Section II, Chapter 3

Slavery:  The 700 Gorilla, An Epiphany and Just Punishment

There’s a 700 pound gorilla, not just in the room, but on our backs, and we can’t ignore him.  His name is slavery.  We carry him wherever we go. If you are in mixed company (with Yankees), there’s that undercurrent:  Did his or her ancestors own slaves? Were they members of a certain secret society?  What are his or her feelings about race?  The odd part is, especially is that person is from Massachusetts of Rhode Island, there is a good chance his were more involved in it than ours, for that is where the slave trade was centered, and if those good people dug up some ancestors, they just might discover a stench in the grave – the stench of a slave-ship owner, captain or crewman or a slave trader or investor in the filthy business. But history has bequeathed to us the onus.

I remember the first time I heard about slavery.  I remember the time and the place.  It was a Fourth of July morning, and my daddy and I were standing the back hallway, in the entrance to his bedroom.  I was probably four or five years old. I vaguely knew what the Fourth of July was about, and had heard on the radio about people shooting fireworks, but we did not, except at Christmas, and I asked why.  He explained that we did not because Vicksburg had fallen on July 4, 1963 during the Civil War. I had heard about the “Silver” War. (The word “civil” was not in my limited vocabulary, and I thought people were saying “silver,” and I continued to refer to that conflict as “The Silver War” until I learned the word “civil,” had an epiphany and suddenly realized our ancestors fought the CIVIL war. 

I asked him to explain the “Silver” War.  “Well,” he said, “It was a war between the northern states and the southern states because the people in the south wanted to own slaves, and the people in the north did not want them to, so they fought over it.” I did not know the words “slavery” or “slave,” so when I asked for an explanation, Daddy explained that white people owned black people (except he used a now-forbidden word for “black people.”)

“But, Daddy,” I said, “People can’t own other people.”  It just didn’t make sense to me.

“Back in those days, nearly 100 years ago, they thought they could.”

“You mean like I own Ol’ Shep?”

“Yes something like that.”

“But why did white people want to own slaves?”

“For them to work in the cotton fields.”

I mused over this long-ago problem and arrived at a common-sense solution: “Why didn’t they just hire them?”

“That’s just the way things were way back then.”

We discussed the morality of slavery and he agreed that it was wrong, that the south and learned a lesson and we would not do it again.

I know one thing:  We – the entire country, North and South – would be better off if we had never gotten involved in the sordid mess.  But we did.

Our ancestors owned slaves.  As I previously stated, from old stories I gather it was not the cruel type practiced on large cotton or sugar plantations, but more like an extended family.  I recently read about archeologists exploring the ruins of slave quarters on small plantations, and were surprised to uncover pencil leads and ferrules (the brass that holds the eraser) and even brass percussion caps used to fire muzzle-loading rifles.  There are plenty of stories of slaves accompanying their masters on hunting trips, and I have no doubt that many masters allowed a trusted servant to shoot a treed squirrel or ‘coon, and many mistresses held school for slave children so they could learn to read the Bible.

Friendships developed between master and slave (The many mixed-race people in America today testify that many other relations also existed). One of our family stories is that one of our ancestors – I think it was an Anderson – probably Hiram – was especially fond of an elderly slave, and the two of them had a dram of whiskey together every morning.

But there was one who was surly and disobedient.  The master warned him if he continued to disobey, he would brand him as a bad slave.  The warnings fell on deaf ears, so the time for the branding was set.  On a cold January morning, the population of the farm was assembled before a post, to which the errant one was bound, shirt removed.  A branding iron glowed red in the coals of an oak-wood fire.  The master addressed the assembly that the guilty one and been repeatedly warned that he would be punished if he did not behave; he had ignored the warnings, and punishment was about to be meted out. 

The prisoner squirmed, pulled against his rope and pleaded that he not be branded, that he had learned his lesson, and that he would be good from now on.

“It is too late, now,” the master responded, “You have been given plenty of warning.  What is about to happen, you brought on yourself.”

He then reached into a hidden bucket of freezing water, withdrew the brand from it and popped it to the slave’s back.

“Yow,” he yelled, “Ol’ massah, donin’ burnt me clear through to the holler,”

The assembly burst into laughter.  No harm was done – except to a certain slave’s dignity – but all were aware of what COULD have happened, and behaved accordingly.