Henri Necaise
 Biographies, Harrison County, MS Contributed by Ann
Allen Geoghegan anniegms@gmail.com
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** Henri Necaise – Slave Narrative Interviewer’s note: Henri Necaise,
ex-slave, 105 years old, lives a half-mile south of Nicholson on US
11. Uncle Henri lives in a small plank cabin enclosed by a fence. He
owns his cabin and a small piece of land. He is about five feet ten
inches tall and weighs 120 pounds. His sight and hearing are very
good. 

"I was born in Harrison County, 19 miles from Pass Christian, 'long de
ridge road from de swamp near Wolf River. My Marster was Ursan
Ladnier. De Mistis' name was Popone. Us was all French, My father was
a white man, Anatole Necaise. I knowed he was my father, 'cause he
used to call me to him an' toll me I was his oldes' son. 

"I never knowed my mother. I was a slave an' my mother was sol' from
me an' her other chilluns. Dey tol' me when day sol' 'er my sister was
a-holdin' me in her arms. She was standin' behin' de Big House peckin'
'roun' de corner an' seen de las' o' her mother. I seen her go, too.
Dey tell me I used to go to de gate a-huntin' for my mammy. I used to
sleep wid my sister after dat. 

"Jus' lemme study a little, an' I'll tell you 'bout de Big House. It
was 'bout 60 feet long, built o' hewed logs, in two parts. De floors
was made o' clay dey didn' have lumber for floors den. Us lived right
close to de Big House in a cabin. To tell de truf, de fac' o' de
business is, my Marster took care o' me better'n I can take care o'
myse'f now. 

"When us was slaves Marster tell us what to do. He say, 'Henri, do
dis, do dat.' An' us done it. Den us didn' have to think whar de nex'
meal comin' from, or de nex' pair o' a hose or pants. De grub an'
clo'es give us was better'n I ever gits now. 

"Lemme think an' count. My Marster didn' have a lot o' slaves. Dere
was one, two, three, fo', yes'm, jus' fo' o' us slaves. I was do
stockholder. I tended de sheep an' cows an' such lak. My Marster didn'
raise no big crops, jus' corn an' garden stuff. He had a heap o'
cattle. Dey could run out in de big woods den, an' so could de sheeps.
He sol' cattle to N'awlins an' Mobile, where he could git de bes'
price. Dat's de way folks does now, mint it! Dey sells wherever dey
can git de mos' money. 

"Dey didn' give me money, but, you see, I was a slave. Dey sho' give
me ever'thing else I need, clo'es an' shoes. I always had a-plenty
t'eat, better'n I can git now. I was better off when I was a slave dan
I is now, 'cause I had ever'thing furnished me den. Now. I got to do
it all myse'f. 

"My Marster was a Catholic. One thing I can thank dem godly white
folks for, dey raise' me right. Dey taught me out o' God's word, 'Our
Father which art in Heaven.' Ever'body ought-a know dat prayer." 

(Note. In this Wolf River territory in Harrison County, where Uncle
Henri was born and raised, all the settlers were French Catholics, and
it was the scene of early Catholic missions.) 

"I was rais' a Catholic, but when I come here twant no church an' I
joined de Baptis' an' was baptised. Now de white folks lemme go to dey
church. Dey aint no cullud church near 'nough so's I can go. I spec'
its all right. I figgers dat God is ever'- where. 

"My Mistis knowed how to read an' write. I don' know 'bout de Marster.
He could keep sto' anyway. Us all spoke French in dem days. I near
'bout forgit all de songs us used to sing. Day was all in French
anyway, an' when you don' speak no French for 'bout 60 years, you jus'
forgit it. 

"I'se knowed slaves to run away, an' I'se seen 'em whupped. I seen
good marsters an' mean ones. Dey was good slaves an' mean ones. But to
tell de truf, if dey tol' a slave to do anything, den he jus' better
de it. 

