Herndon Bogan
From:
North Carolina
N. C. District: No. 2 [320235]
Worker: Mary A. Hicks
No. Words: 863
Subject: HERNDON BOGAN
Story Teller: Herndon Bogan
Editor: Daisy Bailey Waitt
[TR: No Date Stamp]
HERNDON BOGAN
Ex-Slave Story
An interview with Herndon Bogan, 76 (?) of State Prison, Raleigh, N. C.
I wus bawned in Union County, South Carolina on de plantation o' Doctor
Bogan, who owned both my mammy Issia, an' my pap Edwin. Dar wus six o'
us chilluns; Clara, Lula, Joe, Tux, Mack an' me.
I doan' member much 'bout slavery days 'cept dat my white folkses wus
good ter us. Dar wus a heap o' slaves, maybe a hundert an' fifty. I
'members dat we wucked hard, but we had plenty ter eat an' w'ar, eben
iffen we did w'ar wood shoes.
I kin barely recolleck 'fore de war dat I'se seed a heap o' cocks
fightin' in pits an' a heap o' horse racin'. When de marster winned he
'ud give us niggers a big dinner or a dance, but if he lost, oh!
My daddy wus gived ter de doctor when de doctor wus married an' dey
shore loved each other. One day marster, he comes in an' he sez dat de
Yankees am aimin' ter try ter take his niggers way from him, but dat dey
am gwine ter ketch hell while dey does hit. When he sez dat he starts
ter walkin' de flo'. 'I'se gwine ter leave yore missus in yore keer,
Edwin,' he sez.
But pa 'lows, 'Wid all respec' fer yore wife sar, she am a Yankee too,
an' I'd ruther go wid you ter de war. Please sar, massa, let me go wid
you ter fight dem Yanks.'
At fust massa 'fuses, den he sez, 'All right.' So off dey goes ter de
war, massa on a big hoss, an' my pap on a strong mule 'long wid de
blankets an' things.
Dey tells me dat ole massa got shot one night, an' dat pap grabs de gun
'fore hit hits de earth an' lets de Yanks have hit.
I 'members dat dem wus bad days fer South Carolina, we gived all o' de
food ter de soldiers, an' missus, eben do' she has got some Yankee folks
in de war, l'arns ter eat cabbages an' kush an' berries.
I 'members dat on de day of de surrender, leastways de day dat we hyard
'bout hit, up comes a Yankee an' axes ter see my missus. I is shakin', I
is dat skeerd, but I bucks up an' I tells him dat my missus doan want
ter see no blue coat.
He grins, an' tells me ter skedaddle, an' 'bout den my missus comes out
an' so help me iffen she doan hug dat dratted Yank. Atter awhile I
gathers dat he's her brother, but at fust I ain't seed no sense in her
cryin' an' sayin' 'thank God', over an' over.
Well sar, de massa an' pap what had gone off mad an' healthy an' ridin'
fine beastes comes back walkin' an' dey looked sick. Massa am white as
cotton, an' so help me, iffen my pap, who wuz black as sin, ain't pale
too.
Atter a few years I goes ter wuck in Spartanburg as a houseboy, den I
gits a job wid de Southern Railroad an' I goes ter Charlotte ter
night-watch de tracks.
I stays dar eighteen years, but one night I kills a white hobo who am
tryin' ter rob me o' my gol' watch an' chain, an' dey gives me eighteen
months. I'se been hyar six already. He wus a white man, an' jist a boy,
an' I is sorry, but I comes hyar anyhow.
I hyard a ole 'oman in Charlotte tell onct 'bout witchin' in slavery
times, dar in Mecklenburg County. She wus roun' ninety, so I reckon she
knows. She said dat iffen anybody wanted ter be a witch he would draw a
circle on de groun' jist at de aidge o' dark an' git in de circle an'
squat down.
Dar he had ter set an' talk ter de debil, an' he mus' say, 'I will have
nothin' ter do wid 'ligion, an' I wants you ter make me a witch.' Atter
day he mus' bile a black cat, a bat an' a bunch of herbs an' drink de
soup, den he wuz really a witch.
When you wanted ter witch somebody, she said dat you could take dat
stuff, jist a little bit of hit an' put hit under dat puson's doorsteps
an' dey'd be sick.
You could go thru' de key hole or down de chimney or through de chinks
in a log house, an' you could ride a puson jist lak ridin' a hoss. Dat
puson can keep you outen his house by layin' de broom 'fore de do' an'
puttin' a pin cushion full of pins side of de bed do', iffen he's a mind
to.
Dat puson can kill you too, by drawin' yore pitcher an' shootin' hit in
de haid or de heart too.
Dar's a heap o' ways ter tell fortunes dat she done tol' me but I'se
done forgot now 'cept coffee groun's an' a little of de others. You
can't tell hit wid 'em do', case hit takes knowin' how, hit shore
does.
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Andrew Boone
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Henry Bobbitt
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