Frank Cooper, an elderly man living at 715 Ott Street in Franklin when interviewed, talked about the mistreatment of slaves in Lincoln County, Kentucky. His information came from his mother, Mandy Cooper, who was 115 years old when she died. Mandy was held by three different families: the Goods, the Burtons, and the Coopers, all of Lincoln County, Kentucky. Frank told the following story, presented in part in his mother’s words by the interviewer:
One day while my mother was washing her back, my sister noticed ugly, disfiguring scars on it. Inquiring about them, we found, much to our amazement, that they were Mammy’s relics of the now gone, if not forgotten, slave days. This was her first reference to her “misery days” that she had ever made in my presence. Of course, we all thought she was tellin’ us a big story, and we made fun of her. With eyes flashin she stopped bathing, dried her back, and reached for the smelly ol’ black whip that hung behind the kitchen door. Biddin’ us to strip down to our waists, my little mother, with the bony bent-over back, struck each of us as hard as ever she could with that black-snake whip. Each stroke of the whip drew blood from our backs. “Now,” she said to us, “you have a taste of slavery days.”
With three of her children now having tasted some of her “misery days,” she was in the mood to tell us more of her sufferings, still indelibly impressed in my mind: “My ol’ back is bent over from the quick-tempered blows felled by the red-headed Miss Burton. At dinner time one day when the churnin’ wasn’t finished for the noonday mealy” she said with an angry look that must have been reborn in my mother’s eyes—eyes that were dimmed by years and hard livin’—”three white women beat me from anger because they had no butter for their biscuits and cornbread. Miss Burton used a heavy board, while the missus used a whip. While I was on my knees beggin’ them to quit, Miss Burton hit the small of my back with the heavy board. I know no more until kind Mr. Hamilton, who was staying with the white folks, brought me inside the cabin and brought me around with the camphor bottle. I’ll always thank him, God bless him. He picked me up where they had left me like a dog to die in the blazin’ noonday sun. After my back was broken, it was doubted whether I would ever be able to work again or not. I was placed on the auction block to be bidded for so my owner could see if I was worth anything or not. One man bid $1,700, after puttin’ two dirty fingers in my mouth to see my teeth. I bit him, and his face showed anger. He then wanted to own me so he could punish me. Thinkin’ his bid of $1,700 was official, he unstrapped his buggy whip to beat me, but my master saved me. My master declared the bid unofficial. At this auction my sister was sold for $1,900 and was never seen by us again.”
My mother also related some experiences she had with the paddy-rollers [patrollers], later called the Ku Klux. These paddy-rollers were a constant dread to the Negroes. They would whip the poor darkies unmercifully without any cause. One night while the Negroes were gathering for a big party and dance they got wind of the paddy-rollers approaching in large numbers on horseback. The Negro men didn’t know what to do for protection, so they became desperate and decided to gather a quantity of grapevines and tied them fast at a dark place in the road. The paddy-rollers came thundering down the road bent on deviltry. Unaware of the trap set for them, they plunged head-on into these strong grapevines, and three of their number were killed and a score badly injured. Several horses had to be shot following injuries. When the news of this happening spread, it was many months before the paddy-rollers were again heard of.