for dependents. When a freedman failed in his “manly duties,” they did not
hesitate to punish him. In most cases, however, they preferred to give “good
advice.” Consider the case of Sheania Crawford who complained that her hus-
band, Allec, refused to care for her. Byron Porter ordered Allec to care for his
wife, including medical care. When freedmen did not “realize the solemnaty
[sic] of their marriage relations,” wrote agent James P. Butler at Huntsville, “I
counsel and advise with them and tell them the best mode to pursue. ”
With their entry into the private sphere, agents oft en decided cases of cus-
tody. Freedwomen who made complaints, if seen to be “virtuous women, duti-
ful wives, and devoted mothers,” were more likely to receive redress. Th
ose who
off ended contemporary norms, whether man or woman, discovered agents
could be a “condescending intermediary” or “foe.” Consider the case of Henry
Roark. Roark (freedman) set up a claim to get custody of his son, who, at the
time, lived with his mother (Matilda) and had been apprenticed to the man
she worked for. Henry fathered other illegitimate children and had two other
“wives.” One he abandoned; the other he lived with. Th
e mother claimed “he
has never done anything for him [the boy] nor pretended to set up any claim to
him until recently.” Th
e boy wished to remain with his mother. Th
us, the agent
ruled the boy should be with her. Despite the decision he had “no shadow of
legal claim to the boy as against his mother,” Henry persisted in winning cus-
tody of his son. Superiors supported the agent’s ruling. One of the more unique
complaints, one that today would probably not reach the level of judicial review,
was brought by freedwoman Emma Ha(r)tfi eld. She lived (she stated he “induced”
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her) with Lacy McKenzie, a white man who promised a house and a lot. For
more than a year, she lived with him and was pregnant with his child. McKenzie
wanted her to have an abortion, but she refused. As a result, he went back on his
promise of a house and lot. Ha(r)tfi eld complained to Byron Porter. Rather than
dismiss the case as a “lover’s quarrel,” Porter instead pursued the route of
“breech of promise” by enforcing the verbal contract the pair entered into. He
found the claim credible. Porter realized his limitations to force McKenzie to
fulfi ll his promise—“I am to try & frighten [him] into a settlement.” Th
e threat
apparently worked, because McKenzie “executed a deed to her.” She, in turn,
“signed an agreement releasing him from all claims.”
Emma Ha(r)tfi eld’s experience was not unique for freedwomen. Th
ere are
hundreds of such “quarrels.” Freedwomen rarely hesitated to fi le complaints
against freedmen—or white for that matter. Th
ere are numerous expressions by
agents about what they deemed irresponsible behavior by freedmen. Th
ose
transgressed, as evidenced, did not shy from seeking redress. Th
is raises doubts,
at least for Texas, about accusations they “had internalized the nineteenth cen-
tury cultural stereotype of the promiscuous black female, and thus did not take
seriously many reports of sexual assault.” Bureau agents oft en (and honestly)
protected freedwomen against such violation. Freedwomen won more than 63
percent (n=64) of the cases with a documented winner (n=101). Of the 246
domestic issues cases, 162 involved a black female plaintiff (s). Of those, 154
involved a female plaintiff (s) against a male defendant: 140 black defendants
and 14 whites (the remaining eight involved female plaintiff s). Th
at comes to
slightly more than 62 percent from a freedwoman’s complaint. One of the more
common complaints was of an economic nature. Accusations of desertion and
abandonment and pleadings for child support equaled 64 cases, or more than
26 percent of the domestic issues cases—that number probably is higher when
considering many cases listed as “domestic” or “marital” dispute probably
involved dividing assets. A typical case was the one brought by freedwoman
Mariah Random against her “husband” Lorenzo Random. Lorenzo, the father
of her six grown children, abandoned her at the time of freedom. Scorned by
having “worked for him & all the family” and by his abandonment “to get a
young wife,” Mariah sought compensation at the offi
ce of William H. Rock.
Aft er investigating, he decided Lorenzo had abandoned his wife and awarded
Mariah damages aft er the defendant refused reconciliation. Rock ordered their
present crop equitably divided, awarded damages of one year’s wages for “cook-
ing & washing,” and assessed alimony in the form of “1/3 portion of the crop as
long as she is able of working herself, then 1/2 of Defendant’s wages or portion
of the crop from year to year until Divorced or death. ”
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95
Despite any nineteenth- century gender predispositions, freedwomen saw
agents as protectors. Th
irty- six cases involved what the SAC listed as domestic
assault, abuse, or ill- treatment (14.6 percent of domestic issues cases), with out-
comes ranging from fi nes, to referral to civil authorities, from permission to
separate, to arrest or dismissal. In the words of one historian, Bureau men
denoted freedwomen “worthy of protection under the law, of bodily integrity,
and of voice.” William H. Rock, moved by the “Golden Rule” and his notions of
womanhood and chastity, arrested a freedman, Jack Wiggins, for running away
from his wife and absconding with a young black girl. When Rock found them,
he discovered she had been battered and bruised by Wiggins. “[S]he is one of the
most distressing girls & [an] object of pity,” he observed. Believing she had been
“seduced and ruined,” Rock clothed and placed her in the care of a trustworthy
freedwoman. Wanting the “great rascal” punished, Rock arrested Wiggins for
vagrancy, “not being able to substantiate any other charges against him.” Freed-
woman Toney Hubert accused her husband John P. Cox of raping two women.