"I was big 'nough in de Civil War to drive five yoke o' steers to
Mobile an' git grub to feed de wimmins an' chilluns. Some o' de mans
was a-fightin' an' some was a-runnin' an' hidin'. I was a slave an' I
had to do what dey tol' me. I carried grub into de swamp to men, but I
never knowed what dey was a-hidin' from." 

(This may be explained by the fast that Uncle Henri was owned by and
lived in a settlement of French People. Many of whom probably had no
convictions or feeling of loyalty, one way or the other, during the
War Between the States.) 

"My old Marster had fo' sons, an' de younges' one went to de war an'
was killed. 

"De Yankees come to Pass Christian, I was dere, an' seen 'em. Dey come
up de river an' tore up things as dey went along. 

"I was 31 years old when I was set free. My Marster didn' tell us
'bout bein' free. De way I foun' it out, he started to whup me once
an' de young Marster up an' says, 'You aint got no right to whup him
now, he's free.' Den Marster turnt me loose. 

"It was dem Carpetbaggers dat 'stroyed de country. Dey went an' turned
us loose, jas' lak a passel o' cattle, an' didn' show us nothin' or
giv' us nothin'. Dey was acres an' acres o' lan' not in use, an' lots
o' timber in de country. Dey should-a give each one o' us a little
farm an' let us git out timber an' build houses. Dey ought to put a
white Marster over us, to show us an' make us work, only let us be
free 'stead o' slaves. I think dat would-a been better'n turnin' us
loose lak dey done. 

"I lef' my Marster an' went over to de Jordan River, an' dere I stayed
an' worked. I saved my money an' dat giv' me a start. I never touched
it 'til de year was winded up. To tell do truf, de fac's o' de matter
is, it was my Marsters kinfolks I was workin' for! 

"I bought me a schooner wid dat money an' carried charcoal to
N'awlins. I done dis for 'bout two years an' den I los' my schooner in
a storm off o' Bay St. Louis. 

"After I los' my schooner, I come here an' got married. Dis was in
1875 an' I was 43 years old. Dat was my firs' time to marry. I'se got
dat same wife today. She was born a slave, too. I didn' have no
chillun, but my wife did. She had one gal-chil'. She lives at Westonia
an' is de mammy o' ten chillun. She done better'n us done. I'se got a
lot o' gran'-chillun. What does you call de nex' dent Lemme see, great
gran'-chillun, dat's it. 

"I never did b'lieve in no ghos' an' hoodoos an' charms. 

"I never did look for to git nothin' after I was free. I had dat in my
head to git me 80 acres o' lan' an' homestead it. As for de gov'ment
making me a present o' anything, I never thought 'bout it. But jus'
now I needs it. 

"I did git me dis little farm, 40 acres, but I bought it an' paid for
it myse'f. I got de money by workin' for it. When I come to dis
country I dug wells an' built chimneys an' houses. (Once I dug a well
27 feet an' come to a coal bed. I went through de coal an' foun'
water. Dat was on de Jordon River.) Dat clay chimney an' dis here
house has been built 52 years. I's still lives' in 'em. Dey's mine.
One acre, I giv' to de Lawd for a graveyard an' a churchhouse. I wants
to be buried dere myse'f. 

"A white lady paid my taxes dis year. I raises a garden an' gits de
Old Age 'Sistance. It aint 'nough to buy grub an' clo'es for me an' de
old woman an' pay taxes, so us jus' has to git 'long de bes' us can
wid de white folks he'p. 

"It aint none o' my business 'bout whether de Niggers is better off
free dan slaves. I dont know 'cept 'bout me, I was better off den. I
did earn money after I was free, but after all, you know money is de
root o' all evil. Dat what de Good Book say. When I was a slave I only
had to obey my Marster an' he furnish me ever'thing. Once in a while
he would whup me, but what was dat? You can't raise nary chile, white
or black, widout chastisin'. De law didn' low dem to dominize over us,
an' dey didn' try. 

"I's gittin' mighty old now, but I used to be pretty spry. I used to
go 60 miles out on de Gulf o' Mexico, as 'terpreter on dem big ships
dat come from France. Dat was 'fore I done forgot my French talk what
I was raised to speak. 

