by Noel Rae
“The house was of red brick, quaint and old-fashioned in design. It was built very near the water’s edge. The lapping of the waves of the incoming tide was a sweet lullaby to the quiet scene, as the eye rested on the greensward of the lawn, or took in the bend of the river that made a broad sweep just below the Elmington garden. The North River is half a mile wide. On the other shore could be seen the groves and fields and gardens of the neighboring country seats. The low grounds on the river-shore extend back a distance of a mile and three quarters, and lie like a green carpet, dotted here and there with grand old forest trees, and corn, wheat, rye and tobacco fields.” This part of Virginia “had been settled by the best class of English people who came to this country, the youngest sons of noble houses, and other men of standing,” with the result that “courtesy and good breeding seemed inherent in the men and women in Gloucester society.”
Idyllic, but also an expensive place to live, what with all the open-handed entertaining and, in Dabney’s case, a growing family; also, after some two centuries of growing tobacco the soil was becoming exhausted. And so, in 1835, like many others, he decided to move to the southwest. After a careful search, he bought four thousand acres in Hinds County, Mississippi. He then had to decide which of his slaves would go with him to the new plantation, which he called Burleigh. “The family servants, inherited for generations, had come to be regarded with great affection, and this feeling was warmly returned by the Negroes. The bond between master and servant was, in many cases, felt to be as sacred and close as the tie of blood.
“During the course of years many of the Elmington Negroes had intermarried with the Negroes on neighboring estates. When the southern move was decided on, Thomas called his servants together and announced to them his intention to remove, with his family, to Mississippi. He further went on to say that he did not mean to take one unwilling servant with him. His plan was to offer to buy all husbands and wives who were connected with his Negroes, at the owners’ price, or he should, if his people preferred, sell those whom he owned to any master or mistress whom they might choose. No money difficulty should stand in the way. Everything should be made to yield to the important consideration of keeping families together. Without an exception, the Negroes determined to follow their beloved master and mistress.”
As she often did, Mrs. Smedes quotes “my dear old black mammy,” whose name was Harriet. “Marster was good all de time. He do all he could to comfort he people. When he was gittin’ ready to move to Mississippi, he call ’em all up, an’ tell ’em dat he did not want anybody to foller him who was not willin’. He say, all could stay in Figinny, an’ dey could choose dey own marsters to stay wid. Ebery one o’ he own, and all who b’long to de odder members o’ de fambly who was wid him, say dey want to foller him ‘ceptin’ ‘twas two ole people, ole gray-headed people, who was too ole to trabble. An’ dey was de onliest ones leff behind on dat plantation, an’ dey did cry so much I did feel so sorry for dem. I couldn’t help cryin’, I feel so sorry. Our people say, ‘Ef you got a husband or a wife who won’t go to Mississippi, leff dat one behind. Ef you got a good marster, foller him.’ My husband b’long to Cappen Edward Tabb, an’ marster went dyar twice to try to buy him. But Cappen Tabb say dat no money couldn’t buy him from him. Den Mrs. Tabb say dat she would buy me, an’ two odder people dyar wanted to buy me too. But I say, ‘No, indeed! Go ’long! I shall foller my marster.’” Mammy Harriet’s sister also decided to abandon her husband in order follow her master.
The journey took over two months. Members of the Dabney family traveled in carriages, the baggage went in wagons, Dabney himself rode a horse, and most of the slaves walked. “The white families were quartered at night, if practicable, in the houses that they found along the way. Tents were provided for the Negroes. The master himself, during the entire journey, did not sleep under a roof … He wrapped himself in his greatcoat, with sometimes the addition of a blanket, and slept all night in their midst, under one of the traveling wagons.”
Mammy Harriet recalled that “marster do eberything on dat journey dat was for our good.” For example, “Marster gib we all new fryin’-pans an’ buckets for de journey,” but to her annoyance some of the others used her bucket to bring water to the horses and mules. “I say, ‘Who got my bucket?’ Eberybody say, ‘I dunno.’ So I say, ‘Lem my bucket ‘lone; marster done gib it to me … Ef he want it he ken hab it, but nobody else.’” The overseer took the matter up with Dabney himself, who declared, “You let Harriet alone; let her bucket alone, everyone of you.”
