Читать книгу Pioneer Colored Christians - Harriet Parks Miller - Страница 3

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“THEY HAVE GONE FROM OUR MORTAL VISION, BUT IN MEMORIES SWEET, THEY ABIDE WITH US.”

The people whom you will meet in this little book did not live in fancy.

They were humble instruments through whom God sent a message clear, and strong, that will go on, and on, through the coming years.

Realizing the rapidity with which the good old colored types were passing away, I went one September afternoon, 1901, to see Aunt Kitty Carr, for the purpose of obtaining some interesting facts concerning herself, and her remarkable family.

Her husband, Uncle Horace Carr, had been dead twenty-four years, and she was then living with her son Horace, at his farm on Red River, a mile or two from Port Royal, Tennessee.

I found her on the back porch peeling peaches to dry, and when I made known to her the intent of my visit, she was amused, and said, “Lor Miss Harriet, what am I say, that will be worth reading in a book?”

Aunt Kitty Carr.

On assuring her of the esteem in which she and her family were held, and the importance of such lives being left on tangible record, she seemed willing to tell me, in her quaint way, what I wished to know.

Aunt Kitty was a small yellow woman, of refined features, and dignified bearing.

She spoke as follows:

“Of course you have heard that I was free born?”

“Yes,” I replied, “you were the first free born person of your race, that I ever saw.”

“I was born near Spotsylvania, Virginia, in 1815. That’s been a long time ago. I’ll soon be eighty-six years old. My children, and grand-children are kind to me, and don’t want me to work, but I am not satisfied to sit idle.

“My father was a Frenchman of some importance, by the name of Truell; my only recollection of him was his long curly hair that came down to his shoulders. My mother was free born, and gave me away.

“One bright spring day she was sweeping her front yard, and I, a little girl of six years, was taking up the trash, that she swept together, when a pretty white girl sixteen, or seventeen, rode past the gate, and called for a drink of water. As she handed the drinking gourd back, she said, ‘That’s a handy little girl you have there, I wish you’d give her to me.’ ‘All right,’ mother replied, and the lady passed on, and nothing more was thought of it, till nearly a year afterward, a nice covered wagon drove up to our gate, and the same lady called for me.

“A few days before, she had married a Mr. Edmond Winston, and they were going to housekeeping.

“My mother gathered together my little budget of clothes, and handed little Kitty, and the clothes over to the colored driver, saying, ‘Here take her.’

“And they took me; I have never thought mother acted right.

“The new married couple lived in Virginia about a year after that, when they decided to come to Tennessee, and brought me with them. We came a long journey, in that same covered wagon, and settled in District No. 1, Montgomery county, near where Fortson’s Spring now is.

“They were as kind to me, as they could be, and I was content to stay with them.

“After coming to Tennessee, Mr. Winston did not live very long, and his widow, after a respectable time, married a Mr. Coleman, grandfather of the first Mrs. Polk Prince, and great grandfather of Mrs. Lewis Downer, of Guthrie, Ky.

“But I was always called Kitty Winston. The Colemans and Johnsons were related, and through their visiting from Fortson Spring neighborhood to Spring Creek, farther down toward Clarksville, I met my lifetime companion.

“He was the property of Mr. Aquilla Johnson, of Spring Creek, and was first known as Horace Johnson.

“We were married when we were both quite young. Soon after our marriage, it was necessary to make a division of the property, and Mr. Johnson sold my husband to Mr. James Carr, of Port Royal, grandfather of Mr. Ed, and Ross Bourne.

“We had not been long settled down to quiet, peaceable living in our little cabin home, when it began to be whispered around among a cruel class of white people called overseers, that I could be deprived of my free birth right, and made a slave. Of course it made me very unhappy, and I prayed earnestly over the matter.

“I went to sertain good white friends who had known me longest, and laid the case before them, and they advised me to go to Esq. Dick Blount, of Fortson’s Spring, and he would fix up some papers that would establish my freedom for all time to come.

“I put out for the Blount home in haste, my husband going with me. When we reached there, a member of the Esquire’s family told me he was drunk, but if I could wait an hour or two, he might be sober enough to talk to me. Of course I waited. We were seated in the back yard, and a quiet couple we were, for it was a solemn time in our lives.

“By, and by, we saw the Esquire came out on the back porch, and washed his face. I whispered and asked Horace, if he reckoned he was washing the drunk off.

“We walked up to the door, and told our mission; Esq. Blount advised us to go on to Clarksville, and said he would follow on shortly.

“We waited, and waited, on the Court House steps, and I had about decided he was not coming, when we looked up the street, and saw him.

“He took an iron square, and measured my height, wrote a description of my features, and asked me if there were any scars on my body. I knew of none, except a small one the size of a silver dime, on the back of my neck, caused from the deep burning of a fly blister. I showed him that.

“He kindly fixed up the papers, and handed them to me. I kept them closely guarded, till my oldest daughter, Mary Waters, was going to move to the State of Ohio to live, and not knowing what might happen to her there, she asked me for them, and I willingly gave them to her. I always regretted that I did not keep a copy, for it would be a curiosity to the present generation.”

As she quietly sat, and told me all this, her grand daughter, Eleanora Carr Johnson, was an attentive listener, never having before heard such details of antebellum history. The afternoon seemed too short; so pleasant was the interview that I regretted not having gone oftener, to see her. She referred incidentally to a little prayer book, “Morning and Night Watches,” by Rev. J. R. McDuff, D. D., from which I had often read to her, in days gone by, and expressed a desire to hear a certain chapter once more.

Feeling that she would enjoy hearing it, I had carried the little book along with me, and read to her as follows: “May it be mine to cheerfully follow the footsteps of the guiding Shepherd through the darkest, loneliest road, and amidst thickest sorrows may I have grace to say, ‘Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.’ ”

“Lord, increase my faith, let it rise above all trials, and difficulties. And if they arise, may they only drive me closer to Him who has promised to make me more than conqueror. I am a pilgrim, pitching my tent day, by day, nearer heaven, imbibing every day more of the pilgrim character, and longing more for the pilgrim’s rest.

“May I be enabled to say, with the chastened spirit of a passing world, ‘Here I have no continuing city.’

“May this assurance reconcile me to all things.

“Lord, hasten Thy coming, and Thy kingdom.

“Scatter the darkness that is hovering over heathen nations.

“Stand by Thy Missionary servants. Enable us all, to be living more from day to day, on Thy grace, to rely on Thy guiding arm with more childlike confidence, looking with a more simple faith to Thy finished work.

“Be the God of all near, and dear to me.

“May all my ties of blood, scattered far and wide over the earth, be able to claim a spiritual relationship with Thee, so that those earthly bonds of attachment, which sooner or later, must snap asunder here, be renewed, and perpetuated before the great white throne.”

As I read, she clasped her hands and looked reverently upward, as if her soul were drinking in the spirit of the great writer.

She followed me to the front gate, and thanked me for my visit.

It was the last time I ever saw her.