When you ask me is I Pierce Harper , you kind of 'sprised me. I reckoned everybody know old Pierce Harper . Sister Johnson say to me outside of services last Sunday night. 'Brother Harper , you is de beatines' man I ever seen. You know everybody and everybody know you.' And I said, 'Sister Johnson , dat's 'cause I keep faith with de Lawd. I love de Lawd and my neighbors and de Lawd and my neighbors love me.' Dat's what my old mother-told me 'way back in slavery, before I was ever sold. But here I is talking 'bout myself when you want to hear me talk 'bout slavery. Let's see, now. I was born way back in 1851 in North Carolina, on Mr. Subbs ' plantation, clost to Snow Hill, which was the county seat. My daddy was a field hand and my mother worked in the fields, too, right 'longside my daddy, so she could keep him lined up. The mast r said that Calisy , that my mother, was the best fieldhand he had, and Calvin , that my daddy, was the laziest. My mother used to say he was chilesome. Then when I was eight years old they sold me. The market place was in Snow Hill on the public square near the jailhouse. It was jus' a little stand built out in the open with no top on it, that the slaves stood on to get sold while the white folks auctioned 'em off. I was too little to get on the stand, so they had to hold me up and Mr. Harper bought me for $1,100. That was cheap for a boy. He lived in a brick house in town and had two-three slaves 'sides me. I run errands and kept the yard clean, things a little boy could do. They didn't have no school for slaves and I never learned to read and write till after freedom. After I was sold, they let me go visit my mother once a year, on Sunday morning, and took me back at night. The masters couldn't whip the slaves there. The law said in black and white no master couldn't whip no slave, no matter what he done. When a slave got bad they took him to the county seat and had him whipped. One day I seen my old daddy get whipped by the county and state 'cause he wouldn't work. They had a post in the public square what they tied 'em to and a man what worked for the county whipped 'em. After he was whipped my daddy run away to the north. Daddy come by when I was cleanin' the yard and said, 'Pierce, go 'round side the house, where nobody can't see us.' I went and he told me goodbye, 'cause he was goin' to run away in a few days. He had to stay in the woods and travel at night and eat what he could find, berries and roots and things. They never caught him and after he crossed the Mason-Dixon line he was safe. There used to be a man who raised bloodhounds to hunt slaves with. I seen the dogs on the trail a whole day and still not catch 'em.

Sometimes the slave made friends with the dogs and they wouldn't lot on if they found him. Three dogs followed one slave the whole way up north and he sold them up there. I heered 'em talk about some slaves what run barefooted in cold weather and you could trail 'em by blood in the snow and ice where they hurt their feet. Most of the time the master gave us castor oil when we were sick. Some old folks went in the woods for herbs and made medicine. They made tea out of 'lion's tongue' for the stomach and snake root is good for pains in the stomach, too. Horse mint breaks the fever. They had a vermifuge weed. I seed a lot of Southern soldiers and they'd go to the big house for something to eat. Late in '63 they had a fight at a place called Kingston, only 12 miles from our place, takin' how the jacks go. We could hear the guns go off when they was fightin'. The Yankees beat and settled down there and the cullud folks flocked down on them and when they got to the Yankee lines they was safe. They went in droves of 25 or 50 to the Yankees and they put 'em to work fight in' for freedom. They fit till the war was over and a lot of 'em got kilt. My mother and sister run sway to the Yankees and they paid 'em big money to wash for 'em. When peace come they read the 'mancipation law to the cullud people and they stayed up half the night at Mr. Harper's, singing and shouting. They spent that night singin' and shoutin'. They wasn't slaves no more. The master had to give 'em a half or third of what he made. Our master, parceled out some land to 'em and told 'em to work it their selves and some done real well. They got hosses that the soldiers had turned loose to die, and fed them and took good care of 'em and they got good stock that way. Cotton was