"De white folks is mighty good to me. De riches' man in Picayune, he
recognizes me an' gives me two bits or fo' bits. I sho' has plenty o'
good frien's. If I gits out o' grub, I catches me a ride to town, an'
I comes back wid de grub. 

"De good Lawd, he don't forgit me." 

(Mississippi Federal Writers, Slave Autobiographies) 

Necaise, Henri -- Additional Interview 

Henri Necaise lives about 1/2 mi. south of Nicholson, Miss. on U. S.
11. Turn east just north of the Phillips Filling Station, on country
road, go about one fourth mile. Uncle Henry, as he is called, lives in
small plank cabin, enclosed with fence. Owns cabin and small piece of
land. He is about 5 ft, 10 in. tall, weighs 120, is chocolate in color
with gray beard and hair. His sight and hearing are very good,
considering his age. He speaks distinctly, and at will can drop the
dialect and speak very good English. His age is well authenicated by
the things he can remember, also by the fact that an aged citizen of
Picayune died recently at the age of 92, who has known the old darky
all his life. He stated that Henry Necaise was grown up from his
earliest remembrance. 

I was born in Harrison county, 19 miles from Pass Christian, 'long the
ridge road from the swamp near Wolf River. My marster was Ursan
Ladnier - the mistis' name was Popone. We was all French. My father
was a white man, Notley (Anatole) Necaise. I knowed he was my father,
'cause he used to call me to him and tell me I was his oldes' son. 

I never knowed my mother. I was a slave and my mother was sold from me
an' her other chilluns. Dey tole me when dey sold my mother, my sister
was a holdin' me in her arms. She was standing behin' the Big House,
an' peeked aroun' the corner, an' seen the las' of her mother. I seen
her go to, an' dey tell me I used to go to de gate, a huntin' for my
mammy, an' dat I got many a whuppin for it. I used to sleep with my
sister atter dat. 

Jes' lemme study a little, an' I'll tell you about the Big House. It
was about 60 feet long, built of hewed logs, in two parts. The floors
was made of clay, dey didn' have lumber for floors den. We lived right
close to the Big House in a cabin. To tell the truf, the fac' of the
business is, my Boss took care o' me, bettern I can take care of
myself now. 

I was 31 years old when I was sot free. I was big enough in the Civil
War to drive 5 yoke of steers to Mobile an' get grub to feed the
womens and chilluns dat was fightin'. 

You mean their men were fighting? 

(Here he laughed loudly.) You make me laugh - some was a fightin' an'
some was a runnin' an' hidin'. I was a slave an' I had to do what dey
tell me. I carried grub into the swamp there to men an' I never knowed
what dey was hidin' from. (This may be explained by the fact that
Uncle Henry was owned and lived in a settlement of French people, many
of whom probably had no convictions or feeling of loyalty, one way or
the other, during the War between the States.) 

My ole marster had four sons, and the youngest one jined the War an'
was killed. 

The Yankees come to Pass Christian, I was dere, an' seen em. You says
you ain' heered no one else tell about dem yankees at Pass Christian?
Well, I can tell you how dat was, I knows dey was dere, because I was
dere myself when dey come, but all the white folks was run off, dat's
de reason none of 'em remembered it. De Yankees come up Pearl River
(he must have meant Wolf), an' tore up things as dey went along. 

No - no - no lemme think an' count, my marster didn' have a lot of
cullud pussons. Dere was me - 1, 2, 3, 4, jes' fo' of us slaves. I was
the stockholder. I 'tended the sheep an' cows an' sich like. My
marster didn' raise no big crops, jes' cawn an' garden stuff. He had a
heap o' cattle, dey could run out in the big woods den, an' so could
sheeps. He sole cattle to N' Awlins (New Orleans) an' Mobile, where he
could get de bes' price, an' dat's de way folks does now ain' it? Dey
sells wherever dey can get de bes' money. 

