A Woman's Life-Work — Labors and Experiences of Laura S. Haviland

by Laura S. Haviland

She was not as blind as a number who were much younger. But her skin was full of fine as well as deep wrinkles, and of an ashen hue. I gave a little sugar and some crackers to many of them.

I returned to find a colored man who had been directed to me. He had made his escape the night before from his old master, who seemed to have no more idea of his leaving him than if there had been no proclamation of freedom. His wife had been sick a long time, and he stayed to take care of her till she died, then he watched an opportunity to bring his two little children with him. But his master he supposed was also watching, for he soon overtook him with help and took his children away from him, and his bundle of clothes that he was going to put on when he got far enough from the house to feel safe with his children. He said it was his best suit. The shirt and drawers he had on were good, and they constituted his entire wardrobe. I laid out a number of garments, and told him to go into the store-room and select a whole suit that would best fit him. The next thing to be done was to accompany him to Colonel Palmer's office, where he told his own pitiful story, and the colonel asked him if he could take care of his children if he got them.

"If you'll be so good as to help me get them, these hands," (holding them out toward the colonel) "shall take as good care of them as they do of me," and his eyes filled with tears. I left him with the colonel, who told him he would send with him an escort of soldiers the next morning, "and the master will not dare refuse to give up the children on reading the note I shall send him."

A little excitement existed over the murder of Mr. Errickson, a Union man, who fled to Memphis with his family for safety during the war. A few weeks before the present time, he returned to his home in Summerville. He had been home but a few days before he was shot dead in front of a store. His poor wife and two daughters were almost insane over his untimely death. He thought the country was becoming more quiet, and he could risk going quietly to their home. There was a very smart colored woman in town who witnessed his murder. She was at Memphis ostensibly to do a little trading; but her errand was to inquire of the real friends of the colored people which man they had better vote for—Parson Brownlow or the conservative candidate—for governor. The men did not dare to come, for fear they would be mistrusted; and she came to learn from Union men their choice for governor, to take back word, and report at Summerville.

I was one day passing the old barracks of soldiers, then occupied by freedmen. I heard distressing groans, and called to see whence they came. I found an old man of ninety-seven years, called "Uncle Philip," in great bodily distress. "How long have you been suffering like this?" I inquired.

"Only two years," he said.

"Two years must seem a great while."

"O no, it's only a little minute, compared with eternity of rest in glorious mansions Jesus went to prepare for me; for I knows I's got a home thar', missus, I knows it, 'case I's seen it, an' I feels it."

"How long have you felt this evidence?"

"I seen it cl'ar as sunshine when I was ten year ole. My massa was a mighty wicked, swearin', cruel man. An' his overseer was a mighty big wicked black man; his name was Munday. An' all the seventy-five grown han's on the plantation was mighty wicked too. I hear so much swearin' I had a bad ide' of God and Jesus; I reckon'd they's some great men, that sent people to a mighty bad place. One day a Methodis' minister stop to Massa Malachi's for dinner. When he lef' massa call me to bring his hoss to 'im. An' de preacher put his han' on my head an' say, 'Philip is a smart little boy. An' if you'll ask God to make you good he'll do it. Then when you die you'll go to that great, beautiful city up yonder, where it's all light and beautiful. Here little Philip has to go 'round among stubs and stones, barefoot; there he'll walk the golden streets in silver slippers. Here he wears his slip; there he'll be dressed in a beautiful white robe. Here he goes bareheaded; there he'll wear a beautiful crown, all glittering with stars. Wouldn't you like to go to such a beautiful city as that when you die?' 'Yes, sir,' I say. 'Well, ask God to make you good, and that will be your home; for Jesus loves little children.' An' he jump'd on his hoss and rode away, while I stood thar, wonderin' what sort of a man that could be, that knew so much 'bout God and heaven. Now I must fin' God, to ask 'im to make me good; an' f'om this man's 'scription, he must be settin' on some cloud. Day and night I watch for 'im; an' when I looked upon the stars I wondered if these sparklin' stars was what God put in de crowns he put on de heads of all good people an' good chillen.