twenty and thirty cents a pound then. After us cullud folks was 'sidered free and turned loose, the Klu Klux broke out. Some cullud people started to farmin'. like I told you, and gathered the old stock. If they got so they made good money, and had a good farm, the Klu Klux would come and murder 'em. The gov'ment builded school houses and the Klu Klux went to work and burned 'em down. They'd go to the jails and take the cullud men out and knock their brains out and break their necks and throw 'em in the river. There was a cullud man they taken, his name was Jim Freeman . They taken him and destroyed his stuff and him, 'cause he was making some money. Hung him on a tree in his front yard, right in front of his cabin. There was some cullud young men went to the schools they'd opened by the gov'ment. Some white woman said someone had stole something of hers so they put them young men in jail. The Klu Klux went to the jail and took 'em out and killed 'em. That happened the second year after the war. After the Klu Kluxes got so strong the cullud men got together and made the complaint before the law. The Gov'nor told the law to give 'em the old guns in the com'sary, what the Southern soldiers had used, so they issued the cullud men old muskets and said protect themselves. They got together and organized the militia and had leaders like reg'lar soldiers. They didn't meet 'cept when they heered the Klu Kluxes was coming to get some cullud folks. Then they was ready for 'em. They'd hide in the cabins and then's when they found out who a lot of them Klu Kluxes was, 'cause a lot of 'em was kilt. They wore long sheets and covered the hosses with sheets so you couldn' rec'nize 'em. Men you thought was your friend was Klu Kluxes and you'd deal with 'em in stores in the daytime and at night they'd come out to your house and kill you. I never took part in none of the fights, but I heered the others talk 'bout them, but not where them Klu Klux could hear 'em. One time they had 12 men in jail, 'cused of robbin' white folks. All was white in jail but one, and he was cullud. The Klu Kluxes went to the jailor's house and got the jail key and got them men out and carried 'em to the River Bridge, in the middle. Then they knocked their brains out and threw 'em in the river. We was 'fraid of them Klu Kluxes and come to town, to Snow Hill. We rented a little house and my mother took in washing and ironing. I went to school and learned to read and write, then worked on farms, and fin'ly went to Columbia, in South Carolina, and worked in the turbentine country. I stayed there a while and got married. I come to Texas in 1877 and Galveston was a little pen then, a little mess. I worked for some white people and then went to Houston and it wasn't nothing but a mudhole. So I messed 'round in South Carolina again a while and then come back to Galveston. The Lawd called me then and I answered and I answered and was preacher here at the Union Baptist Church, on 11th and K, about 25 years. I knowed Wright Cuney well and he held the biggest place a cullud man over helt in Galveston. He was congressman and the white people looked up to him just like he was white. Durin' the Spanish-American War I went to Washington, D.C., to see my sister and got in the soldier business. The gov'ment give me $30.00 a month for drivin' a four-mule wagon for the army. I druv all through Pennsylvania and Virginia and South Carolina for the gov'ment. I was a what do they call a laborer in the army? When war was over I come back here and now I'm too old to work and the state gives me a pension and me and my granddaughter live on that. The young folks is makin' their mark now. One thing about 'em, they get educated, but there's not much for them to do when they get finished with school but walk the streets now. I been always trying to help my people to rise 'bove their station and they are rising all the time, and some day they'll be free.

Pierce Harper of 1224 Ave. L (rear) was born on the Subbs' plantation near Snow Hill, North Carolina, in 1851. He was sold when eight years old for $1100 to the Harper family who lived in the town of Snow Hill where he worked as a field hand. After the War he farmed a small section of land with his family and there witnessed many raids by the Klu Klux Klan. He attended one of the schools that had been built for negro pupils and learned to read and write. He is very interested in his race's fight for equality.

When you ask me was I Pierce Harper you kind of s'prised me. I reckoned everybody know ol' Pierce Harper . Sister Johnson said to me outside of services last Sunday night, 'Brother Harper , you is de beatinest man I ever seen. You know everybody an' everybody know you.' An' I said, 'Sister Johnson , 'Dat's 'cause I keep faith wit' de Lord. I love de Lord an' my neighbors an' de Lord an' my neighbors love me.' Dat's what my ol' mother tol' me 'way back in slavery before I was ever sold. But here I is talking 'bout myself when you wan' to hear me talk 'bout slavery. Let's see now. I was born 'way back in 1851 in North Car'lina. De plantation I was born on, Mr. Subbs' plantation, was close to Snow Hill, which was de county seat. My Daddy was a field hand. My mother worked in de fields, too, right 'longside my Daddy so she could keep him lined up. De marster sometimes said that Calisy , dat's my mother, was de best field hand he had, an' Calvin , dat's my Daddy, was de laziest. My mother had to keep right after him to make him work. If she didn't keep him lined up like dat he would've got whipped more'n he did. My mother use to say he was chilesome. Den when I was eight yea's old dey sold me. De market place was in Snow Hill on de public square near de jailhouse. It was jus' a little stand built out in de open with no top on it dat de slaves stood on to get sold while de white folks auction 'em off.

I was too little to get on de stand so dey had to hold me up. Mr. Harper bought me for eleven hundred dollars. Dat was cheap for a boy. Mr. Harper live in a brick house in de town. Dere was two-three more slaves 'sides me. I run errands an' kept de yard clean, things dat a little boy could do. Dey didn't have no schools den for de slaves. I never learned how to read an' write 'til after freedom. We went to de white folks church, but we had to sit in de back. After I was sold dey let me go see my mother once a year. Dey took me dere in de morning, which was Sunday, an' took me back at night. Dey didn't let de marster whip de slaves. De law says in black an' white dat no marster couldn't whip no slave no matter what he done. So when dey got so bad dey wouldn't work, dey took 'em to de county seat an' had 'em whipped. One day while I was going some place for Mr. Harper , I seen my ol' Daddy get whipped by de county an' de state 'cause he wouldn't work. Dey had a post in de public square what dey tied 'em to. Den a man what worked for de county an' state whip 'em. De number of licks he give 'em depend on what dey done. If dey got entangled wit' somebody else's property dat dey had no business wit', dey got whipped bad. An' if dey run 'way dey whipped bad.  Den after dey whipped him my Daddy run way to de North. Mr. Subbs sent him to town for something a couple days before he run way an' I was cleanin' up Mr. Harper's front yard an' my Daddy come by an' tol' me, 'Pierce , go 'round de side of de house where nobody can see us.' I wen' dere an' he say he want to tell me goodbye 'cause he was going to run 'way in a few days an' go to de North, but not to tell nobody. A couple days after dat he run 'way. He had to stay in de woods an' hide out in de day time an' travel at night to keep anybody from seeing him. He jus' eat what he could find, berries, an' roots an' things. Dey never catched him. After he crossed de Mason-Dixon Line he was safe. White folks up North took care of him.  Dere use to be a man who raise bloodhounds jus' to hunt de slaves down wit'. When a slave run 'way de marster'd send for de dog man an' him an' de marster an' de dogs would trail him. I seen de dogs on de trail for a whole day an' still never catch 'em. Some times de slave made friends wit' de dogs an' dey wouldn't let on dey had found him. Once or twice de dogs followed de slaves an' wouldn't come back to de dog man. Dere was three of dem one time dat followed one of de slaves de whole way to de North. He sold dem to some white folks up dere. I hear 'em talk 'bout some of de slaves dat run way barefooted in cold weather an' you could trail 'em by de blood on de snow an' ice where dey hurt dere feet.