“When we fust come out to dis country, Mississippi, marster made de ploughers tik out de muels at eleven o’clock. An’ he didn’t ’low ’em to put ’em back ’fore three o’clock, an’ nobody worked in dem hours. I s’pose dat was to get us used to de new country. Oh no, we was neber hurried. Marster neber once said, ‘Get up an’ go to work,’ and no overseer eber said it, neither. Ef some on ’em did not git up when de odders went out to work, marster neber said a word.” Also unlike other plantations, “Marster would neber hab no horn to wake us up. When one oberseer come dyar wid de horn, marster soon put a stop to dat. He said ‘I do not keep hounds to be called up with horns.’”
On the Fourth of July there was “a plenty o’ holiday—a beef kilt, a mutton, hogs, salt and pepper, an’ eberything. He had a great trench dug, an’ a whole load o’ wood put in an’ burned down to coals. Den dey put wooden spits across, an’ dey had spoons an’ basted de meat, an’ he did not miss givin’ us whiskey to drink—a plenty of it, too. An’ we ’vite all de cullud people aroun’, an’ dey come, an’ we had fine times. Our people was so good, and dey had so much. Dyar warn’t no sich people nowhyar. Marster mus’n’t be named de same day as odder people.” Also: “Marster ’lowed us to hab meetin’, just as much meetin’ as we choose. A heap o’ people didn’t let dey people hab meetin’; didn’t like for dem to visit an’ see odder people. Marster warn’t dat way. We went ’bout.”
Mammy Harriet also recalled the death of her aged aunt, known as Grannie Harriet.
“I was settin’ wid her, and she was on de bed, an’ she look mighty strange all on a sudden. I thought she was dyin’. I run to de house to missis. Marster was out in de fiel’. I tell missis dat I thought Grannie Harriet was dyin’. Missis she put on her bonnet an’ went to her jes’ as fast as she could. When Grannie see her she could not speak, but she hold out both arms to her. Missis run into her arms an’ bust out cryin’. She put her arms roun’ Grannie’s neck, and Grannie could not speak, but de big tears roll down her cheeks. An’ so she die.”
Mrs. Smedes was still a child when she attended Grannie Harriet’s night-time funeral. “I remember well the death of this aged servant. The master himself led the funeral procession, and all his children followed the coffin as mourners. He ordered out the whole plantation, everyone who could walk, and every man, woman and child carried a torch. The sound of the mournful funeral hymn, and the blazing of the many torches, as we wound down the road to the dark shades of the burying-ground, made a painful impression on me as a child, and caused many a secret tear. I wished much to be excused from going to the funeral; but the master seemed unapproachable in his grief, and I was afraid of incurring his displeasure if he should discover that I was unwilling to pay what he considered fitting respect to the memory of this trusted friend.”
Dabney’s plantation “was considered a model one, and was visited by planters anxious to learn his methods. He was asked how he made his Negroes do good work. His answer was that a laboring man could do more and better work in five and a half days than in six. He used to give the half of Saturdays to his Negroes, unless there was a great press of work; but a system of rewards was more efficacious than any other method. He distributed prizes of money among his cotton-pickers every week during the season, which lasted four or five months. One dollar was the first prize, a Mexican coin valued at eighty-seven and a half cents the second, seventy-five cents the third, and so on, down to the smalles
t prize, a small Mexican coin called a picayune, which was valued at six and a half cents … The master gave money to all who worked well for the prizes, whether they won them or not. When one person picked six hundred pounds in a day, a five-dollar gold piece was the reward. On most other plantations four hundred pounds, or three hundred and fifty, or three hundred was considered a good day’s work, but on the Burleigh place many picked five hundred pounds.” The champion picker was “a very tall and lithe young woman” who “picked two rows at a time, going down the middle with both arms extended and grasping the cotton-bolls with each hand.
“On wedding occasions, in addition to the materials for a cake, the bride always expected a good many gifts, and some of the master’s family to be present. The mistress’s big prayer-book was taken over, and the marriage service read by one of the young masters.” Recalling her own wedding Mammy Harriet said “Your pa gib me a head weddin’—kilt a mutton—a round o’ beef—tukkeys—cakes, one on t’other—trifle. I had all de chany off de sideboard, cups an’ saucers, de table, de white tablecloth. I had on your pa’s wife’s weddin’ gloves and slippers an’ veil. De slippers was too small, but I put my toes in. Miss Mary had a mighty neat foot. Marster brought out a milk-pail o’ toddy an’ more in bottles … I had a tearin’-down weddin’, to be sure.”
