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- Herausgeber: Charles River Editors
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
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Seitenzahl: 479
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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FROM SLAVERY TO WEALTH. THE LIFE OF SCOTT BOND.
The Rewards of Honesty, Industry, Economy and Perseverance.
Dan Rudd and Theo Bond
LACONIA PUBLISHERS
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All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.
Copyright © 2016 by Dan Rudd and Theo Bond
Interior design by Pronoun
Distribution by Pronoun
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ILLUSTRATIONS.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT.
PREFACE.
INTRODUCTION.
SCOTT BOND.
SCOTT BOND’S MOTHER DIES.
STARTING A NEGRO SCHOOL.
MAKING A SLIP GAP.
DEER FOR DINNER.
SITTING ON A SNAKE.
SCOTT BOND MOVES TO MADISON.
SCOTT BOND’S FIRST MERCHANDISING.
SCOTT BOND PAYS HIS FIRST CASH RENT.
SCOTT BOND BUYS HIS FIRST FARM.
SALE OF THE ALLEN FARM.
A CROP OF ARTICHOKES.
SCOTT BOND SWAPS FISH FOR MEAT.
BRICK FOR ALLEN FARM.
BUYS BACK OLD HOME.
SHOWS BOYS THE NEW STORE.
SCOTT BOND VISITS NASHVILLE, TENN.
BUYS HALF SECTION.
WORKING FOR NOTHING.
BEAR STORY.
AN OFFER OF WAGES.
SCOTT BOND HUNTS HIS FATHER.
A DEAL IN PEAS.
RENTING AN AXE.
SETTLING A STRIKE.
THEOPHILUS BOND LEARNS TO FIRE.
THE DIFFERENCE.
THE MANNER IN WHICH I LEARNED TO MAKE BRICK.
SCOTT BOND STARTS HOUSEKEEPING.
PATTERSON, THE BEAR HUNTER.
BRICK.
THE SLAVES’ METHOD OF SECRET COMMUNICATION.
WHY SCOTT BOND HAS BEEN SUCCESSFUL,
LATENT FORCES.
LEARNING THE MEANING OF A “YANKEE TRICK.”
SCOTT BOND IN A JIM-CROW CAR,
SCOTT’S FRIEND GOES TO AFRICA.
A RACE WITH THE STORK.
SCOTT BOND FINDS POT OF MONEY.
SCOTT BOND’S WIFE FINDS CAN OF WEALTH.
BUILDS GIN AT MADISON.
BAD CROPS.
FINDING MONEY.
SCOTT BOND BUILDS A CONCRETE STORE.
OTTO B. ROLLWAGE.
HANDLING COTTONSEED WITH DIFFERENT OIL MILLS.
A TRIP TO KANSAS CITY.
HIGH COST OF LIVING.
SCOTT BOND’S MOTHER.
SCOTT BOND FORGETS HIS WIFE.
THE GRAVEL BEDS.
SCOTT BOND CHANGES HIS METHOD OF LOADING GRAVEL.
SCOTT BOND AT RAVENDEN SPRINGS.
THE MADISON CEMETERY.
SCOTT BOND BUILDS GIN AT EDMONDSON.
SCOTT BOND OVERCOMES OBJECTION.
A FROG FARM.
SCOTT BOND BUILDS SAW MILL
FLOODS AND CUT WORKS.
GLOOMY TIMES AHEAD.
MR. BOND VISITS NEW YORK.
NEGRO DEALS WITH NEGROES.
SCOTT BOND’S VIEW OF WHISKEY.
A VISIT TO TUSKEGEE.
INTERIOR OF SCOTT BOND’S GIN.
AVERAGES.
BUSINESS.
THE ST. FRANCIS BASIN.
MR. BOND IN NEW ORLEANS.
CHICKENS.
SHEEP GROWING.
CLEARING LAND.
A LOOK INTO THE FUTURE.
RACE PREJUDICE IN AMERICA AN ECONOMIC LOSS.
WHAT IS THE NEGRO FARMER DOING?
CONDITIONS CHANGING.
APPLICATION.
SUMMARY.
APPENDIX.
FROM
SLAVERY TO WEALTH
THE LIFE OF
SCOTT BOND
THE REWARDS OF HONESTY, INDUSTRY,
ECONOMY AND PERSEVERANCE
BY
DAN. A. RUDD AND THEO. BOND
WITH PREFACE BY HON. J. C. NAPIER
President National Negro Business League and Ex-Register of U. S. Treasury
SCOTT BOND AT 40.
MRS. MAGNOLIA BOND.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Flood in the Mississippi River
— Gives an idea of that mighty stream, when on a rampage.
Sheep and Cattle
— This is a daily scene at the Bond home at the morning milking hour.
Scene on Gray Farm
— A great field of cotton that has just been worked out the first time.
Scott Bond’s Sheep at Home
— The sheep have returned from pasture and are waiting admission to the barn yard.
Cattle After Dipping
— Getting ready for the boll-weevil.
“The Cedars”
— Scott Bond at home with wife and children.
Scott Bond’s Birthplace
— Cabin in Mississippi, where Scott Bond was born.
Spring Creek M. B. Church
— An historic landmark on Crowley’s Ridge.
Scott Bond Landing Logs at His Saw Mill
— He turned his timber into money instead of deadening it to rot on the ground.
Mr. Bond and Mr. Bridgeforth
— Discussing hogs in the Mulberry orchard at Tuskegee Institute.
Corner of Bed-room in the Bond Home
— Showing fireplace where can, supposed to contain $500 in gold, was found.
Scott Bond Gin
— Showing platform filled with cotton ready for shipping.
