Andy Brice
From:
South Carolina
Project #1655
W. W. Dixon
Winnsboro, S. C.
ANDY BRICE
EX-SLAVE 81 YEARS OLD.
Andy Brice lives with his wife and two small children, about twelve
miles east of Ridgeway, S. C., in a two-room frame building, chimney in
the center. The house is set in a little cluster of pines one hundred
and fifty yards north of state highway #34. Andy, since the amputation
of his right leg five years ago, has done no work and is too old to
learn a trade. He has a regular beggar's route including the towns of
Ridgeway, Winnsboro, Woodward, and Blackstock. His amiability and good
nature enable him to go home after each trip with a little money and a
pack of miscellaneous gifts from white friends.
"Howdy Cap'n! I come to Winnsboro dis mornin' from way 'cross Wateree,
where I live now 'mongst de bull-frogs and skeeters. Seem lak they just
sing de whole night thru: 'De bull-frog on de bank, and de skeeter in de
pool.' Then de skeeter sail 'round my face wid de tra la, la la la, la
la la part of dat old song you is heard, maybe many times.
"I see a spit-box over dere. By chance, have you got any 'bacco? Make me
more glib if I can chew and spit; then I 'members more and better de
things done past and gone.
"I was a slave of Mistress Jane. Her was a daughter of old Marster
William Brice. Her marry Henry Younge and mammy was give to Marse Henry
and Miss Jane.
"My pappy name Tony. Mammy name Sallie. You is seen her a many a day.
Marse Henry got kilt in de war. His tombstone and Mistress Jane's
tombstone am in Concord Cemetery. They left two chillun, Miss Kittie and
Miss Maggie. They both marry a Caldwell; same name but no kin. Miss
Kittie marry Marse Joe Caldwell and move to Texas. Miss Maggie marry
Marse Camel Caldwell and move to North Carolina.
"My pappy die durin' de war. After freedom, mammy marry a ugly, no
'count nigger name Mills Douglas. She had one child by him, name Janie.
My mammy name her dat out of memory and love for old mistress, in
slavery time. I run away from de home of my step-pappy and got work wid
Major Thomas Brice. I work for him 'til I become a full grown man and
come to be de driver of de four-hoss wagon.
"One day I see Marse Thomas a twistin' de ears on a fiddle and rosinin'
de bow. Then he pull dat bow 'cross de belly of dat fiddle. Sumpin' bust
loose in me and sing all thru my head and tingle in my fingers. I make
up my mind, right then and dere, to save and buy me a fiddle. I got one
dat Christmas, bless God! I learn and been playin' de fiddle ever since.
I pat one foot while I playin'. I kept on playin' and pattin' dat foot
for thirty years. I lose dat foot in a smash up wid a highway accident
but I play de old tunes on dat fiddle at night, dat foot seem to be dere
at de end of dat leg (indicating) and pats just de same. Sometime I
ketch myself lookin' down to see if it have come back and jined itself
up to dat leg, from de very charm of de music I makin' wid de fiddle and
de bow.
"I never was very popular wid my own color. They say behind my back, in
'76, dat I's a white folks nigger. I wear a red shirt then, drink red
liquor, play de fiddle at de 'lection box, and vote de white folks
ticket. Who I marry? I marry Ellen Watson, as pretty a ginger cake
nigger as ever fried a batter cake or rolled her arms up in a wash tub.
How I git her? I never git her; dat fiddle got her. I play for all de
white folks dances down at Cedar Shades, up at Blackstock. De money roll
in when someone pass 'round de hat and say: 'De fiddler?' Ellen had more
beaux 'round her than her could shake a stick at but de beau she lak
best was de bow dat could draw music out of them five strings, and draw
money into dat hat, dat jingle in my pocket de nex' day when I go to see
her.