Dey nebber did give me no money when I was a slave, er pay me for
anything I done. You see, I was a slave. But dey give me everything
else I need, close an' shoes, an' I allus had plenty to eat, better'n
I can git now. I was better off when I was a slave den I is now, cause
I had everything furnished me dere, an now I got to do it all mysel'. 

My marster never did tell us we was free. The way I foun' it out - he
started to whup me once, an' the young marster up an' says, "Yo ain'
got no right to whup him now, he's as free as yo' is." Den he turned
me loose. I lef' him den an went over to de Jourdan River, an' dere I
stayed an' worked for one man for a year. Dat man paid me $50 a month.
Yes, ma'am he did, yo' see wages was big right atter de War. Dat giv'
me a start, an' I never touched it till de year was winded up. To tell
de truf, de fac's of de matter is, it was my kinfolks I was workin'
for - my father an' some of his kin togedder. 

I bought me a schooner wid dat money an' carried charcoal to N'Awlins.
I done dis for about two years, an' den I los' my schooner in a storn,
off'n Bay St. Louis. 

Atter I los' my schooner, I came here an' got married. Dis was in 1875
an' I was 43 years old. Dat was my first time to marry, an' I is got
dat same wife today - she was born a slave too. Did I ever have any
chillun? (This question was greeted by a great roar of laughter) No, I
didn' but my wife did. She had one chile, a gal. She lives at Westonia
an' is the mother of ten chillun. Yes, she did bettern we did, you has
to get de seed first an den get it in circulation. I has a lot of
gran' chillun, an' what does you call de nex' den? Great gran' chillun
- dat's it. 

Yes, my marster was a Catholic, ef yo' want me to tell de fac's of
dis, I was taught. "Upon dis rock, I will build my church, an' de
gates of hell shall not prevail against it." Dat's right ain' it? One
thing I can thank dose godly white people for, dey raised me right.
Dey taught me out of God's word, "Our Father which art in heaven" you
knows dat prayer. But to tell de truf, back in dem days, might few of
em went to church. 

(Note. In this Wolf River territory in Harrison county, where Uncle
Henry was born and raised, all the settlers were French Catholics, and
it was the scene of early Catholic missions, and about the 40's and
50's of little private schools taught in French in private homes,
mostly by men teachers from New Orleans.) 

Yes, I was raised a Catholic, but when I come here, dere was no
church, an' I culdn' go to Bay St. Louis to church, it was about 35
miles. So I jined de Baptis' an' was baptized, an' now I goes to de
white folks church, case dere ain' no cullud church near enough, so's
I can go. Its all right, don' you think - I figgers dat God is evry
whur. 

My mistis knew how to read an' write - I don' know about the Marster.
Dey could keep store anyway. We all spoke French in dem days. I have
might near forgot all de songs we used to sing. Dey was all in French
anyway, an' when you don' speak no French for about 60 years, you jes'
forget it. 

I have knowed slaves to run away, an' I have seen em whupped for it
too. I don' call my old marster good an' I don' call him mean, ef he
got a little too much whiskey in 'im den he was mean. De white mens
shore would fight among deirselves when dey was drinkin', an' to tell
de truf, ef dey tole a cullud pusson to do anything den, he jes'
better do it. 

I never did believe in no ghosts or hoodoos or charms. An' never did
look for anyone to giv me anything atter I was free. I had dat in my
head to get me 80 acres and homestead it, but as for the government
making me a present of anything, I never thought of it, but jes' now I
needs it. 

I don' know what yo' calls it but atter de War, I voted and sot on de
Jury. Dey was 12 white and 12 cullud pussons on it, an' some we tried
was white an' some was cullud. As for not votin' now, my color has
sold its own rights, I feels. 

I owns my home, an' until dis year, a white lady from de No'th paid my
taxes, but now she is gone back, an' I don' know what I will do about
my taxes. I raises a garden, an' gets the Ole Age 'Sistance but it
ain' enough to buy grub an' close for me an' de ole woman. 

