THE DAY THE YANKEES COME

When I was a child in the early thirties, my father would regularly drive my mother, sister and me thirteen miles into the country to Eucheeanna to visit our ancestral Presbyterian Church (founded in 1828), its graveyard of Scottish settlers and to see the childhod home of his mother. The Euchee Valley, original home of the Euchee Indians with whom the Scots shared the land and lived in peace for decades, is located in Northwest Florida in that portion of the state which is directly south of Alabama and southwest of Georgia.

The old house had been vacant for nearly ten years when I first saw it. All the furnishings had been divided among the heirs, except for those in the parlor. The parlor remained exactly as it had been when as a child my father visited his grandmother. My great aunt Julia, the youngest and only surviving descendant of the house's owner, was for years unwilling to sell the place. It was also because of Aunt Julia that the parlor remained intact.

We approached this large, two-story, frame house with awe, as my father began to tell us stories of its history. The barely. visible remnants of fading white paint revealed that the life the house had once known was gone.

The center of the house was a wide, open downstairs hallway, perhaps twelve feet across, which ran the full length of the house. On one side of the hall was the parlor. Two pieces of furniture dominated the room: a beautiful Square rosewood piano, and, in the center of the room, a marble topped table with the family Bible. Tables and chairs were arranged as if waiting for people to engage in conversation or listen to music.

Behind the parlor was a bedroom, which my father told us was always kept ready for the visiting Presbyterian minister. When we viewed the room it was used as a store room. There, for the first time, I saw spinning Wheels, | small footstools, old lamps and other outmoded items.

On the other side of the downstairs hall were two bedrooms and behind those the dining room and a section of the kitchen, where a large wooden stove was used in more recent times. The main kitchen, where foog was originally prepared, was just behind this and separated from the house Its most amazing feature to us children was a huge, deep open fireplace with q few large remaining skillets, pans and heavy tools for cooking and for managing the fire.

On the second floor of the house were four additional bedrooms. As we climbed the stairs, I could imagine all the times my grandmother, her brothers and sisters, and then their children had run up those stairs.

Behind the house, one could see foundations of the small houses once occupied by the domestic and farm workers, originally brought in as slaves. My great grandfather, Giles Bowers, had changed their status before the Emancipation Proclamation. However, most African-Americans remained right there until separated and scattered by the Civil War.

My father showed us the remnants of the house in which Ellen had been born to slave parents. We knew Ellen, who now lived in De Funiak Springs with Aunt Julia, and was a much loved part of the family. We regularly visited Aunt Julia and Ellen, who lived to her ninety-fifth year.

From Ellen, my father, his brothers and sisters and later I in my youth heard stories of the early days. I heard the stories both from Ellen and then repeated by Aunt Bern, my father's sister.

Ellen's most dramatic story was "The Day the Yankees Come". Sitting by a bedroom fireplace this frail-
looking, very old woman with very black skin would begin the story staring straight into the fire. Her voice, quiet but strong, became animated as she relived the events. Her speech was that of many 1860s African-Americans in the South. And, like some other ethnic groups transplanted and separated from their native languages, the letter "a was used instead of “th” at the beginning of a word. When Ellen paused fort emphasis or recall, she'd pull deeply on the small pipe which she smoked. 

“Well, let's see," she began. “You chillun don’ know nuthin’ 'bout dem days when the Yankees come. Ump, ump, ump," she said, shaking her head, her face showing the distress. “Honey, dat was a hard time.”

Looking up, she clarified. "This story ‘bout yore great granpa and granma, but I calls ‘em Granpa and Granma same as I did for yore Daddy and Aunt Bernice. Now here's de way it was."

"One mawnin’ my mammy say a man come on a horse hollerin' dat de Yankees was comin’. He don' stop. He jus' keep goin’ and hollerin’. Everybody scared nigh to death. Yore granpa say he don’ know what's gon’ happen."

"Granma quick as can be she ran and got de meal, just back from de mill, and sewed it up in an ol' mattress she figured no Yankee gon want. Den, she took de good dishes and sunk ‘em right down in de buckets we use to feed de pigs. She gave a handful of silver spoons to my mammy to quicklike hide in her house. Dat was all dey had time for. In no time a’'tall here come de Yankees."

