Sarah Gudger of Asheville, N.C., was interviewed by
Marjorie Jones, who worked on the WPA Slave Narrative Project. The interviewer,
in trying to capture Sarah Gudger’s voice, has written in dialect. If you can get past the dialect, you can learn about slavery from a North Carolina woman who experienced it first hand.
Investigation of the almost incredible claim
of Aunt Sarah Gudger, ex-slave living in Asheville, that she was born on Sept.
15, 1816, discloses some factual information corroborating her statements.
Aunt Sarah’s father, Smart Gudger, belonged
to and took his family name from Joe Gudger, who lived near Oteen, about six
miles east of Asheville in the Swannanoa valley, prior to the War Between the
States. Family records show that Joe Gudger married a Miss McRae in 1817, and
that while in a despondent mood he ended his own life by hanging, as vividly
recounted by the former slave.
John Hemphill, member of the family served by
Aunt Sarah until “freedom”, is recalled as being “a few years younge’ as me,”
and indeed his birth is recorded for 1822. Alexander Hemphill, mentioned by
Aunt Sarah as having left to join the Confederate army when about 25 years of
age, is authentic and his approximate age in 1861 tallies with that recalled by
the ex-slave. When Alexander went off to the war Aunt Sarah was “getting’ t’ be
an ol’ woman.”
Aunt Sarah lives with distant cousins in a
two-story frame house, comfortably furnished, at 8 Dalton street in South
Asheville (the Negro section lying north of Kenilworth). A distant male
relative, 72 years of age, said he has known Aunt Sarah all his life and that
she was an old woman when he was a small boy.
Small in stature, about five feet tall, Aunt
Sarah is rather rounded in face and body. Her milk-chocolate face is surmounted
by a short, sparse hair, almost milk white. She is somewhat deaf but
understands questions asked her, responding with animation. She walks with one
crutch, being lame in the right leg. On events of the long ago her mind is
quite clear. Recalling the Confederate “sojers, marchin’, marchin’” to the
drums, she beat a tempo on the floor with her crutch. As she described how the
hands of slaves were tied before then were whipped for infractions she crossed
her wrists.
Owen Gudger, Asheville postmaster (1913-21),
member of the Buncombe County Historical Association now engaged in the real
estate business, says he has been acquainted with Aunt Sarah all his life; that
he has, on several occasions, talked to her about her age and early
associations, and that her responses concerning members of the Gudger and
Hemphill family coincide with known facts of the two families.
Interviewed by a member of the Federal
Writers’ Project, Aunt Sarah seemed eager to talk and needed but little
prompting.
Sarah
Gudger
(born
September 15, 1816)
Interview
with Mrs. Marjorie Jones, May 5, 1937
I wah bo’n ‘bout two
mile fum Ole Fo’t on de Ole Mo’ganton Road. I sho’ has had a ha’d life. Jes
wok, an’ wok, an’ wok. I nebbah know nothin’ but wok. Mah boss he wah Ole Man
Andy Hemphill. He had a la’ge plantation in de valley. Plenty ob ebbathin’. All
kine ob stock: hawgs, cows, mules, an’ hosses. When Marse Andy die I go lib wif
he son, William Hemphill.
I nebbah fo’get when
Marse Andy die. He waah a good ole man, and de Missie she wah good, too. She
usta read de Bible t’ us chillum afoah she pass away.
Mah pappy, he lib wif
Joe Gudgah. He ole an’ feeble, I ‘membahs. He ‘spend un my pappy t’ see aftah
ebbathin’ foal him. He allus trust mah pappy. One mo’nin’ he follah pappy to de
field. Pappy he stop hes wok and ole Marse Joe, he say: “Well, Smart (pappy, he
name Smart), I’s tard, worried, an’ trubble’. All dese yeahs I wok foah mah
chillum. Dey nevah do de right thing. Dey wurries me, Smart. I tell yo’, Smart,
I’s a good mine t’ put mahself away. I’s good mind t’ drown mahself right heah.
I tebble worried, Smart.”
Pappy he take hole Ole
Marse Joe an’ lead him t’ de house. “Now Marse Joe, I wudden talk sich talk
effin I’s yo’. Yo’ ben good t’ yo’ fambly. Jest yo’ content you’self an’ rest.”
But a few days aftah
dat, Ole Marse Joe wah found ahangin’ in de ba’n by de bridle. Ole Marse had
put heself away.
No’m, I nebbah knowed
whut it wah t’ rest. I jes wok all de time f’om mawnin’ till late at night. I
had t’ do ebbathin’ de wah t’ do on de outside. Wok in de field, chop wood, hoe
cawn, till sometime I feels lak mah back sholy break. I done’ ebbathin’ ‘cept splitrails.
Yo’ know, dey split rails back in dem days. Well, I nevah did split no rails.
Ole Marse strop us good
effen we did anythin’ he didn’ lak. Soemtime he get his dandah up an’ den we
dassent look roun’ at him. Else he tie yo’ hands afoah yo’ body an’ whup yo’,
jes lak yo’ a mule. Lawdy, honey, I’s tuk a thousand lashings in myah day.