Wheat Stacked on Side of Field
— Diversification: land being prepared for peas.
View of Stevens Farm
— This scene shows a great field of corn and cotton in earliest stages of cultivation.
Near View of Fruit Farm
— There are 5,000 fruit trees in this orchard. Some more diversification.
Laying by Corn with Cultivators
— This field was used for silage 1917.
Bird’s-Eye View of Madison
— From “The Cedars” one can see for miles up and down the St. Francis River, that threads its way, like a silver ribbon, past Madison.
View on Fishing Lake Farm
— One of the finest fishing spots in Arkansas.
Bird’s-Eye View of Fruit Farm
View of Section 12 on Military Road
Mr. Bond and Mr. Bridgeforth
— On the Tuskegee breeding farm.
Mr. Bond and Mr. Bridgeforth
— In Tuskegee Orchard.
Mr. Bond and Mr. Bridgeforth
— On Tuskegee truck farm.
Mr. Bond Visits the Tuskegee Poultry Yard
Mr. Bridgeforth and Mr. Bond
— Discuss Tuskegee’s prize jack.
Scott Bond’s Blacksmith Shop
— It requires the time of this shop to keep up the repairs of tools on Mr. Bond’s many farms.
Scott Bond Making a Start in Life
— “Started to lay the foundation of his career at the age of 22 with a bed quilt and a clean character.”
Miss Chism Milking
— The products of the dairy have done much to aid Scott Bond on his way up.
Scott Bond’s Registered Bull, Robert
— This calf at eleven months weighed 850 pounds, and this is the way Mr. Bond made him keep his baby fat. Another way to discount the boll-weevil.
View on Stevens Farm of 580 Acres on the St. Francis River
View of Stevens Farm Looking South
Harvesting Alfalfa
— This is another way Scott Bond is discounting the boll-weevil pest.
1917 Potato Crop Ready for Digging
— This is still another way to offset the efforts of the boll-weevil pest.
Scene on Gray Farm
— It was at this point that the old military road built by Gen. Jackson crossed the St. Francis River.
Engineers Surveying
— This part of the ocean to ocean highway runs between Memphis and Little Rock; passes half dozen of Mr. Bond’s farms.
Duroc Red, Registered Hogs
— Mr. Bond says: “If I can’t grow cotton I can grow pigs, boll-weevil or no boll-weevil.”
Corn in New Ground, First Crop
— Not twelve months since, this was a dense jungle.
Scott Bond and His Wife
— Discussing a New Hereford calf. It is thus they have worked through more than forty years.
Registered Hereford Bull, “Robert”
— Weighing 850 pounds at eleven months.
Unloading Second Cutting of Alfalfa
— June 15, 1917. More diversification. More preparation for boll-weevil.
Hogs Grazing on Alfalfa
— By frequently changing from one pasture to another, Scott Bond keeps his stock growing without destroying his pastures.
Interior of Scott Bond’s Gin Plant
— Capacity, 80 bales per day. Continental system.
Home of Taylor Swift
— This man came back from Africa without a penny. Now he is rich.
Bird’s-Eye View of Scott Bond’s Gravel Beds
— From these beds for which Mr. Bond paid $5.00, he has sold more than $75,000 worth of gravel. The supply will never be exhausted. Here also is to be found vast deposits of marl-embedded oyster shells.
Farmers at Scott Bond’s Gin, 1916
— This scene is common every day during the ginning season.
One of Scott Bond’s Cotton Fields, 1917
— In 1916, Mr. Bond received from sale of cotton seed in this field enough to pay the entire cost of the crop, including rent and picking. Mr. Bond charges himself rent for his own land as a part of the cost of his crops.
Scott Bond’s Store, Looking North
— The usual Saturday crowd doing their weekly trading.
Scott Bond’s Herd of Registered Herefords
— This is another of Mr. Bond’s methods of preparing for boll-weevil.
Hogs Following Oat Harvest
— “If boll-weevil comes, we can still eat hog and hominy.”
Another View from Military Road
— Looking South at the old St. Francis River Ferry. This road forms the Memphis-Forrest City link of ocean to ocean highway.
Klondyke Farm
— On this farm John Harris made money enough in one year to pay for twelve head of horses and mules and his other debts and clear $1,280.
Scott Bond’s Overhead Cable Excavator
— This machine, base 33x40 feet, 75 feet high and moved with 3-8 inch cable along the gravel beds, operated by five men, loads with ease a car of gravel every ten minutes.
Scott Bond’s Store
— 35 feet wide, 100 feet long, 2 stories high and 12 foot basement, running full length of building, stocked with goods from bottom to top.
Mr. Bond Pointing to Grove at Madison
— Where Dr. Washington addressed the assembled thousands of colored and white people in 1911.
Farm Bought for Theophilus Bond by His Father
— Theo. on turn row instructing the tenants.
Colored Cemetery at Madison, Ark
Jack Davis Farm
— Planted in cotton in 1917.
Mr. Bond and Son, Theo.,
— Planning Bull Frog Farm. Another way to meet the boll-weevil.
Sheep Grazing in Grove
Theophilus Bond
Dr. Booker T. Washington at Madison in 1911
Enjoying Life After Forty Years’ Toil
Ulysses S. Bond
Waverly T. Bond
Dan A. Rudd
Scott Bond and Family in Garden at Home
Dr. Washington at Bond Home in 1911
Registered O. I. C. Hogs
Mrs. Bond and Her Pets
Scott Bond’s Office
“Robert,” Registered Hereford Bull at 5 Months
Scene Showing Cottonfield in New Ground
Interior of Scott Bond’s Store
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT.