"I 'members very little 'bout de war, tho' I was a good size boy when de
Yankees come. By instint, a nigger can make up his mind pretty quick
'bout de creed of white folks, whether they am buckra or whether they am
not. Every Yankee I see had de stamp of poor white trash on them. They
strutted 'round, big Ike fashion, a bustin' in rooms widout knockin',
talkin' free to de white ladies, and familiar to de slave gals,
ransackin' drawers, and runnin' deir bayonets into feather beds, and
into de flower beds in de yards.
"What church I b'long to? None. Dat fiddle draws down from hebben all de
sermons dat I understan'. I sings de hymns in de way I praise and
glorify de Lord.
"Cotton pickin' was de biggest work I ever did, outside of drivin' a
wagon and playin' de fiddle. Look at them fingers; they is supple. I
carry two rows of cotton at a time. One week I pick, in a race wid
others, over 300 pounds a day. Commencin' Monday, thru Friday night, I
pick 1,562 pounds cotton seed. Dat make a bale weighin' 500 pounds, in
de lint.
"Ellen and me have one child, Sallie Ann. Ellen 'joy herself; have a
good time nussin' white folks chillun. Nussed you; she tell me 'bout it
many time. 'Spect she mind you of it very often. I knows you couldn't
git 'round dat woman; nobody could. De Lord took her home fifteen years
ago and I marry a widow, Ida Belton, down on de Kershaw County side.
"You wants me to tell 'bout dat 'lection day at Woodward, in 1878? You
wants to know de beginnin' and de end of it? Yes? Well, you couldn't wet
dis old man's whistle wid a swallow of red liquor now? Couldn't you or
could you? Dis was de way of it: It was set for Tuesday. Monday I drive
de four-hoss wagon down to dis very town. Marse John McCrory and Marse
Ed Woodward come wid me. They was in a buggy. When us got here, us got
twenty, sixteen shooters and put them under de hay us have in de wagon.
Bar rooms was here. I had fetched my fiddle 'long and played in Marse
Fred Habernick's bar 'til dinner time. Us leave town 'bout four o'clock.
Roads was bad but us got home 'bout dark. Us put de guns in Marse Andy
Mobley's store. Marse Ed and me leave Marse John to sleep in de store
and to take care of de guns.
"De nex' mornin', polls open in de little school house by de brick
church. I was dere on time, help to fix de table by de window and set de
ballot boxes on it. Voters could come to de window, put deir arms thru
and tuck de vote in a slit in de boxes. Dere was two supervisors, Marse
Thomas for de Democrats and Uncle Jordan for de Radicals. Marse Thomas
had a book and a pencil, Uncle Jordan had de same.
"Joe Foster, big buckra nigger, want to vote a stranger. Marse Thomas
challenge dis vote. In them times colored preachers so 'furiate de
women, dat they would put on breeches and vote de 'Publican radical
ticket. De stranger look lak a woman. Joe Foster 'spute Marse Thomas'
word and Marse Thomas knock him down wid de naked fist. Marse Irish
Billy Brice, when him see four or five hindred blacks crowdin' 'round
Marse Thomas, he jump thru de window from de inside. When he lit on de
ground, pistol went off pow! One nigger drop in his tracks. Sixteen men
come from nowhere and sixteen, sixteen shooters. Marse Thomas hold up
his hand to them and say: 'Wait!' Him point to de niggers and say:
'Git.' They start to runnin' 'cross de railroad, over de hillside and
never quit runnin' 'til they git half a mile away. De only niggers left
on dat ground was me, old Uncle Kantz, (you know de old mulatto,
club-foot nigger) well, me and him and Albert Gladney, de hurt nigger
dat was shot thru de neck was de only niggers left. Dr. Tom Douglas took
de ball out Albert's neck and de white folks put him in a wagon and sent
him home. I drive de wagon. When I got back, de white boys was in de
graveyard gittin' names off de tombstones to fill out de talley sheets,
dere was so many votes in de box for de Hampton ticket, they had to vote
de dead. I 'spect dat was one resurrection day all over South
Carolina."
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George Briggs
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Jane Bradley