"Fore you know it dey's all over de place. One big man, a cap'n or gen‘ul, he walk about talkin’ loud and big. He say dey gon' take over dis place. Den, he tell dem men what was with him to go to the fields and gather everything. Get all de cattle, and sheep and pigs and chickens. Don't leave nuthin’. Den, he say to other men to take Granpa and put him in de jail with de other white folks men who was left to take care of de women and chillun. All dem Yankees work fast, honey, and dey make our kind help ‘em."

“One mawnin', dey ups and gits ready to leave. Dey bring Granpa from de jail and say dey gon’ take him off to jail far away. My mammy say everybody begin to cry. Dey don’ want Granpa to leave us. Lord, ‘a mercy, honey, dem Yankees say to all our kind, 'Hitch up dem horses and de wagons and de buggies and git yoselfs ready. Y'alls gonna go north too."

“De Yankees took everything cep'n scraps, but dey never find de meal Or dishes or silver spoons what Granma and my mammy hid. Dey took all Our kind cep'n de ones what was sickly an’ ailin'. My mammy not well, so dey leaves me and my mammy an’ de udder chillun."

While Ellen paused to look into the fire, remembering this troubling time, we waited quietly. Finally, I broke the spell. "Ellen, Aunt Bern told us her grandmother, Granma, was very brave and didn't cry. She just walked up to the man in charge and asked him to please leave one horse so she could work the fields to provide food for the children."

“Dat's right. She did, but dat man don’ pay her no mind. He jes’ say bossy-like to dem mens, 'Do as I say, git goin’.’ But another man what was standin’ close by, he say quiet-like to de man holdin’ ol’ Vixen, ‘Tie dat hoss to dat post and leave her.’ Pore ol’ Vixen ‘bout ready to die anyway, but Granma glad to have her."

"Oh, honey, Granma she work and work so hard. How she manage nobody never knows. She took ol’ Vixen and de half grown chillun and she plow and hoe and work from dawn till late sundown. She allus the last to leave de field and den she help my mammy fix for us to eat. None of y‘all can know what we all went through."

Ellen again lapsed into silence, staring into the fire. My sister spoke up and asked, “Tell us about what happened when the War ended.”

"Well, one day we hear dat ol' war was over. We knowed our folks not all gon’ come back. Dey never could,” Ellen added sadly and I wondered if she was thinking of her own father. She sighed and con mued, “But Granpa he come back from dat ol' jail up North. I don know how he done it, but he did.”

"Ellen, didn't one of the men from Eucheeanna die in prison?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, honey, old Mr. Mac wut lived over the hill. Granpa say Mr. Mac died right dere beside him in dat jail, grievin' for his folks he had to leave here. I ‘spect too dey never had enuff to eat cause Granpa looked mighty thin.”

"Then what happened?" my sister asked.

“Well, Granpa and Granma went on workin’. Dey never rest. Dey work from ‘fore day 'til no light left. Course, you know, dem crops never come up like before. Nothin’ was like before, but dey manage."

“Pretty soon, dey send yore Aunt Lally off to school in Georgia. Lally say she gon’ be a teacher and teach all us, white chillun and us, to read. And shore ‘nuff, she did. Least she tried. Some of our kind jus' don’ pay her no mind, but Lally, she don let any of de young ‘uns in de Valley quit. She say dey can read and she gon’ make sure dey do.”

Looking to us to emphasize the point, Ellen said, "Y'all remember, yor Aunt Lally was somethin’,

After a pause, Ellen went on with her story. "When my mammy died, Granma puts me to sleep in a room right next to hers, an' I been close by ever since. Now it's yore Aunt Julia I tries to look after, but," Ellen stopped to laugh a small, cackling sound, "I guess you could say since Julia's young’n me she's takin’ care of me. You see, I was dere, ‘bout eight or nine years old when de Yankees come, but Julia weren't even born yet."

Turning to us, she said, "Bout time y'all went home. I hear yore daddy sayin’ 'Good-night' to Julia and fixin' to leave."

“Yes, ma'am," I said as I reluctantly got up. "“Good-night, Ellen.”

"Good-night, chile. Don’ forget to say yore prayers.”

"Yes'm, we will," my sister and I promised in unison.

Ellen had once again told the story to yet another generation of children. To her the events were as vivid as if they'd just oc urred. To the listeners it would never be forgotten.