"During the war there were some Southern soldiers went through. I and two friends of mine were together. Those soldiers caught us and made us put our hands down at our knees, and tied 'em, and run the stick through underneath.
"It was wintertime. They had a big fire. They pushed us nearer and nearer the fire, until we hollered. It was just devilment. They was having fun with us, kept us tied up about a half hour. There was a mulatto boy with us, but they thought he was white, and didn't bother him. One time they caught us and throwed us up in blankets, way up, too--I was about 11 years old then."
"We went to bush meetings up on the Sand Hill out in the woods. They didn't have a church then."
Eugene's recollections were vivid as to the ending of the war:
"The Northern soldiers come to town playing Yankee Doodle. When freedom come, they called all the white people to the courthouse first, and told them the darkies was free. Then on a certain day they called all the colored people down to the parade ground. They had built a big stand, and the Yankees and some of our leading colored men got up and spoke, and told the Negroes:
"You are free now. Don't steal. Now work and make a living. Do honest work, make an honest living to support yourself and children. No more masters. You are free."
Eugene said when the colored troops come in, they sang:
"Don't you see the lightning? Don't you hear the thunder? It isn't the lightning, It isn't the thunder, But its the button on The Negro uniforms!
"The slaves that was freed, and the country Negroes that had been run off, or had run away from the plantations, was staying in Augusta in Guv'ment houses, great big ole barns. They would all get free provisions from the Freedmen's Bureau, but people like us, Augusta citizens, didn't get free provisions, we had to work. It spoiled some of them. When the small pox come, they died like hogs, all over Broad Street and everywhere."
WILLIS BENNEFIELD, HEPHZIBAH, GA., Born 1835.
[TR: "Uncle Willis" in individual interviews.]
"Uncle Willis" lives with his daughter Rena Berrian, who is 74 years old. "I his baby," said Rena, "all dead but me, and I ain't no good for him now 'cause I can't tote nothin'."
When asked where Uncle Willis was, Rena looked out over the blazing cotton field and called: