pure as the snow.

The foregoing remarks may be deemed out of place; but seeing the thousands who have fallen and the thousands who are falling daily for want of information upon this all-important relation upon which so much depends, I cannot resist the temptation to drop these words of caution. A race of people—yea, a nation—is measured by the respect shown for the marriage relation. One of the greatest impediments to the colored race is its little regard for the marriage relation. There are thousands of men among us with half a dozen wives; and some of them are in the best society, being measured by popularity and not by principle. I sometimes think that the whites are half right in refusing to associate with

IN 1872 it was said that wages in Texas were very good—two dollars and a half in greenback and two dollars in gold per day. About five hundred Georgians and Alabamians resolved to go to Texas. We decided to go and stay three years, get rich, and return to Alabama. But it proved to be a long three years. It has been thirty-eight years instead of three since we left Alabama.

We left Selma November 4, 1872, running twenty-five miles to meet the east-bound train. We parleyed a while with the train people, walking around and viewing things (fool-like, always looking up), when, to my surprise, we observed that the train had started and was rapidly getting farther away from us Texas-bound people. I ran until I almost lost my breath before I overtook that train, but caught it and afterwards knew how to keep my seat. “Never make yourself appear a ‘greenhorn’ is a good rule to follow through life,” I thought, “especially when traveling.”

We reached Vicksburg, Miss., on November 5, where I saw for the first time the Father of Waters, the Mississippi River, over which we crossed into Louisiana. I was prejudiced against Vicksburg, hence I saw nothing of a very enticing nature. Delhi, just across the river, was a miserable-looking town, where we took a filthy-looking train for Monroe, La., which is a beautiful place. Spending part of one day in Monroe, I went to a circus. Here I saw many good-looking women, but learned that their condition was but little better than the state of slavery out of which they had recently come.

There were one hundred of us en route to Texas— seventy-five whites and twenty-five colored. It was one hundred and ten miles from Monroe to Shreveport. An overland trip of this distance had to be made, as there was no railroad. There were only thirteen wagons, which had to be used for hauling tools, etc. The drivers, of course, had to be white men; but somehow I found favor with the boss, who gave me a team to drive. I was very thankful, because it saved me from a long, tiresome walk. We crossed the Washita River at Trenton, just opposite Monroe, La. It was here that the boys broke camp and started on one of the longest and most toilsome journeys on foot that they had ever experienced. Many gave out by the wayside and were half a day late reaching Shreveport, though they came through without being disturbed by the Ku-Klux Klan.

The Georgians carried several women with them. Many of them had their little children with them, and, becoming exhausted, had to be picked up by the wayside. The wagon train passed one of them near Arcade, and she begged each driver that passed to let her ride. They all refused. She then asked me, and I told her she could ride upon my wagon if I had to walk and drive. I was still a young convert, and my heart easily yielded in sympathy for the distressed woman.

Arcade was a little country village, but a general reign of peace seemed to be the state of affairs there, except for an old colored woman who got on the war path one morning because some of the boys, among whom was John Jamison, made themselves too free with her girls. They were beautiful girls, and seemed to enjoy the company of the newcomers very much. They were having a jolly time when the old lady came in and shouted: “Look here, by —! Back your wagon! What yer mean? Yer know I ain't gwine ter stand dis, by —! Back yer wagon right erway!” The boys backed their wagon, too, and that in a hurry.

We had great sympathy for the poor colored people through whose territory we passed. They appeared as if forsaken by the outer world of mankind because of their humble condition, yet they were nice, respectable people.

The city of Shreveport was the liveliest one we had touched since leaving Selma. Here the negroes looked and acted as though they were free from their masters. Money seemed plentiful everywhere. Cotton, cotton, cotton was the order of the day.

Leaving Shreveport, we pushed on, and after about twenty more miles had been traveled we crossed the Texas line. The train soon had us in Greenwood. “Now you are in Texas,” said some one. “Is this Texas? Great Scott! No, it cannot be!” “Yes, indeed,” said another. “Well, if it is, it is mighty poor.”