Sometimes mah poah ole body be soah foah a week.
Ole Boss he send us
niggahs out in any kind ob weathah, rain o’ snow, it nebbah mattah. We had t’
go t’ de mountings, cut wood an’ drag it down t’ de house. Many de time we come
in wif ouh sloes stuck t’ ouh poah ole cold bodies, but ‘twarn’t no use t’ try
t’ git ‘em dry. Ef de Ole Boss o’ de Ole Missie see us dey yell: “Get on out ob
heah you’ black thin’, an’ git yo’ wok outen de way!” An’ Lawdy, honey, we
knowed t’ git, else we git de lash. Dey did’t cah how ole o’ how young yo’ wah,
yo’ nebbah too big t’ get de lash.
De rich white folks
nebbah did no wok; dey had da’kies t’ do it foah dem. In de summah we had t’
wok outdoo’s, in de wintah in de house. I had t’ ceard an’ spin till ten
o’clock. Nebbah get much rest, had t’ git up at foah de nex’ mawnin’ an’ sta’t
agin. Didn’ get much t’ eat, nothah, jes a lil’ cawn bread an’ ‘lasses. Lawdy,
honey, yo’ can’t know whut a time I had. All cold n’ hungry. No’m, I aint
tellin’ no lies. It de gospel truf. It sho is.
I ‘membah well how I use
t’ lie ‘wake till all de folks wah sleepin’, den creep outen de do’ and walk
barfood in de snow, ‘bout two mile t’ mah ole Auntie’s house. I knowed when I
git dar she fix hot cawn pone wif slice o’ meat an’ some milk foah me t’ eat.
Auntie wah good t’ us da’kies.
I nebbah sleep on a
bedstead till aftah freedom, no’ till
aftah freedom. Jes’ an ole pile o’ rags in de conah. Ha’dly ‘nuf t’ keep us from
freezin’. Law, childe, nobody knows how mean da’kies wah treated. Why, dey wah
bettah t’ de animals den t’ us’ns. Mah fust Ole Marse wah a good ole man, but
de las’n he wah rapid—he show ah rapid. (rabid??) Why, chile, times aint no mo’
lak dey usta be den de day an’ night am lak. In my day an’ time all de folks
woked. Effen dey had no niggahs dey woked demselves. Effen de chillum wah too
small tuh hoe, dey pull weeds. Now de big bottom of bde Swannano dat usta grow
hunners bushels ob grain am jest a playgron’. I lak t’ see de chillum in de
field. Why, now dey fight yo’ lak wilecat effen it ebbn talked ‘bout. Dat’s de
reason times so ha’d. No fahmin’. Why, I c’n ‘membah Ole Missie she say: “Dis
gene’ation’ll pass away an’ a new gene’ation’ll come ‘long.” Dat’s jes’ it
---ebbah gene’ation gits weakah an’ weakah. Den dey talk ‘bout goin’ back t’
ole times. Dat time done gone, dey nebbah meet dat time agin.
Wahn’t none o’ de slaves
offen ouh plantation ebbah sold, but de ones on de othah plantion ob Marse William
wah. Oh, dat wah a tebble time! Ole Marse he cum t’ru de field wif a man call
de specalater. Day walk round jes’ lookin’, jes’ lookin’. All de da’kies know
whut did mean. Dey didn’ dare look up, jes’ wok right on. Den de specalater he
see who he want. He talk to Ole Marse, den dey slaps de han’cuffs on him an’
tak him away to de cotton country. Oh, dem wah awful times! When de specalater
wah ready to go wif de slaves, effen dey wah any who didn’ wanta go, he thrash
em, den tie em ‘hind de wattin an’ mek em run till dey fall on de groun’, den
he thrash em till dey say de go ‘thought no trubble. Sometime some of them run
‘way an cum back t’ de plantation, den it wah hardah on dem den befoash. When
de da’kies wen’ t’ dinnah de old niggah mammy she say whar sich an’ sich. None
of be othahs wanna tell huh. But when see see dem look down to de groun’ she
jes’ say: “De specalater, de speclater.” Den de teahs roll down huh cheeks,
cause mebby it huh son o’ husban’ an’ she know she nebbah see ‘em agin. Oh, mah
Lawdy, mah ole Boss wah mean, but he nebbah sen’ us to de cotton country.
Deh wah ve’y few schools
back in da day an time, ve’y few. We da’kies didn’ hah look at no book, not
ebben t’ pick it up. Ole Missie, dat is, mah firs’ Ole Missie, she wah a good
ole woman. She read to de niggahs and t’ de white chillum. Shje come fum corss
de watah. She wahn’t lak de sma’t white folks livin’ heah now. When she come
ovah heah she brung darky boy wif huh. He wah huh pussonal asu’vant. Co’se, dey
got diffent named foah dem now, but in dat day dey calls ‘em ginney niggahs.