THE JOURNAL PRINTING COMPANY’S PLANT at Madison, Ark., was not large enough to print this book and in order to have the work done by Negroes the National Baptist Publishing Board at Nashville Tenn., was awarded the contract for printing and binding.
How well the work was done is attested by the appearance of the book.
The magnitude of the plant of that great concern must be seen to be appreciated. With its large batteries of linotype machines, presses and cutters, and complete bindery with all the latest mechanical devices it is indeed an establishment for the race to proud of.
Tuskegee Institute furnished the photographs illustrating in Mr. Bond’s visit to that school. The portraits, as well photographs showing some of Mr. Bond’s activities and were made by Hooks Bros. of Memphis. The engravings from these pictures were made by the Bluff City Engraving Co. of Memphis.
The generous courtesy of all these people merits our highest praise.
PREFACE.
I HAVE KNOWN MR. SCOTT Bond since 1905. He is unassuming and progressive and while lacking in what men generally term education, I regard him as highly intelligent. To value him at his true worth, one must become thoroughly acquainted with him; upon such acquaintance, his motives, purposes, and aims in life become more highly appreciated. By intuition, he is naturally a merchant, a conservative trader, and a man who at a glance sees the advantages and disadvantages of any proposition made to him.
During the sessions of the National Negro Business League, he has been the very spice of all meetings he has attended. Dr. Booker T. Washington, founder and lifetime President of this League, was always insistent upon his being present at these gatherings, because of the life he always threw into their proceedings.
His unique and purely Southern method of expression always added, not only to the material and interesting side of the League’s deliberations, but also presented a most exemplary phase that increased the inspiration of the many young men who have heard him and known of his life and work.
On the occasion of the League’s meeting at Little Rock, Ark., in 1911, a special visit was made to his home and place of business at Madison, Arkansas. There we found him surrounded by every comfort of life, domiciled in a beautiful home, presided over by a devoted wife and surrounded by a happy family of children whose loyalty and devotion to him were made manifest by very action and movement. His place of business was perhaps the largest in Madison, every part of which showed method, order and intelligent direction.
The people of his community were unanimous in their praise of the manner in which he conducted his business and of his life among them as a citizen. At a recent meeting of the National Negro Business League, at Chattanooga, Tenn., Mr. Bond was really the life of every proposition presented before that body; and while he did not fail to express himself on every question that came before the League, he at no time failed to make good his point and to impress his views thereon, firmly and intelligently.
I regard Mr. Bond as one of the most substantial, exemplary and really meritorious men produced by our race.
J. C. NAPIER
INTRODUCTION.
THE WORLD OF UNREST IN these days is but the harbinger of better things. This is a crucial period in the history of mankind. Whatever may be the efforts of men to force certain unholy conditions, history proves that in the end right will triumph over wrong. Truth and justice will at last prevail.
In offering this biography to the public, it is our purpose to show some of the many disadvantages that must be overcome by the Negro in his way upward. We also want to impress the idea that the Negro will be measured by the white man’s standard; that he must survive or perish when measured by that scale. The Negro must “find a way or make one.” His goal must be the highest Christian civilization. His character, his moral courage, his thrift and his energy must be in excess of the difficulties to be surmounted. He must use his own powers to the limit, then depend upon God and the saving common sense of the American people for his reward in years to come.
To the white friends of the race and to the progressive, earnest Negroes of all our country this book is especially dedicated by the authors.
SCOTT BOND.
SIXTY-FOUR YEARS AGO THERE WAS born near Canton, in Madison County, Mississippi, a slave child that was destined to show the possibilities of every American-born child of any race. It was a boy. His mother was subject to the unhallowed conditions of that time. That her son was to be numbered among the leaders of his generation was not to be thought of; that he should become the largest planter and land owner of his race and state seemed impossible; that as a merchant and all-round business man, owning and operating the finest and one of the largest mercantile establishments in his state was not to be dreamed of; that at the advanced age of 61 he would erect and operate successfully the largest excavating plant of its kind in Arkansas and one of the only two in the entire southland was beyond conception. Yet, these things and many others equally remarkable have been accomplished by the little Mississippi-born slave boy whose history these pages recount.
The illustrations in this book show some of the many successful enterprises owned and managed by Scott Bond, and also some interesting incidents in his still more interesting life. This is the story of one, who started to lay the foundations of his career at the age of 22, with a bed quilt, a clean character and a manly determination to do something and to be somebody. Today he is one of the largest land owners, merchants and stock-raisers in Arkansas.
Mr. Bond credits much of his success to his charming wife, who has been his helper and his comforter in all his struggles. We offer this as an inspiration to the young men of the race and of all races. No race that produces men who can build and operate such works as these needs have any fear for the future.
At the age of eighteen months, little Scott, removed with his mother to Collierville, Fayette County, Tennessee, and at the age of five years removed with his mother and step-father, William Bond, to the Bond farm, Cross County, Arkansas. The question of “States’ Rights” was uppermost in the mind of the American people. Mighty things were to happen that would settle forever this vexatious question. The south was drawing farther and farther from the north. The north was declaring “union forever.”