As we drove up to Uncle Henri's house, we saw his old wife washing
outside, with a gunny sack tied around her waist for an apron. She
nodded to say that the old man was at home and as we got up to the
proch he came out of the house, hatless, this time, so we could see
his great mop of wavy white hair. 

Well, its a mighty bad time for you to come dis time for I is sick. I
wan' to get down to de lake to gets me some fish - you see ole folks
needs nourishment, an' we doan get 'nuf pension to get it. Its cawn
bread and black-eyed pease an' salt pork all de time, wid a little
coffee an' sometimes we doan' get dat. But de white folks is mighty
good to me. De riches' man dere (in Picayune) he recognize me an' give
me two bits or 4 bits. I sure has plenty good frien's an' efn I gets
outn grub, I ketches me a ride to town, an' I comes back wid de grub.
De good Lawd, he doan' forget me. 

You askes me where dey firs' held co't. I remembers well when dey
firs' held co't at Caesar, an' dat little place is dere yet. Den co't
was moved to ole Gainesville, an atter dat to Bay St. Louis. I set on
de jury at Gainesville an' I set on it at Bay St. Louis, you knows dat
was when we was firs' free, but dey never should a turned us out like
dey did, jes' like hogs an' cattle. When we was slaves our marster
tell us what to do - he say "Henri, do dis, an' "Henri do dat", an' we
done it. An' we doan' had to think where our next meal comin' from, or
our nex' shoes or pants. Our grub was giv' to us bettern' we ever gets
now, an' our close. Den dey went an' turned us loose, jes' like a
passel of cattle, an' didn' show us nothin' or giv' us nothin'. It was
dem Carpetbaggers dat 'stroyed de country. Dey was acres an' acres of
lan' not in use, an' lots of timber in dis country. Dey should a giv'
each one of us a little farm an' let us cut timber an' build houses
an' put a white marster over us, to show us an' make us work, only let
us be free 'stead of slaves. I think dat would been bettern turnin' us
loose like dey did to drift roun an' do nothin' like mos' of em done. 

Yes, I did get me dis little farm, 40 acres, but I didn' home stead
it, I bought it an' paid for it myself. Where did I get de money? why
I worked for it. Atter I los' my schooner, I come to dis country an'
dig wells, build chimneys an' houses. You knows dis country is built
up. Once I dug a well, 27 feet an' come to a coal bed, I went through
de coal an' foun' water. Dat was on de Jordan river. Look at dat
chimney (built of clay). Dat chimney an' dis house has been built 52
years, an' I is livin' in em yet. One acre I giv to de Lawd for a
graveyard an' a chu'ch house, in fac' I wants to be buried dere
myself. I tole mysel' dat I wanted to get a piece of lan' for my ole
age an' here I is, but I can't work no more. I has 19 rows of sweet
'taters an' you sees dat nice corn dere. Half of it is mine, I furnish
de lan' an' de fertilizer, an' watches de cows an' hogs offn it; de
fence is bad, and de other man done de work. It was preacher Calhoun
you knows him doan you? His father is - whar you calls dat place where
de ole sojers stays - Beauvoir - yes dat's it. I wants to go dere, I
cain't work no more an' dey tells me dat you gets a good room to stay
in, your grub an' close an' a little spendin' money for terbacker. My
gran' chillun could have dis place. I wouldn' need it no more, ifn I
gets to go dere. But Minnie, my wife, doan much want to go, sometimes,
I tell her she married de house 'stead of me. 

(Let me think, there are still two Negroes at Beauvoir --- the legend
read, "For Confederate soldiers, their wives, widows and servants". Is
Henri Necaise, 105 years old, whose young master, Lorence Ladnier was
killed in the war, eligible?) 

"When I go to Beauvoir next week, I will find out, Uncle Henri." 

What else I do? Well, I used to be a great cook an' cooked for - lemme
see ifn I cain't remember his name, anyway he used to run a steamboat
here wid de mail - den dey had to give bond and carry it as fur as 60
miles on horses an' mules, an' sometimes dey was robberies an' dey had
turrible co'ts about it. No, I never carried de mail myself, I cain't
read en write. 