We reached Marshall, and were told that this was the end of our journey. We viewed the city with much curiosity, but it proved to be as old as the hills and valleys of Alabama. There was no work but that of railroading. It was at Marshall that Bishop W. H. Miles held the second session of the East Texas Conference; and it was here also that the Bishop and his Conference were driven out of the Methodist Episcopal church by some poor, ignorant women who had been told that the Bishop was a Democrat and was seeking to organize a Democratic Church. This was a shame; but the good Bishop led his brethren quietly out of that church, leaving it to those crazy women. The devil was satisfied with his success. Bishop Miles was not without a place to hold his Conference; for the white people threw open their church doors to him, and the business of the Conference went on.

If there ever was a colored community in need of education, it was that at Marshall; and God in mercy has given to them two of the best schools in the State of Texas, though it seems that they do not profit much by it since they do not send their children to these schools as they should.

Out at our camps, which lay about two miles northeast of town, we found nothing as had been reported. We had been promised a contract, a subcontract, and a twenty-two-cents-per-yard job if we preferred to work alone, or from two dollars to two dollars and a half per day as day laborers; but the promise was about all there was to it. They were two and three months behind with the old hands. Every week they promised a pay day, but its delay disheartened us. We did not care to get any more promises, neither did we care to work and take a promise for pay. A heavy snow began to fall, and we could do no work. Finally we decided to go back to Alabama. We did not have the money with which to return, so we undertook to work our way back, and decided that wherever we struck a job we would take it, finish it, draw our money, and resume our journey. The first sixteen miles brought us to Jonesville, where we got a forty-dollar job splitting rails. There were John Jamison, King Smith, Washington Branley, Andrew Jackson, and myself. We began the work of splitting the rails, and would have resumed our journey, but I accidentally broke my brother's leg one evening, which caused us to remain in and around Jonesville at least three months. John suffered very much. When Drs. Vaughn and Knox, who attended him during his suffering, assured him that he would soon be all right, we looked for other jobs, which it was no trouble to find.

A Mr. Kahn gave us forty acres of land to clear, allowing us five dollars per acre. This land was about three miles from the town of Jonesville. John was left under the care of the doctors and A. Jackson while we went to work in earnest, believing that we now had work which, when finished, would enable us to make our return to old Alabama. In February the weather was very cold; but as we were used to that, we lost no time. Finally March brought in wind and sunshine, and the Texas birds were singing and chanting to us their Texas melodies. Instead of further rail-splitting, we laid the country off into circuits, to be known as the Black Jack Circuit, Hilliard Circuit, Center Circuit, and Antioch Circuit. King Smith rode the Hilliard Circuit, and I had charge of Center Circuit. That was grand. We had resolved to supply the people with the gospel. We were exhorters, and while exhorting we sometimes preached. I visited the appointments of all the circuits.

I CHANCED to meet a Miss Minerva A. Flinnoy, with whom I was very much impressed, especially with her beauty and modest bearing. I asked Rev. Patterson one day who she was and what of her. “She is my sister-in-law,” he said. “O, that can't be true! Well, where has she been all the while?” I asked “At home with the measles,” he said. He gave me an introduction to her. I do not know all that I said to her; but one thing I do know, and that is, I decided to ask her to marry me. I paid her a visit, and she blushed when I asked of her the privilege of waiting on her, preferable to all others. She was a sweet, beautiful young lady, and I could not help thinking of her. I guess I must have paid due attention to her, because there were other ladies to whom I had paid a great deal of attention, and they discovered that I had lost interest in them by some means; hence I was teased no little about Miss Flinnoy. I liked the girl's parents very well, but the old lady gave me to understand that she could not think of giving me her daughter. I took it for granted that she objected because I was a stranger, and I was unwilling to marry into a family that mistrusted me. She was right for not being willing to give her daughter in matrimony to a stranger, but I afterwards found that that was not the real objection. She had only two daughters. Rev. Mr. Patterson, the Baptist preacher, had married the eldest, and the youngest she intended to keep with her. Besides this, she said that her daughter was too young to make me a wife.