Bleeding Kansas! Forensic battles in the Congress of the United States! John Brown’s Raid! Then in April, 1861, the first shot of the civil war crashed against the solid granite walls of old Fort Sumpter. What has all this to do with some little obscure mulatto boy, born on an obscure plantation somewhere down in Dixie? Just this: Had these tremendous events not transpired and ended as they did, the country would have still kept in bondage a race of men who have in fifty years—years of oppression and repression—shown to the world what America was losing. Booker T. Washington would not have revolutionized the educational methods of the world. Granville T. Woods would not have invented wireless telegraphy. There would have been no Negro troops to save the rough riders on San Juan Hill. There would have been no Negro soldiers to pour out their life blood at Carrizal. There would be no black American troops to offer to bare their dusky bosoms in the fiery hell beyond the seas today in the mighty struggle for world democracy. Scott Bond would have had no opportunity to prove to the world that if a man will be may.
There were many things in the life of the slave to break the monotony of daily, unrequited toil. At no time in the history of slavery in America was there more rapid change of scenes than during the years of the civil war. It was in these years little Scott had his ups and his downs, enjoying as others the bitters and the sweets of youthful slave life. As the fratricidal strife neared its close, and the dawn of freedom appeared upon the horizon, slaveholders were put to their trumps to keep their human chattels. When the union soldiers would be nearing some big plantation the slaves were hurriedly secreted in some out-of-the-way
FLOOD IN THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER.
place to keep them out of sight until the apparent danger had passed. It was an occasion like this in 1865 that the overseer on the Bond farm was ordered to hurry the Negroes to a hiding place in the swamps. News that the Yankees were coming had spread abroad. Teams were hitched to the wagons and some provisions for camping were loaded and the Negroes, some seventy-five in number, were started for the hidden camp ground. This was great fun for these poor people. The overseer had some of the slaves make brooms of brush and spoil out the mule and wagon tracks to keep the Yankees from following. They were headed for the big blue canebrakes on the banks of the bay and Morris pond, a great fishing ground, where little Scott joined the others in fishing and frolicking. They had not been long at this place before the cry was raised, “The Yankees are coming.” Soon a troop of union cavalrymen came upon the scene. They ordered the slaves to surrender. A few knew what this meant and threw up their hands. The lieutenant in command ordered his troopers to dismount. Then all fell to fishing, singing, dancing and feasting. Skillets, pots and frying pans were called for. Mr. Bond says he never saw men eat fried speckled perch as did those soldiers. This was a picnic for the slaves. “The only thing,” says Mr. Bond, “that threw cold water over my pleasure was that my good mother could not be with us; she being the house maid had to remain with the mistress while all the other slaves were sent to the bottoms.”
“When the dinner of fish was finished, the lieutenant ordered us to gather up our things and load them into the wagons. This was done. He got upon a stump and said: ‘This war will certainly end successfully for the union. Every Negro under the stars and stripes will be free.’
“Right there,” says Mr. Bond, “was one of the greatest events of my life. Old gray-headed women with children clasped in their arms; old, feeble, decrepid, worn-out men, all shouting—Hallelujah! Hallelujah. The officers stood quiet until the hysterical demonstration had subsided. He then continued: ‘I am going to take you back home to the farm from which you came. Don’t leave home and run from place to place while the war is going on. Stay at home and be good and obedient servants as you have been, until
the war is over.’ The drivers mounted their seats, the children climbed upon the wagons, and men and women walked behind, the soldiers bringing up the rear started back home. When they reached the Bond farm, they came as they went through the middle of the field down the turn row. I saw things happen up and down that turn row, young as I was” says Mr. Bond, “that I thought were very wrong and think so to this day. The hoes and harrows lay along the turn row. Some of the Negroes in the crowd took axes and broke every one of these farm implements.”
When they reached the great house, Mrs. Bond, the mistress, walked out on the front veranda and with her little Scott espied his dear mother. The lieutenant introduced himself and said: “I have come to restore to you about fifty head of mules and seventy-five colored people. I regret very much to know that you thought that we as union men were coming down here to destroy the south. I want to congratulate you upon the skill with which you had your colored people hidden. It required some skill to find them but we had more fish to eat than we have had since the war began.”
The madam replied: “I am so much obliged to you for your kindness and generosity. I was not indeed looking for union soldiers; I was expecting the jayhawkers, that was my reason for sending them down there.” The soldiers then rode off.
One of little Scott’s duties was to ride behind the madam and carry her key basket, for in those days when she would be absent from the house she would turn the keys in the locks, then put the keys in a basket kept for that purpose.
“But they change as all things change here,
Nothing in this world can last.”
SCOTT BOND’S MOTHER DIES.
NOT LONG AFTER THIS SCOTT Bond’s mother died leaving him yet a little boy with his step-father. They laid her to rest on a beautiful spot on the side of a towering hill overlooking the Bond farm.
SHEEP AND CATTLE. UNLOADING HAY IN THE BACK GROUND.
STARTING A NEGRO SCHOOL.
IN 1866, A NORTHERN GENTLEMAN, Mr. Thorn, was renting the Bond farm. He was very kindly disposed toward the colored people. He wrote to Memphis for a teacher for a colored school. The parties to whom he wrote, referred him to Miss Celia Winchester. She accepted the school.
There were no railroads in this part of the country at that time. The only method of transportation was from Memphis, by steam boat, down the Mississippi and up the St. Francis rivers to Wittsburg.
When the boat arrived at Wittsburg, Mr. Thorn, not knowing the customs of the south, secured a room at the hotel for Miss Winchester, who was an Oberlin, Ohio, graduate. She had attended school with the whites at that famous seat of learning. She too, was ignorant of the customs prevailing in the south.
When the proprietor of the hotel learned that Miss Winchester was colored, he went out and bought a cowhide. He met Mr. Thorn on the street, held a pistol on him and cowhided him.
Mr. Thorn stood and cried. He said that he was seventy years old and had never done any one any harm in his life. What he had done was not intended as a violation of custom.