In slavery time de marster issued de medicine. He give you what he think you need. Most of de time he give you castor oil. If it was something bad, like small pox, he sent for de doctor. De doctor show him how to treat one case, den he could treat de next one. Some of de ol' people use to go in de woods an' get herbs an' make dere own medicine. Dey use to make a tea out of 'lion's tongue' for de stomach. Snake root is good for pains in de stomach, too. Horse mint breaks de fever. Dey had a vermifuge weed dat was a natural vermifuge. Dey call it vermifuge weed, I think. Dat's all I 'member it by. It acts de same as caster oil. When de War first start de marster sent me way from de town to de country to his plantation. He had a big place a couple of miles from town. De big house dere was littler dan de one in town an' it wasn't so nice. I went to work in de fields, picking cotton an' helping 'em plant an' things like dat. I seen a lot of Southern soldiers. Dey use to pass when we was working in de fields an' go to de big house for stuff to eat. I never thought much of 'em. I don't think much of no man what would fight to keep other men in bondage. Dat's against de Lord's will. Bout de later part of '63 dey had a fight at a place called Kingston, which was only twelve miles from our place, taking how de jacks go. We could hear de guns go off when dey was fighting. De Yankees beat an' settled down dere, an' made de place dere headquarters. Den de colored people flocked down on dem Yankees like dey was going to church. When dey got to de Yankee lines dey was safe an' free. When de Yankees was dere de slaves use to run 'way by droves, twenty-five or fifty in one gang, to 'em. De Yankees put 'em to work fighting for freedom. Dey made soldiers out of 'em. They fit 'til de War was over an' a lot of 'em got killed. My mother an' sister run way to de Yankees. De Yankees paid 'em big money to wash for 'em. We never seen many Yankees where I was. Sometimes dey pass by, an' we see 'em but we don't have no dealings wit' 'em. When peace was declared de people dat was in charge of de law read Abraham Lincoln's 'mancipation to de colored people. Dey read it to all de colored people who went to town an' had men go 'round an' read it to de ones dat didn't get to town. When de colored folks got back to de plantation dey had a big to do over it. I can 'member how dey stayed up half de night at Mr. Harpers's after de men had read de 'mancipation to us, singing an' shouting. Dat was all dey did, jus' sing an' shout an' go on. I can 'member one of de songs dey sang 'bout dat time. It went something like dis: Come thee to love de Lord, Let your jaws be known, 'Cause we're free at last! Thank God Almighty, We're free at last!' Dat's 'bout de only song I can 'member. I never did know many of de others. When freedom was declared, de men who read de 'mancipation told de colored men who was home an' on de place to stay dere. Dey wasn't slaves no more. Dere marster had to give 'em one-half or one-third of everything dey made. So de marster parceled out some land to 'em an' told 'em to work it theirselves an' dey would divide. Some of de colored folks done real well, dey had horses an' raise cotton. How dey got de horses, dey was ol' horses dat de soldiers had turn loose to die. De colored men would take 'em an' feed 'em an' take care of 'em 'til dey could work, an' dey got good stock dat way. Cotton was twenty, twenty-five, thirty cents a pound den. You raise a little cotton an' you had something. After de colored people was considered free an' turned loose de Klu Klux broke out. Some of de colored people commenced to farming like I tol' you an' all de ol' stock dey could pick up after de Yankees left dey took an' took care of. If you got so you made good money an' had a good farm de Klu Klux'd come an' murder you. De gov'ment built de colored people school houses an' de Klu Klux went to work an' burn 'em down. Dey'd go to de jails an' take de colored men out an' knock dere brains out an' break dere necks an' throw 'em in de river. Dere was a man dat dey taken, his name was Jim Freeman . Dey taken him an' destroyed his stuff an' him 'cause he was making some money. Hung him on a tree in his front yard, right in front of his cabin. Dere was some young men who went to de schools de gov'ment opened for de colored folks. Some white widder woman said someone had stole something she own', so dey put these young fellers in jail 'cause dey suspicioned 