She wah good ole woman, notlak othah white folks. Niggahs lak Ole Missie.
When de da’kies git
sick, dey wah put in a lil’ ole house close t’ de big house, an’ one of the
othah da’kies wated on ‘em. Dey wah ve’y few doctahs den. Only three in de hole
section. When dey wanted med’cine dey went t’ de wooods an’ gathered hoahhound,
slippery elm foah poltices an’ all kinds of ba’k foah teas. All dis yarbs bring
yo’ round. Dey wah ve’y few lawyers den too, but lawsy me, yo’ cain’t turn
round fer dem now.
I 'membahs de time when
mah mammy wah alive, I wah a small chile, afoah dey tuck huh t' Rims (Reems)
Crick with othah Hemphills. She sick long time. One day whit eman cum t’ see
me. He say: “Sarah, did yo’ know yo’ mammy wah daid?”
“No,” I say, “but I
wants t’ see my mothah afoah dey puts huh away.”
I went t’ de house and
say t’ ole Missie: “Mah mothah she die today. I wants t’ see my mothah afoah
dey puts huh away,” but she look at me mean an’ say: “Git on outen heah, an’
git back to yo’ wok afoah I wallup yo’ good.” So I went back t’ mah wok, with the
tears streamin’ down mah face jest awringin’ mah hands, I wanted t’ see mah
mammy so.
‘Bout two weeks ladah,
Ole Missie she git tebble sick,she jes’ lingah ‘long foah long time, but she
nebbah gits up no mo’. Want long afoah dey puts huh away too, jes’ lak mah
manmy.
I ‘membahs de time when
mah mammy wah alive, I wah a small child, afoah dey tuk huh t’ Rimes Crick. All
us chillens wah playin' in de ya'd one night. Jes' arunnin' an' aplayin' lak
chillun will. All a sudden mammy cum to de do' all a'sited. "Cum in heah
dis minnit," she say. "Jes look up at what is ahappenin'," and
bless yo' life, honey, da sta's wah fallin' jes' lak rain.* Mammy wah tebble
skeered, but we chillen wa'nt afeard, no, we wa'nt afeard. But mammy she say evah
time a sta' fall, somebody gonna die. Look lak lotta folks gonna die f'om de
looks ob dem sta's. Ebbathin' wah jes' as bright as day. Yo' cudda pick a pin
up. Yo' know de sta's don' shine as bright as dey did back den. I wondah wy dey
don'. Dey jes' don' shine as bright. Wa'nt long afoah dey took mah mammy away,
and I wah lef' alone.
*(One of the most
spectacular meteoric showers on record, visible all over North America,
occurred in 1833.)
On de plantation wah an
ole woman whut de boss bought f’om a drovah up in Virginny. De boss he bought
huh f’om one of de specalaters. She laff an’ tell us: “Some ob dese days yo’all
gwine be free, jes’ lak de white folks,” but we all laff at huh. No we jes’
slaves, we allus hafta wok and nevah be free. Den when freedom come, she say:
“I tole yo’all, now yo’ got no larnin’, yo’ got no nothin’, got no home; whut
yo’ gwine do? Didn’ I tell yo’?”
I wah gittin along
smartly in yeahs when de wah cum. I ‘membah jes’ lak yestiddy jes’ afoah de
wah. Marse William wah atalkin’ t’ his brothah. I wah standin’ off a piece.
Marse’s brothah, he say: “William, lhow ole Aunt Sarah now?” Marse William look
at me an’ he say: “She gitten ‘nigh onta fifty.” Dat wah jes’ a lil while afoah
de wah.
Dat wah awful time. Us
da’kies didn’ know what it wah all bout. Only one of de boys f’om de plantation
go. He Alexander, he ‘bout twenty-five den. Many de time we get word de Yankees
comin’. We wan’t bothahed much. One day, I nebbah fo’git we look out an’ see
sojers ma’chin’; look lak de whole valley full ob dem. I thought: “Poah
helpless crittahs, jes’ goin’ away t’ git kilt.” De drums wah beatin’ an’ de
fifes aplayin’. Dey wah de foot comp’ny. Oh, glory, it wah a sight. Sometime
dey come home on furlough. Simete dey get kilt afoah dey gits th’ough.
Alexander, he come home a few time afoah freedom.
When de wah was ovah,
Marse William he say: “Did yo’lll know yo’all’s free yo’ free now.” I chuckle,
‘membahin’ what ole woman tells us ‘bout freedome, an’ no larnin. Lotta men
want me to to t’ foreign land, but I tell ‘em I go life wif mah pappy, long as
he live. I stay wif de white folks ‘bout twelve months, den I stay wif mah
pappy, long as he live.
I had two brothahs, dey
went t’ Califonny, nebbah seed ‘em no mo’, no’ mah sistah, nuther. I cain’t
‘membah sech a lot a’bout it all. I jes’ knows I’s bo’n and bread here in dese
pa’ts, nebbah been outten it. I’s wel; nebbah take no doctah med’cine. Jes’
been sick once; dat aftah freedom.