We lived about sixteen miles out from Wittsburg. The next day a wagon met Mr. Thorn and Miss Winchester and took them the farm.
Thus was opened the first school for Negroes in this part of the country and the first school I had ever seen. In the school my step-father and myself were classmates in the A B C class.
Later on, Mr. Thorn’s wife came from the north to visit her husband. She opened a night school for those old people who could not attend the day school. The hours were from seven to nine.
It was a curiosity to me to see so many people, some of whom were gray-headed, trying to learn to read and write. They were enthusiastic and very much in earnest.
This condition held good for the whole neighborhood. In the daytime, the children would gather pine knots to make light at
night. All about the country one could see lights in the homes and people trying to learn their lessons.
Coal oil and electric lights were unknown. The white people, in the great house, used candles. The colored people used pine knots and little flat iron lamps filled with grease; and used a rag for a wick.
When the weather grew warm, people would collect pine knots and at night they would gather in great crowds in the open, and then such singing of A B C’s and a-b ab, you never heard. The whole colored population seemed to be crazy about education.
I remember an old lady seventy-eight years old, who was determined to learn to read, and in less than eight weeks she was reading the Bible. I know of another instance of a Negro, named John Davis, who in twelve months after he learned his A B C’s, was elected Justice of the Peace. He had learned to read and write. He did not know enough to prepare his docket and papers, but the kindly disposed white people for whom he worked, would fix up his documents for him. He would sign them “John Davis,” J. P. These white people were southern born democrats.
There was a. Mr. Brooks, a white democrat, who was John Davis’ predecessor in office, who would frequently prepare Davis’ docket and warrants. The docket went regularly before the grand jury and was favorably passed upon. Davis served out his term and was eventually married. He lived respected by all who knew him.
It must be remembered that at that time the southern white man was largely disfranchised.
As Mrs. Thorn advanced with her educational work, it was very encouraging to see the good results of her efforts.
As the season drew to a close, it was common to hear the old people spelling at their exercises. When they reached “baker” in the old blue back speller, it was b-a ba, k-e-r ker, baker; l-a la, d-y dy, lady; s-h-a sha, d-y dy, shady; at the wash tub, over the cook pot, in the kitchen, at the mule lot and in the cotton patch, it was “baker,” “lady,” “shady,” from sun-up to sunset, and way into the night.
SCENE ON GRAY FARM, LOOKING SOUTH.
Had that enthusiasm kept up until to day the Negro would be the best educated race in the world.
What the Negro needs today is more of the eager enthusiasm of the years just after the close of the Civil War. From this cup we must quaff deeply and often from the cradle to the grave.
There is no place for drones in human society. The lazy man, the listless man, the passive, happy, go-lucky man is a real curse to his race.
“Up and at them!” is the command that comes ringing down the ages. “Up and at” the obstacles that stand athwart the pathway of progress. Think! Work! Get results!!
If one would study German history of the last fifty years, he would find out what it means to be thorough; what results come from intense application in developing human efficiency.
Yet, after all that is said and done concerning the Negro race in America, we must admit that they are a great people. If the Negro has plenty, he is happy; if he has nothing, he is happy. He can come about as near living on nothing as any other race and still be happy.
This philosophic tendency to be happy under all conditions and in all circumstances is characteristic of the race.
Before the war a Negro’s rations consisted of three pounds of meat, a peck of meal, and a pint of black molasses; and they lived to be one hundred and one hundred and ten years old and would still be strong men to the day of their death.
It was a rare thing before the war, to hear of a Negro having tuberculosis.
He is as proud as a peacock. The jolly good nature of the race has been its salvation. In fact, the Negro is the only race that can look the white man in the face and live.
Better still, the white man does not want to get rid of the Negro.
MAKING A SLIP GAP.
“I REMEMBER,” SAYS MR. BOND, “once when I was quite young, one of my tasks was to look after the calves. When the cows came up to the cow pen, I would let them in. Then I would drive
the calves half a mile to get them into the lane and back through the lane to the cow pen.
I thought I would make a slip gap. I got some rails and dragged them up. I was not big enough to carry the rails, so I would move one end ahead, then I would go back and move the other end. When I got ready to put it into place, I would take a rail and by prizing, managed to get the rail in.
The overseer came by one day and asked me who made the slip gap. I told him I made it. He had a paddle with a strap on the end. He said he was going to whip me for lying to him. I told him I had not lied. He said he would like to see me make another. I then showed him how I managed to make it.
DEER FOR DINNER.
IN THE TIME OF THE Civil War, the high cost of living was as much in evidence as it is today.
I can remember that when I was a little boy, living on the Bond farm on the Bay road in Cross County, Ark., that anything like a square meal was a thing of the past. There was neither meat nor bread to be had. We had a little wheat that would be ground in an old-fashioned corn mill. From this we would make mush for breakfast and cush and greens for dinner.
On one occasion my step-father killed a quail with a clod. My mother prepared and cooked the bird with dumplings. It made a meal for seven people.
One morning as we were going to the field we heard the hounds in the distance. As the sun rose higher the hounds seemed to be getting nearer. About nine o’clock the dogs were running around the north end of the farm. This was not unusual, as there were plenty of deer and panther in Arkansas, so we paid little attention to the hounds. To our surprise a big buck jumped into the field where we were at work. It was about a mile and a half to the next fence. Mr. Cook, the overseer, had his horse tied to a bush near where the deer jumped into the field. The overseer being like the rest of us, half starved, mounted his horse and gave chase. The deer that had been running for six or seven hours was
SCOTT BOND’S SHEEP AT HOME.
practically run down. So when the overseer overtook the deer, he leaped from the back of his horse to the back of the deer and cut the throat of the fleeing animal.