Mrs. Smedes also had a happy memory. “When we children were allowed to go to see some of the servants, they delighted in setting out a little feast … Once, at Christmas, Mammy Harriet gave a ‘high tea’ to us children. I was at that time about fourteen years of age, the oldest of the invited. A friend of my own age, Arabella Foote, the youngest daughter of Henry S. Foote (Governor and United States Senator), was spending her Christmas holidays with me. Mammy felt some modesty about inviting the young lady into her house, but I took Arabella, and she enjoyed it as much as any of us. Mammy had made a nice cake and hot biscuits and tea for the occasion, set out in her choicest cups, some of rare old china, and with sugar in the sugar-bowl that she had inherited from her mother. She gave us, besides, sweetmeats, nuts, raisins, fruits of several kinds—indeed, a delightful tea. And she stood behind us waiting on the table, her bright bandana handkerchief towering aloft on her head, and she looking so pleased.”
And now, a jump to the eve of the Civil War. Opposing secession, and correctly foreseeing that “whether conquered or victorious, the South would be ruined,” Dabney decided to sell up and move to England. “‘Yes, my dear, but what will you do with Abby?’” his wife replied when told of this decision. “‘What will you do with Maria, with Harriet, with their children and husbands?’” There was not enough money to set them all free and “make them comfortable” and still be able to move to England. “That question of my good mother’s settled forever his mind and the destiny of the house. Thomas Dabney and his wife deliberately chose to go down with their country. Has not their daughter, then, the right to say … that the tie between this master and his slaves was as sacred and binding, if not as near, as the tie of blood?”
Pierce Butler also thought of himself as a good master, but few people can have been so ill-prepared to confront the realities of slavery as his wife, the beautiful and passionate young English actress, Fanny Kemble. A member of a famous acting family, she had been educated at private schools in London and Paris, and at the age of twenty had made a brilliant stage debut in the part of Juliet. Soon after that came a successful tour in this country, during which she met and married Butler, the handsome, enamored and very rich grandson of one of the Founding Fathers—also called Pierce Butler, of South Carolina, the man who introduced the Fugitive Slave Clause into the Constitution. Once married, Fanny gave up her career, and for several years the Butlers enjoyed a comfortable life in Philadelphia; but then, in 1839, Pierce decided that he should visit some of the Georgia sea islands plantations he had inherited, and made the mistake of bringing his family with him. Fanny already knew in the abstract that slavery was wrong, but had no idea of its reality. After a long and horrible journey by stage coach and primitive trains they transferred to a sloop for the last part of the journey, and after sailing down the Altamaha River arrived to an enthusiastic, almost rapturous welcome—not insincere, but nevertheless a standard part of the slaves’ repertoire of accommodating devices.
“We now approached the low, reedy bank of Butler Island, and passed the rice mill and buildings surrounding it, all of which, it being Sunday, were closed. As we neared the bank, the steersman took up a huge conch, and in the barbaric manner of early times in the Highlands, sounded out our approach.” Very soon, the wharf “began to be crowded with Negroes, jumping, dancing, shouting, laughing and clapping their hands, and using the most extravagant and ludicrous gesticulations to express their ecstasy at our arrival.
“On our landing from the boat, the crowd thronged about us like a swarm of bees; we were seized, pulled, pushed, carried, dragged and all but lifted in the air by the clamorous multitude … They seized our clothes, kissed them—then our hands, and almost wrung them off. One tall, gaunt Negress flew to us, parting the throng on either side, and embraced us in her arms. I believe I was almost frightened, and it was not until we were safely housed, and the door shut upon our riotous escort, that we indulged in a fit of laughing, quite as full on my part of nervousness as of amusement.”
Fanny Kemble, the beautiful English actress who while on a tour of the United States met and married Pierce Butler, grandson of the man who introduced the Fugitive Slave Clause into the Constitution. Shocked by what she saw while on a visit to the Butler plantation, she poured her indignation into a series of vivid letters, later published as Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation.