'em. De Klu Kluxes went to de jail an' took 'em out an' kill 'em. Dat happen de second year after de war. After de Klu Kluxes got so strong de colored men got together an' made a complaint before de law. De Gov'nor told de law to give 'em de ol' guns in de commissary what de Southern soldiers had use, so dey issued de colored men old muskets an' told 'em to protect theirselves. De colored men got together an' organized the 'Malicy (Militia). Dey had leaders like regular soldiers, men dat led 'em right on. Dey didn't meet 'cept when dey heard de Klu Kluxes was coming to get some of de colored folks. Den de one who knowed dat tol' de leader an' he went 'round an' told de others when an' where dey's meet. Den dey was ready for 'em. Dey'd hide in de cabins an' when de Klu Kluxes come dere dey was. Den's when dey found out who a lot of de Klu Kluxes was, 'cause a lot of 'em was killed. Dey wore dem long sheets an' you couldn't tell who dey was. Dey even covered dere horses up so you couldn't tell who dey belong to. Men you thought was your friend was Klu Kluxes. You deal wit' 'em in de stores in de day time an' at night dey come out to your house an' kill you. I never took part in none of de fights, but I hear de others talk 'bout dem. Dey didn't talk 'bout dem much though, so de Klu Klux'd take after 'em. One time dey had twelve men in jail, 'cused of robbing some white folks. All dese men was white, 'cept one an' he was colored man. De Klu Kluxes wen' to de jailor's house dat night an' got de key to de jail. Den dey wen' to de jail an' got 'em an' carried 'em to de River Bridge, out in de middle of de bridge. Den dey knocked dere brains out an' threw 'em in de river. After dat de Klu Kluxes kind of died down. De people got tired of 'em an' wouldn't put up wit' 'em no more. After we got turned loose, we stayed out in de country an' tried to grow some cotton for a while, but we was 'fraid of de Klu Kluxes so we come to town. Dat was Snow Hill. We rented a little house an' my mother took in washing an ironing. De soldiers was dere in camp 'til orders come to muss (muster) out. I went to school an' learned how to read an' write. Den I worked on de farms an' fo' de white folks, taking care of dere gardens 'til I got grown. Den when I got bigger I went to Columbia, South Car'lina, an' worked in de turbentine country where dey make de turbentine. I stayed dere an' got married way back yonder. I come to Texas in 1877, an' come on here to Galveston. Galveston was a little pen den, nothing but a little mess. All out here in de east end was palms an' lakes. We killed birds an' ducks all out dere where de hospital is now. De cedars was all grown up by de beach 'til you couldn't see de beach for de cedars. Dere wasn't many people here den. I worked for some white folks taking care of dere gardens. Den I wen' to Houston. Houston wasn't nothing but a mud hole. I didn't like de way it look, so I messed 'round South Car'lina again for a while in de turbentine country an' den come back here to Galveston. De Lord called me den an' I answered. I was a preacher here at de Union Baptist Church, de big one on 11th and K, 'bout twenty-five years. I knowed Wright Cuney well. He held de biggest place a colored man ever held in Galveston. He was a congressman. De white people looked up to him jus' like he was white. Every time dey had something 'bout him in de newspaper I cut it out an' save it. An' every time dey put something in de paper 'bout a colored man doing good, I save dat, too. During de Spanish-American War I went to Washington, D. C., to see my sister an' got in de soldier business. De gov'ment give me thirty dollars a month for driving a four-mule wagon for de Army. I drove all through Pennsylvania, Virginia, South Car'lina, all through de different states for de gov'ment. I was a  what do dey call a laborer in de Army? Dey have a name for it, but I don't know what it is now. When de War was over, I come back here an' wen' to work on de wharf, a longshoreman, you know. Den I got too old to do dat kind of work, an' I work for de white folks, taking care of dere garden. Now de state give me a pension an' me an' my granddaughter live on dat. De young folks is making dere mark now. One thing 'bout 'em is dat now dey get educated, but dere's nothing for 'em to do when dey get finished school but walk de streets. I been always trying to help my people to rise 'bove dere station. Dey are rising all de time an' some day dey'll be free.