That was meat in the pot. There was no more work that day. It was deer for dinner, deer for supper and deer for breakfast.
SITTING ON A SNAKE.
THERE WAS A WOMAN NAMED Julia Ann on our plantation, who, one day at dinner time, went to a tree where she had hung her dinner bucket. She reached up and got the bucket and backed up to the tree and sat down between its protruding roots to eat her dinner. When she got up, she found she had been sitting on a rattle snake. The snake was killed. He had fifteen rattlers and a button on his tail. Ann fainted when she saw the snake. She said that she had felt the snake move, but thought that it was the cane giving way beneath her.
Snakes of that size and variety were numerous in Arkansas in those times.
I heard of an instance where a man built a house on a flat, smooth rock on a piece of land that he had bought. It was in the autumn when he built his house. When the weather grew cold he made a fire on the rock. There had been a hole in the rock, but the man had stopped it up.
One night he had retired, and late in the night, his child, which was sleeping between him and his wife, became restless and awakened him. He reached for the child and found what he supposed was his wife’s arm across the child. He undertook to remove it and to his consternation, found he had hold of a large snake. He started to get out of bed, to make a light, and the whole floor was covered with snakes. He got out of the house with his wife and child.
The next day the neighbors gathered, burned the house and killed hundreds of snakes.
The house had been built over a den of snakes.
When I first came to Arkansas as a little slave boy, things were different from what they are today. Arkansas was on the western
frontier. The clearings were small and far between. There were trails here and there, but few roads.
Wild game of all kinds was abundant. Deer, turkeys, bears, raccoons, o’possums and all varieties of small game were so plentiful that one only had to look about him to see some one or more kinds of game.
It was next to impossible to make a corn crop unless there was some one to hunt at night and guard the fields of ripening grain. If this was not done, the farms would be stripped of their corn.
There was a man named Slade, whose duty it was to hunt all night. He slept in the day time. He could not bring in all the game he would kill, hence the hands on our place would divide themselves into squads and take time about hunting with Slade at night until he had killed a load of coons, and they would then carry them home and go to sleep, leaving Slade to make the rest of the night alone.
The meat secured in this way would last several families for some time. The next night another squad would accompany Slade on his hunt.
One night a party who had been hunting with Slade, started for home. The night was dark and cloudy. They lost their way. They finally came to the bank of a lake they had never seen before. There was a boat moored where they came out. They saw a light across the lake, so they got into the boat and rowed across to see if they could get information as to the direction home.
One their way back across the lake—it was by this time nearly sun-up—they ran their boat upon something which began to move. Upon investigation, it proved to be a large turtle. They secured it and sent for a mule to haul it out. When the shell was removed they had one hundred and forty-eight pound of turtle meat.
Such was the abundance of wild life in those days that whole families could subsist on game if they so desired.
CATTLE JUST AFTER DIPPING.
SCOTT BOND MOVES TO MADISON.
SCOTT BOND MOVED TO MADISON, St. Francis County, Ark., with his step-father, who had bargained to buy a farm, in 1872, and remained with him until he was 21 years of age. He then undertook to vouch for himself. His step-father contracted with him to remain with him until he was 22 years of age. His pay was to be one bale of cotton, board, washing and patching. He thought the pay was small, but for the sake of his little brothers, that they might have a home paid for, he remained that year. The next year he walked eighteen miles to the Allen farm, having seen the possibilities in the fertile soil of that place in the two years he had worked on it with his step-father. He decided that would be the place to make money. He rented 12 acres of land at $6.50 per acre. He had no money, no corn, no horse, nothing to eat, no plows, no gears; but all the will-power that could be contained in one little hide. In 1876 he rented 35 acres and hired one man. In 1877 he married Miss Magnolia Nash of Forrest City. The Allen farm, as stated elsewhere, contained 2,200 acres. The proprietor lived in Knoxville, Tenn. She sent her son over the next autumn, who insisted on Scott Bond renting the whole place. This he refused to do on the ground that he was unable to furnish the mules, feed, tools and other stock sufficient to cultivate it. Mr. Allen took a letter from his pocket that read: “Now, Scott, I have told Johnnie to be sure and do his uttermost to rent you this place, and as I am sure it would be quite a burden on you financially, you may draw on me for all the money that is required to buy mules, corn and tools.” And at the bottom: “Scott, I think this will be one of the golden opportunities of your life.” This lady was near kin to Scott Bond’s former owner. He grasped the opportunity. There were all sorts of people living on the Allen farm. Some half-breed Indians, some few white families and some low, degraded colored people. The whites were no better than the others. The first thing Scott Bond had to do was to clean up the farm along those lines. He then secured axes, cross cut saws, and built a new fence around the entire farm—something that had not been done for 20 years. When the crops were gathered and disposed of, Scott paid Mrs. Allen and everyone else for the rent and all other obligations.
