In 1971, twelve years after Walter Williams died, Sylvester Magee lay dying in a hospital in Columbia, Mississippi. A onetime slave, he used to tell about being forced into both the Confederate and Union armies, and he claimed that twice he had been wounded during the siege of Vicksburg. He sported white whiskers but only three teeth, and he had lived for years in a $12.45-a-month shack with no electricity, no bathroom, and not much of a roof. He could not read; he could not write. He gummed tobacco, and he sipped wine. A family Bible that he said had listed his birth date had been destroyed by fire, and records of slaves mustered into military service were dubious at best. Once he had appeared on national television and told war stories. He also had applied for a soldier’s pension but was turned down.
Civil War historians could not agree on whether he was genuine or not. Some people called him “Slave,” some called him “Mack,” some called him “Lick Skillet.” He said of himself, “I’m an old man. I could go any minute.” He was, he said, 130.