I had about given up the idea of succeeding in my undertaking, notwithstanding the fact that the girl had said yes; but when I learned the real grounds of objection, I pressed my claims to a finish. When I convinced the old lady of my sincerity, she waived her own pleasure in the matter and gave me her daughter.

The Quarterly Conference had by this time recommend me to the Annual Conference to be admitted on trial. I arranged matters for admission into the East Texas Conference. Having purchased a horse, I hired a buggy and drove to Henderson, a distance of seventy-five miles. Arriving there the second day, I found the Conference fully at work, with Bishop Lane presiding.

Among the members of that Conference were Moses Butler, Cyrus Wolf, Charles Ingraham, Henry Jackson, J. H. Jackson, George Byrd, H. Leroy, Prather Wilson, Green Bohannan, William Taylor, John Williams, E. B. Campbell, S. Townsend, Noe Bell, Harry Sharp, Harry Peel, Daniel Mimms, A. J. Burrus, Henry Reed, Robert Hagler, Alfred Alston, Wesley Walker, Richard McAlliston, and Spencer Westmoreland. I passed a very poor examination before the committee; but as that was common in those days, the committee asked that I be admitted and ordained deacon. I was only a lad; but Elder Mimms had said so much in my favor that the Committee on Public Worship appointed me to preach on Friday night. That came very near frightening me to death, though perhaps no one knew it but I. I soon recovered, and from the text, “In him was life,” etc., it was said that I preached the sermon of the Conference.

Returning from Conference, I was married to Miss Flinnoy on January 14, 1874. This course was decided upon for mutual happiness and self-protection during the remaining days of my life. We succeeded splendidly during the first years of our married life. We raised six bales of cotton and I rode the Marshall and Longview Stations as pastor. The charge merely paid my traveling expenses, but my wife assisted me so that I had more money at the end of the year than I have had at the end of any year since.

I made a serious mistake when I joined the East Texas Conference; and had it not been for this mistake, I could have made my wife a happier woman. There has been a constant changing from place to place, involving heavy losses to us. Many of these changes were unwise and unnecessary.

The Methodist polity is all right in spirit when it has experience and forethought to administer it; but it works great hardships when it has to depend upon the inexperienced, prejudiced, etc., to direct it. Having been subjected to much of this inexperience and prejudice, I can truthfully say that it has interfered no little with that peace and happiness which I sought in marriage. The appointing power is an awful thing when perverted and abused. It entails much suffering upon the wives of ministers. I have often thought that it would be much better if there were no such power, especially if it had to be placed in the hands of any except the wise and experienced. I view with pain and sadness the suffering of the wives of many of the ministers of the Colored Methodist Episcopal Church. I am not unmindful of the fact that such is necessarily the case in all Methodist bodies, but it seems to have outdone itself in our Church; and yet I cannot justly charge all this to the inexperienced. The thing that should be done is to see to it that none but true men be invested with the appointing power.

The bishop assigned me to the Marshall and Longview Stations in 1874. We had five members in Marshall and eight in Longview when I entered the charge, but no church at either place. When I had finished that year's work and gone to Conference, I had forty members in Longview and twenty in Marshall, which I thought was first-rate for the first year. I should have been returned; but the bishop said “No,” which made some of the members cry.

This Conference for the year 1874 convened in the city of Sherman, with Bishop Lane presiding. Sherman was at that time famous for the virtue and chastity of its beautiful women. I thought it excelled any place that I had ever visited in Texas. The white people there were and are still the best people in the South. The pastor and leading members of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South, threw open the doors of their church to admit our Conference and attended its sessions night and day. Many of their best and most pious women attended every one of the sessions, and seemed to have been much delighted with the Bishop's sermons.