He received from Mrs. Allen, the owner of the farm, who lived in Knoxville, Tenn., a fine letter of thanks and congratulations for the improvements on the farm. The net profits, all bills paid, were $2500, in addition to the gains on cotton seed. This farm is situated right at the east base of Crowley’s Ridge, 42 miles due west of the Mississippi river. There were no levees in the county at that time, and when the overflows came we had a sea of water spread out from the Mississippi to the ridge. Mr. Bond said the next winter there came the biggest overflow he had ever seen. He took his boat and moved all the people, mules, cattle, hogs and horses to Crowley’s Ridge. He lived about a mile and a half from Crowley’s Ridge and owing to a deep slough or bayou between him and the ridge he was compelled to use a boat. There was perhaps no more exciting time in Mr. Bond’s life than when with his boat he would brave the dangers of the murky flood and with the help of his crew scout the country over hunting out and rescuing people and stock from the rising, rushing waters. It is said by those who know, that Scott Bond saved the lives of hundreds of people, white and black. In this particular overflow he had 7,000 bushels of corn and 10,000 pounds of meat that he had killed and cured. He saved all this by putting it in the lofts of the different buildings on the place. Having secured his own people and property, he spent his time looking out and helping his neighbors. He lived in the great house on the Allen farm. He took flour barrels, placed planks on them for a scaffold to put his cooking stove and bed on. The next day he ran his dugout into the house and tied it to his bedpost. Three days later he was compelled to get another set of barrels, to raise his scaffold a little higher. On the third evening he arrived at home between sundown and dark with all his boatmen in dugouts. It was impossible to get in the door on account of the water. They ran the boats in through the windows, each man to his sleeping place. Every one of them was as wet as rats. They would have to stand on the head end of their boats to change their wet clothing before getting into their beds. The cook and his helper, who looked after things in the absence of the boats, were brave to start in with and promised to stay with Scott Bond as long as there was a button on his shirt, but when they saw the boats coming in
“THE CEDARS” SCOTT BOND’S HOME AT MADISON, ARK.
through the top sash of the window their melts drew up. They said, “Mr. Bond, we like you and have always been willing to do anything you asked us to do, but this water is away beyond where we had any idea it would be. We are going to leave tomorrow morning.”
They had all changed and put on dry clothing, and as a matter of course felt better. The next call was supper and dinner combined. A big tea kettle full of strong, hot coffee, spare ribs, back bones, hog heads, ears and noses. There was some shouting around that table. Mr. Bond says he did not attempt to pacify the cook and hostler until after all had finished supper, as the time to talk to an individual is when he has a full stomach.
“The next day when we started out,” says Mr. Bond, “I instructed my men to ‘do as you see me do.’ If a cow jumps over board, follow her and grab her by the tail and stick to her until you come to some sappling or grape vine; grab it and hold to it until help arrives. Any man can hold a cow by the tail or horn in this way.”
All Mr. Bond’s people were comfortably housed on Crowley’s Ridge. In those days people did not need the assistance of the government to take care of them. They had plenty of corn, meat and bread they produced at home. Six months later you could not tell that there ever had been an overflow from the looks of the corn and cotton.
“But to return to the boys who were getting frightened at the ever-increasing flood,” said Mr. Bond, “we all loaded our pipes and you may know there was a smoke in the building. ‘Twas then I said, ‘Boys, all sit down and let’s reason with one another. The water will be at a standstill tomorrow evening. I really know what I am talking about, because the stage of the river at Cairo always governs the height of the water here. That is a thing I always keep posted on. While this, the great house, is two-thirds full of water, you must remember that this is the eddy right along here, and anyone of you take your spike pole and let it down to the floor and you will find from 8 to 10 inches of sand and sediment.’
“One man said, ‘I know he is right, because whenever an overflow subsides I have to shovel out from ten to twelve inches of sand. This house is built out of hewn logs, 46 feet long and the biggest brick stack chimneys in the middle I ever saw. Now, boys, with all this meat and other things piled on this scaffold you are perfectly safe. I am feeding you boys and paying you well. I am asking you to do what you see me do. This satisfied them and we stuck together.”
Mr. Bond rented the same farm for eleven years. In that time he had paid for rent $16,000. He then wrote Mrs. Allen at Knoxville in the month of August for her to be sure and try to get a tenant for the next year, as he had bought a farm of 300 acres of land at Madison on the St. Francis River, and he would be compelled to go and develop it; that he had seven boys and he really felt that he would be doing them an injustice to have them renters the balance of their days. He received a letter from Mrs. Allen in reply. The offer she made was hard to turn down, but looking around at his wife and beautiful boys, there was a longing for home sweet home and while he regretted to have to do so, he refused the offer. Mr. Bond says: “I paid $2 per acre for 320 acres and today I am offered $85 per acre for every foot of it. If one had seen it before I bought it and would see it now with all its improvements, with splendid roads around it, over which automobiles pass every few minutes, they could hardly realize that it is the same place.”
The south seems to be the only place on earth for the Negro, with its fertile soil, its mild climate, its sunshine and its flowers, it does seem that nature had left this fair land in which to raise the Negro to the highest state of civilization.
Mrs. Allen asked Mr. Bond to recommend to her the best tenant he could find. He could only think of two colored men whom he thought had the ability to take and manage the place, Richard Miller and Henry Anderson. They were so placed at the time that they said it would be impossible for them to take hold. His next thought was of a white man named Newt Johnson, who had been his neighbor on the Allen farm for ten years. Mr. Johnson was proud of the chance. The next year there came another overflow, Mr. Johnson was unable to employ the right kind of hands and made
SCOTT BOND’S BIRTHPLACE.
a failure. He told Mrs. Allen his troubles with the overflow and he agreed to try it another year, that he thought he would succeed. I don’t know what percent of the rent young Mr. Allen collected that autumn. Mr. Johnson and others told young Allen that those two big overflows had literally ruined the farm. They took him around and showed him the different sand bars that had accumulated on the place. Mr. Allen, a gentleman as he was, not being posted about these conditions, said; ‘Gentlemen, I have heard of just such things.” No sprouts had been cut nor ditch banks been cleaned off for two years. The place really did look desperate. Mr. Allen returned to his mother at Knoxville and explained things to her just as he found them. They held a consultation. Mrs. Allen said: ‘Johnnie, what shall we do with that farm? I would not have you go back and live there for anything. You know that the Boyd Manufacturing Company promised that if I would not take your wife back to Arkansas to give you a half interest in the manufacturing concern. Now, Johnnie, I had rather for Uncle Scott to have that place than anyone I know. Get your pen and I will dictate a contract to Uncle Scott. It read thus: ‘Uncle Scott, if you will pay the taxes which amount to $136 and then pay me $1,000 every November until you pay me $5,000, I will make you a warranty deed to the whole 2,200 acres.
