“Ol’ Miss, she don’t lak to see dem sold, an’ she cry ever’ time, she so
tender-hearted. But Mist’ McCullough is jes’ lak mens is today. He jes’
laugh an’ go on.

“But he was good to his black folks. Folks called us ’McCullough’s free
niggers.’ Wasn’t much whippin’ went on ’roun’ our plantation, but on
some places close to us, they whipped until blood run down. Some places
they even mixed salt an’ pepper in water an’ bathed ’em with it. The
salt water’d heal, but when the pepper got in there, it burned lak fire,
an’ they’d as well get on to work quick, cause they can’t be still

One woman, on a plantation not so far from us, was expectin’, an’ they
tied her up under a hack-a-berry tree, an’ whipped her until she died.
Mos’ any time at night ef you go ’roun’ that tree, you could hear that
baby cry. I ’spect you could hear it yet.

“Everybody said that was murder, an’ that something ought to be done
about it, but nothin’ ever was.



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