Alexander Robertson
From:
South Carolina
=Project #1655=
=W.W. Dixon=
=Winnsboro, S.C.=
=ALEXANDER ROBERTSON=
=EX-SLAVE 84 YEARS OLD.=
Alexander Robertson lives as a member of the household of his son,
Charley, on the General Bratton plantation, four miles southeast of
White Oak, S.C. It is a box-like house, chimney in the center, four
rooms, a porch in front and morning glory vines, in bloom at this
season, climbing around the sides and supports. Does Alexander sit here
in the autumn sunshine and while the hours away? Nay, in fact he is
still one of the active, working members of the family, ever in the
fields with his grandchildren, poke around his neck, extracting fleecy
cotton from the bolls and putting it deftly into the poke. He can carry
his row equally as well as any of the six grandchildren. He has a good
appetite at meal time, digestive organs good, sleeps well, and is the
early riser in the mornings. He says the Negro half of his nature
objects to working on Saturday afternoon, and at such times his tall
figure, with a green patch cloth over the left eye, which is sightless,
may be seen strolling to and fro on the streets of Winnsboro.
"Well, well! If it ain't de youngun dat use to sell me sugar, coffee,
fat back and meal, when he clerk for Calvin Brice & Company, at
Woodward, in '84 and 'long dere.
"I hopes you is well dis mornin'. I's told to come to Winnsboro and gits
blanks for a pension. Andy Foster, man I knows, d'rect me up dese steps
and bless God I finds you. You wanna ask me some questions? Well, here I
is, more than glad to answer, if I can. Where I born? Strange as it
seems, I born right here in Winnsboro. My name set down in a book:
'Alexander-boy-mother, Hannah, wench of James Stewart'. Dat de way it
was read to me by Dr. Beaty, dat marry a Miss Cherry and live in Rock
Hill. If slavery had never been done 'way wid, dat would be my master
today, 'cause him lak hound dogs and I lak a hound dog. Dat kind of
breed got a good nose and make good 'possum dog. Marster Jim tell me one
time, dat de first dog sprung from a wolf, and dat fust dog was a hound
dog. Dat out dat fust dog, (must to a been a bitch, don't you reckon?)
come all dogs. I follow his talk wid belief, 'bout de setters, pointers,
and blood hounds, even to de fices, but it strain dat belief when it git
to de little useless hairy pup de ladies lead 'round wid a silver collar
and a shiney chain. Well, you don't care to hear anymore 'bout dat? What
is de question?
"My master at de fust, was Marster Jim Stewart and my mistress was his
wife, Mistress Clara. They have two chillun. I 'member Marster Jim and
Miss Lizzie; they live in a fine house befo' de war, 'round yonder close
to Mt. Zion College. My mother was de cook and I was de house boy. They
had a big plantation 'bout two miles out, sorta southwest of Boro, I
mean Winnsboro, of course, but de country people still call it Boro.
"On dat plantation was many two-room houses, brick chimneys in de
middle, for de plantation slaves. In de growin' season I go wid marster
every day, not to drive, too small for dat, just to hold de hoss, when
him git out and then I run errands for him, 'round de house and in de
fields.
"My mother had another child, Willie Finch. A colored man name of Finch
is his father but her and de white folks never tell me who my father
was. I have to find out dat for myself, after freedom, when I was
lookin' 'round for a name. From all I hear and 'pear in de lookin'
glass, I see I was half white for sure, and from de things I hear, I
conclude I was a Robertson which have never been denied. Maybe it best
just to give no front names. Though half a nigger, I have tried to live
up to dat name, never took it in dat court house over yonder, never
took it in dat jail or dat calaboose. I's paid my debts dollar for
dollar and owe no man nothin' but good will.
"What de Yankees do when they come? Let other people tell dat, but seem
lak they lay de whole town in ashes, 'cept de college and our house
close to it, dat they use for de officers while they was in Boro. Why
they hear sumpin' bout de Davis name techin' de St. John 'Piscopal
Church and they march 'round dere, one cold February Sunday mornin', set
it afire, and burn it up. Mother and me went to de plantation and stayed
dere 'til they left.
"When freedom come, I was twelve years old. Mother marry a Finch; Bill
was de name of him. Our nex' move was to Dr. Madden's place, just north
of Boro. Us farm up dere and I do de hoein'. I live dere thirteen years.
I got to feelin' my oats and tired of workin' for a plum black nigger, I
did. Maybe I ought to been more humble but I wasn't.
"I ask myself one night: 'What you gonna do, stay here forever for your
vittles and clothes?' Then come over my mind I old 'nough for to marry.
Who I gwine to marry? It pop right in dis head, Sarah was de gal for me.
I rode old Beck down dere de nex' Sunday; dat was in December. I come
right to de point wid her and de old folks. They 'low they have no
objections if I could take care of her. I say I try to. They say: 'Dat
ain't 'nough, 'range yourself for another year and then come and git
her'.
"De Lord directs me. I's down here payin' my poll, too. Marster Tom
Shanty Brice come in as us come out. I ask him if he need a hand for
nex' year. He look me up from top to bottom and say: 'What's your name?'
I show him my tax receipt. He hire me than and dere. I go right straight
to Sarah and us tell de old folks. Rev. Gordon marry us de 29th of
January, 1879. Us has seven chillun. Alex, dat's de one name for me, is
in Tampa, Florida. Carrie marry a Coleman and is in Charlotte, N.C.
Jimmie is dead. Thomas is in Charleston, S.C. Emma marry a Belton and
lives wid her husband in Ridgeway, S.C. I stay wid my son, Charley, up
de country.
"I voted one time in 1876, for Gov. Chamberlain, but when I moved to
Marster Tom Brice's I thought so much of him, I just quit voting. I
would lak to vote one more time to say: 'I have vote one time wid de
black part of my nature, dis time I votes wid de white side of my
nature.' What you laughin' 'bout? If it was de call of dark blood de
fust time, maybe it's de call of de white blood dis time. You have no
idea de worry and de pain a mulatto have to carry all his eighty-four
years. Forced to 'sociate wid one side, proud to be related to de other
side. Neither side lak de color of your skin. I jine de Methodist church
here in Boro and 'tend often as I can and as I hear my preacher Owens
preach, dat dere will be no sex in hebben, I hopes and prays dat dere'll
be no sich thing as a color line in hebben.
"Who de best white men I ever know? Mr. Tom Brice, Mr. W.L. Rosborough,
Mr. Watt Sinonton, and Mr. August Nicholson. Master Bill Beaty, dat
marry my young mistress, Elizabeth, was a fine man.
"What I think of Abe Lincoln? What I think of Mr. Roosevelt? Dere de
color come up again. De black say Mr. Lincoln de best President us ever
have; de white say us never have had and never will have a President
equal of Mr. Roosevelt."
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Charlie Robinson
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Isom Roberts
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