“When Mr. Allen arrived with the contract in his pocket,” Mr. Bond says, ‘he found me ginning cotton to beat the band on gin on my new farm that I had cleaned up. The sun was about three hours high the morning Mr. Allen came to me. He seemed to be full of glee. His aristocratic breeding and training showed in his every movement. He grasped my hand and said, “Howdy, Uncle Scott, mamma sends her highest regards to you and your family.’ I was proud to have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Allen at my new steam gin with all the modern improvements and last but not least, it was built on my own land. I showed him my now brick kiln that I had just blown out. I made everything around the gin plant as pleasant for him as I knew how and looked every moment for him to say, ‘Good bye, Uncle Scott,’ knowing his quickness of movement and decision. I was at a loss to know what to do for him. At 10:30 o’clock I sent a messenger to inform my wife that Mr. John
Allen of Knoxville would be with me for dinner. She had not much time to prepare, but when the boy returned he brought turnip salad, eggs and fried chicken. Knowing the customs that existed between the white man and the Negro in the south, I spread a cloth on the top board of the scales, fixed his plate, knife and fork and said, ‘Mr. Allen, have a lunch.’ Mr. Allen said, ‘Uncle Scott, this is your gin and your property. As you used to belong to Cousin Mary Francis Bond, who always felt dear to mother, now you come and let’s eat together.’
“ ‘You know a man feels best just after he has had a good dinner. Mr. Allen said, ‘Uncle Scott, I have a proposition for you that will make you scratch the back of your head.’ This, of cause, took no effect on me, but when he drew from his pocket the contract his mother had authorized him to submit to me, I was struck with amazement.
When I came to myself I was standing on the front side of the scales scratching my head. I looked around and Mr. Allen laughingly remarked: ‘I told you I would have you scratching your head.’ I then began to figure. I had hundreds of acres of land already on hand that were already paid for, but I reasoned that if I could rent a farm and pay $1,250 a year rent until I had paid the proprietor $16,000, as I had done on that same farm, it looked to me like the proposition was a good one. I said, ‘Where will you be tomorrow at 9 o’clock?’ He said he could be at any place I would have him to be.”
Mr. Bond agreed to meet Mr. Allen in Forrest City the next morning and close the deal. “The next morning,” says Mr. Bond, “I rode over to Forrest City and met Mr. Allen and Mr. T. O. Fitzpatrick on the sidewalk. As usual Mr. Fitzpatrick said, ‘Good morning, Uncle Scott.’ Mr. Allen said, “Uncle Scott, I have a better proposition to offer you than the one I offered you yesterday. I have a party who will take it at $5,000 and pay half of the money cash.’ Mr. Fitzpatrick said. ‘Have you been talking with Uncle Scott about this deal?’ ‘Yes,’ I was at his gin plant yesterday all day and he promised to be here this morning at 9 o’clock to close the deal.’ Mr. Fitzpatrick remarked: ‘Now, I take down my proposition
SPRING CREEK MISSIONARY BAPTIST CHURCH OF WHICH SCOTT BOND IS A MEMBER.
and have nothing to do with the deal. There stands one man, Scott Bond, that I always thought to be a gentleman.’”
Mr. Bond said: “Mr. Fitzpatrick that is all O. K. Now in order to help Mr. Allen out and also better your condition we will buy the farm in partnership.” Mr. Fitzpatrick said: “That would suit me better than buying it by myself, provided you promise me that you will superintend the farm for five years, with the understanding that T. O. Fitzpatrick will allow you big wages for superintending the farm.”
Here, again, Scott Bond showed his ability and foresight. He says: “I grabbed like a trout at a troll. I sold my new gin plant on my place and moved back to the Allen farm. The only thing invested in the farm to start with was a pair of plug mules and 180 bushels of corn.” He says when he got on the good old farm he felt like he was the big dog of the bone yard. We here again repeat Mr. Bond’s word without quotation: When I was on this farm as a renter I thought I had a big melt. When I looked around and seeing there was a probability of me becoming proprietor I felt that I could do four times the amount of work I could do before. There was immediate demand for axes, hoes, plows and people. In four years’ time there was over 100 additional acres of land brought under cultivation; fourteen new houses with brick chimneys, a new steam gin and a kiln of brick; the farm was stocked out with work stock and tools and the farm all paid for. I then turned everything over to Mr. Fitzpatrick and rented to him my interest in the farm, gin, mules and horses. I moved back home with my beautiful wife and children and began clearing and improving my big farm at Madison. Some years later the colored people all around Madison, where I live, became Africa struck. I begged them not to sell their farms and go to Africa, but first go and see for themselves. All my begging and advising did not avail. I owned at that time 320 acres in that inmmediate locality and saw there was another opportunity. I sold my interest in the Allen farm to Mr. T. O. Fitzpatrick and received every dollar in cash. This money bought in seven other little farms adjoining mine. I told Mr. Fitzpatrick that he and I could get along in perfect harmony all the days of our lives but after our days our boys might not agree as we had
