"I never got a slap from my mistress; I was treated like a white person; if my mistress talked to me to correct me, I want to cry. Sometime I slept at the foot of my mistress bed." Whatever the occasion, Amos was very proud of it, and mentioned it a second time in his story, and added—"it ain't every little boy that could say that.
"We spent the summers in Charleston—winters on the plantation; Cypress Plantation which belonged to Mr. Bissell's father, Mr. Baker, was near Green Pond. The smoke house was there full of meat; the fields and the gardens were there and everybody had plenty to eat—but still there was bad people just like they are now. You can make yourself respectable, but some never do it. The bad ones had to be punished; they got a few lashes on 'um. Now they go to Court, and they go to jail—If there was a place to whip bad coons, they would be scared to behave like they do now—the jails wouldn't be so full. There was no bad treatment of our people. Some neighbors that never owned any slaves, hired negro help and ill-treated them—old mistress felt so bad about this.
"I grew up with the white children in the family, but I was trained to step aside at all times for white people. My grandmother's name was Affy Calvert; she was a 'daily gift' to old Mistress; she was given to her when they were both children and trained up in her service. Old Mistress died long before her because she lived over a hundred years, and nursed all the children and grandchildren. She brought me up more than my mother; she and I never gave up the family."
Amos makes a strange statement: "Old Mausa, Mr. T.L. Bissell, (voice lowered) was a Yankee, but he lived long before the War," with an indulgent smile, and in a lower voice, with his hand up to his mouth he continued as though communicating a dangerous confidence, "Oh, yes, Ma'am—but he was a Yankee!" What Amos meant will remain a family secret.
"I was trained by old Tony for yard boy before the War. I looked out that no harm came to the older children, but one day they got away from me," Amos chuckled, "they went to play on the logs in the lumber yard, around what is now Halsey's Mill. The water was full of timber, open to the river, (Ashley) and the tide was running out. One of the boys got on a log, and two others on another log, and the little scamps paddled the logs out, but when they found themselves in the tide they were scared, and screamed at the top of their voices. I wasn't far off and heard them. I was scared too. I jumped into the water and swam to get a bateau; when they saw me they hushed. The tide had carried them some distance before I caught up with them—was down near Chisolm's Rice Mill. Mr. Chisolm saw it; he gave me a five dollar bill, Confederate money, for saving the children."
Amos throws a new light on old history;—"Before the War come here it was down in Beaufort, on the Port Royal Road; Confederates on one side, Yankees on the other, and things happen here that belong to War. One evening, early dusk, because it was winter, I was with two white boys on the corner of Hasell street and East Bay. We stopped to watch a balloon slowly floating in the sky. I never saw anything like it before—it looked so pretty—and while we were looking a streak of fire came straight down from the balloon to Russell's Planing Mill at the foot of Hasell street,[1] right by us. In a short time the mill was on fire; nothing could put it out. One place after another caught, and big flakes of fire were bursting up and flying through the air, and falling on other buildings. (illustrating with his arms, hands, and whole body) The first church that burned was the Circular Church on Meeting Street; then Broad street and the Roman Catholic Church, and St. Andrews Hall. Yes, Ma'am, 'course I remember St. Andrews Hall, right next to the Roman Catholic Cathedral on Broad Street! That was 1861, before I went to Virginia with Dr. H. E. Bissel. That balloon went on down to Beaufort, I s'pose. Yes Ma'am, I saw it drop that fire on Russell's Mill.
"I went to Virginia with Dr. H.E. Bissell in the Army; he was a surgeon. A camp of Negroes went ahead to prepare the roads; pioneers, they called them. I remember Capt. Colcock, (he mentioned several other officers,) Honey Hill—terrible fighting—fight and fight! had to 'platoon' it. I was behind the fighting with Dr. Bissell. I held arms and legs while he cut them off, till after a while I didn't mind it. Hard times came to the Army; only corn to eat. When the bombardment came to Charleston the family moved to Greenville; I was in Virginia with the Doctor. The railroad bridge across the Ashley River was burned to prevent the Yankees from coming into Charleston; the ferry boat 'Fannie' crossed the river to make connections with the Savannah Railroad. The 54th Massachusetts Regiment was coming down to Charleston; they destroyed railroads as they came. Sherman set fire everywhere he went—didn't do much fighting, just wanted to destroy as he went.
"After Freedom, we went back to the Plantation; lived catch as catch can. The smoke house had been emptied by the Yankees, and no money. Lieutenant Duffy, at the Citadel, fell in love with me and offered me a place to work with him for money. I took it and worked for him til he left—but I didn't give up the family. I work for Mas. Titus now; haven't stopped calling Mr. Orvel Bissell 'Mas' today; I raised him but I still call him Mas. Orvel. My young Missus was the one who taught me; she kept a school for us; we took it for a play school; when I was a little boy I knew the alphabet.
"We buried our valuables in sacks in holes, then put plants over the hiding places. The silver was buried by Cypress Pond; and we saved all buried valuables.
"To show how Mas. Titus (Bissell) will look out for me—a man I rented from wanted to put some 'coon' in my room. I had paid him the rent, but one day I came and find my things being put out. I went right to Mas. Titus and told him. He was mad, and, excusing the words, he said, 'do you mean that damned so-and-so is putting your things out, well, we'll go there'—so we went, and the man was so scared he wanted to put the things back but Mas. Titus said: 'He sha'nt bother with any such damned person as you are. I'll find a proper place for him,' and he found me a good room on Short Street where I stayed for 8 years until the house was sold—that make I move on Elliott street where I am now.