I wishes you would take my wife offn - here she has set for more' a
year an' ain' put her foots offn dis place. - you cain't learn nothin'
settin' in a place like dis - you has to travel about an' sees thing
ifn you knows anything. 

Still folks is too wise now, specially chillun. Back in dem days dey
all used to wear slips alike, boys an' gals too, made of cloth like my
over alls I is got on. Efn a lady got a baby de chillun say, "Mammy
where you get dat baby?" An she says "I foun' it in a hollow log," or
mebbe "I foun' it in de canebrake." Den all de chillun runs out in de
woods, lookin in logs an' stumps an' behin' bushes, tryn to fin'
another baby. I jes' like to see you fool one of 'em now - it jes'
cain't be done, dey is too wise. 

De nigger do, I think have more sense dan de white man, for a white
man will steal from de nigger an' de nigger woan' steal from him. A
white man stole my bes' cypress tree, what was worth 'bout a hunderd
dollars. He cut it down, an' fixed his house an' fences with it. He
said he didn' know it was mine, but he knowed it wasn' hisn. 

It ain' none of my business now, whether de niggers is better off free
dan slaves. I don' know 'cept bout me, I wasn' better off. Yes, I did
earn money atter I was free, but atter all, you knows money is de root
of all evil, ain' dat what de good Book say? When I was a slave I only
had to obey my marster an' he furnish me everything. Once in a while
he would whup me, but what was dat - you cain't raise nary chile, I
doan' care what kin' dey is, white or black, widout chastisin'. De law
didn' low dem to dominize over us, an' dey didn' try. 

Oh, it is so hot, I'll sure be glad when dog days is over. What's dat
about dem endin de tenth of August dis year? Well lady, I was raised
to know dat dog days come in on de 25th of July and wen' out,
September de 6th. All de ole folks believes dat, I follows de ole
peoples. 

My wife Minnie was a slave too, but she doan' remember it, an' she
won' talk, she allus say, "Ask Henry". 

Minnie was called but would only say, - I was born in a swamp near
Gainesville. My marster was Mist' Roche, an my father was Jack Roche
an' my mammy Harriet Roche. Here is my age in de Bible, Mintora
Necaise, born March 11, 1861. 

Here Henri took up the story. 

I firs' met Minnie right out here in front of dis house. She was
visitin' her sister an' was out walkin' wid her mother. She had on a
green dress, an' two or three young mens was a followin' along behin'.
I walked up to 'em an say, "Who de gal in de green dress?" Dey tells
me, but dey say, "She won' talk none." "What, is she deef or dumb"? 

"No, but she won' talk." 

"Interjuce me" I says, "an' I'll make her talk." 

Dey promise dey would, but when we 'proach de gal an' her mother de
boys fell back an' lef' me alone. 

Den I bowed to her mother an' say, "Miz Roche, I is Mist' Henri
Necaise", an' den she make me 'quainted wid de gal. 

Well, jes' as I says, I make de gal talk to me. (he was 43 and she was
14) an we is married an' livin' in dis house more'n 50 years. She is
de onlies' wife I has ever had - dat's love ain' it? 

But the interview had to end abruptly, for the old darky had heard the
millwhistle blow at Picayune, and began to wiggle uneasily in his
chair. 

Minnie, what we goan' do now. I wants my coffee. 

Oh, we will go at once and if you want to go down to Westonia to see
your daughter, we will take you, but can you leave Minnie? 

Yes, yes, I goes away from her a heap. I used to go 60 miles out on de
Gulf of Mexico, as 'terpreter on dem big ships dat come from France,
dat was before I done forgot my French talk what I was raised to
speak. 

They went in the house, where Minnie's tongue was evidently unloosed
for we heard her chattering volubly. He came out on the porch. 

Doan' wait for me, Minnie say I cain't go dis time.