Once the Butlers had settled in, Fanny began looking about her. In a series of letters to her New England friend, Elizabeth Sedgwick, she wrote of her shock at the squalor she found in the slave quarters—“such of these dwellings as I visited today were filthy and wretched in the extreme.” Even worse was the apathy of the inhabitants. “Instead of the order, neatness, and ingenuity which might convert even these miserable hovels into tolerable residences, there was the careless, reckless, filthy indolence which even the brutes do not exhibit in their lairs.” Wood shavings, dirt, dust and scraps of moss littered the floors, “while the back door of the huts, opening upon a most unsightly ditch, was left open for the fowls and ducks, which they are allowed to raise, to travel in and out, increasing the filth of the cabin.”
As a woman of independent mind, Fanny did not hesitate to seize a broom and demonstrate how to put it to use, but “sighing as I went over the futility of my own exertions, for how can slaves be improved?” If only, “instead of beginning at the end, I could but begin at the beginning of my task. If the mind and soul were awakened … the physical good would result and the great curse would vanish away.”
Next she visited the infirmary, a two-story wooden building with four large rooms. Only half the windows had glass, “and these were obscured with dirt.” The other windows were “darkened by dingy shutters which the shivering inmates had fastened in order to protect themselves from the cold. In the enormous chimney glimmered the powerless embers of a few sticks of wood, round which, however, as many of the sick women as could approach were cowering, some on wooden settles, most of them on the ground, excluding those who were too ill to rise; and these last poor wretches lay prostrate on the floor without bed, mattress, or pillow, buried in tattered filthy blankets … I stood in the midst of them, perfectly unable to speak, the tears pouring from my eyes at this sad spectacle of their misery, myself and my emotion alike strange and incomprehensible to them. Here lay women expecting every hour the terrors and agonies of childbirth, others who had just brought their doomed offspring into the world, others who were groaning over the anguish and bitter disappointment of miscarriages—here lay some burning with fever, others chilled with cold and aching with rheumatism, upon the hard, cold ground, the drafts and dampness of the atmosphere increasing their sufferings, and dirt
, noise and stench, and every aggravation of which sickness is capable, combined in their condition … Now pray take notice that this is the hospital of an estate where the owners are supposed to be humane, the overseer efficient and kind, and the Negroes remarkably well cared for.”
Toward the end of her letter, Fanny wrote: “I forgot to tell you that in the hospital were several sick babies, whose mothers were permitted to suspend their field labor in order to nurse them. Upon addressing some remonstrances to one of these [Harriet] who, besides having a sick child was ill herself, about the horribly dirty condition of her baby, she assured me that it was impossible for them to keep their children clean; that they went out to work at daybreak, and did not get their tasks done till evening, and that then they were were too tired and worn out to do anything but throw themselves down and sleep. This statement of hers I mentioned on my return from the hospital, and the overseer [Mr. Oden] appeared extremely annoyed by it, and assured me repeatedly that it was not true.”
Next day: “This morning I paid my second visit to the infirmary and found there had been some faint attempt at sweeping and cleaning, in compliance with my entreaties,” but Harriet “was crying bitterly. I asked her what ailed her when, more by signs and dumb show, she and old Rose [the midwife] informed that Mr. Oden had flogged her that morning for having told me that the women had not time to keep the children clean … I again and again made her repeat her story, and she again and again affirmed that she had been flogged for what she told me, none of the whole company in the room denying it or contradicting her. I left the room because I was so disgusted and indignant that I could hardly restrain my feelings.”
Later that day, “I told Mr. Butler, with much indignation, of poor Harriet’s flogging … He said he would ask Mr. Oden about it, assuring me, at the same time, that it was impossible to believe a single word any of these people said. At dinner, accordingly, the inquiry was made as to the cause of her punishment, and Mr. Oden then said it was not at all for what she had told me that he had flogged her, but for having answered him impertinently; that he had ordered her into the field, whereupon she had said that she was ill and could not work; that he retorted he knew better, and bade her get up and go to work; she replied, ‘Very well, I’ll go, but I shall just come back again,’ meaning that when in the field she would be unable to work, and obliged to return to the hospital. ‘For this reply,’ Mr. Oden said, ‘I gave her a good lashing. It was her business to have gone into the field without answering me.’”