J. H. Bradford investigated the accusation, concluding no rape had occurred.
Instead, Bradford discovered the couple had a tumultuous relationship, with
the accusation made out of spite. Th
e agent advised the couple about their future
behavior, condemned them on their past actions, and dismissed the case. Byron
Porter likewise investigated a complaint by Dr. Jonathan Donaldson, a black
doctor, who wanted the agent to “bring his wife back to him.” He discovered the
woman left because of abuse. Porter informed the doctor that she was justifi ed
in leaving and did �
�nothing for him. ”
Protecting womanhood came with strings. According to the cultural idea
(both men and women held this idea) of what it was to be a woman in the nine-
teenth century, some women “forfeited” any right to Bureau (societal for that
matter) protection against degradation. At Galveston, Abner Doubleday heard
a complaint from Jennette Le Claire. She accused another freedwoman of
threatening her life and calling “her a bitch.” Upon investigation, he discovered
both were prostitutes. “Being women of the town,” he decided, “no action was
taken.” Evidence suggests freedwomen understood such gender predispositions
when bringing forth a complaint. Consider one case at Hallettsville in late 1867.
Arica Ward, a freedwoman, charged freedman Dick Grey of “not do[ing] any
thing for me and that he will leave the state” before his child is born. Her con-
cern about being considered a prostitute, something detrimental to her reputa-
tion and possibly case, shows when she further adds a small yet important
disclaimer to her disposition. “He did not pay me any thing [sic] for the inter-
course,” she stated. “We did it in a friendly manner.” She willingly admitted to
premarital sex; yet felt more concerned about reiterating it was in a “familial”
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way. Th
us she maintained some semblance to being a lady. Nineteenth- century
society never considered a prostitute a lady. Women of “ill- repute” forfeited
such status. Anything other than a lady apparently risked more than just her
reputation.
Moral persuasion came not only from encouraging marriage, but also with
agents’ educational eff orts. Th
ese eff orts focused on the three Rs and moral
uplift . Although a complete delineation of the agency’s educational work is
beyond this study, a quick summary is warranted. Without organizing schools
per se, the Bureau fi nanced and procured facilities for organizations committed
to freedmen education. Based on Northern educational institutions, “Bureau
schools,” as they were called, had been established since the agency’s arrival in
the state. Not until the Kiddoo administration in 1866 did education become a
paramount concern. His labor policy notwithstanding, Kiddoo promised to
make education a “specialty” in Texas. Considering Washington offi
cials
believed Texas the “darkest fi eld educationally in the United States,” the work
accomplished was astounding. Enrollment under Kiddoo reached its apex in
1866, making it “the year the whole race went to school.”
Where freedpeople showed interest in education, most Bureau men’s respon-
sibilities greatly increased. Where they lacked zeal, ironically, agent’s attention
to the subject was not any less. Superiors wanted subordinates “to make a spe-
cial report . . . pertaining to schools.” In each, they were to specify schools
already in operation in their districts and “the character[,] prospects[,] and
wants of each school.” At fi rst, these reports were simply letters; by the organi-
zation’s end, headquarters had issued a printed form with nearly two dozen
questions (Kiddoo’s successor, Charles Griffi
n, continued this expansion and
oversight of fi eld agents’ responsibilities with education in early 1867). What was
delegated was quite broad, ranging from fi nding adequate teachers to protect-
ing the schools. Each agent was now a “Superintendent of Freedmen’s Schools
for his District.” “I doubt whether he [teacher] can be again secured to teach
freedmens [sic] school,” Patrick F. Duggan lectured superiors about teacher’s
low pay, “as he expressed himself dissatisfi ed with the treatment he has received
and now looks upon the government offi
cers with suspicion.” William H. Rock
at Richmond encouraged students through prizes, while Edward Miller at Mil-
lican disciplined in order to keep them attentive. “I have therefore made it my
business to visit the school 2 or 3 times every week,” Miller wrote, “and by a
system of bestowing praise and little presents upon the best behaved, honest,
and most improved.” Louis W. Stevenson, rather than dealing with students,
had to deal with an abusive teacher. Alex Coggeshall, like so many others, spent
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97
his own money; while O. E. Pratt dealt with castigations of “odium upon the
Bureau schools.” Showing necessity is the mother of invention, James P. Butler
at Brownsville “devoted the most of my time” preparing black soldiers to be
teachers. Mortimer H. Goddin at Livingston, donated land for a school. To him,
schools were to be places where freedpeople could learn about their true friends.
James C. Devine at Huntsville, a zealous education supporter, got personally
involved in each student’s eff orts. Others instructed teachers “to be more par-
ticular with elementary lessons, imparting to the children a clear and distinct
knowledge and mind to each letter before advancement. ”
Th
ese men infl uenced the educational eff orts with their zeal or apathy and
their knowledge or ignorance about the white citizens and freedpeople. Men
such as Isaac M. Beebe, Ira H. Evans, David L. Montgomery, Charles F. Rand,
George T. Ruby, John M. Morrison, and E. M. Wheelock, who eventually was
appointed superintendent of schools, took great interest in the emancipated’s
education. Making multiple visits to their schools and extensive surveys for
possible school sites, these, as well as others, considered education the “only and
lone hope of attaining [their] elevation. . . .” While these men displayed interest
in education, others did not. Whether apathy, racial predispositions, neglect, or
the simple fact that certain duties, like contracting, took precedence, some gave
only passing interest. Developing freedmen education was an easier task for
some in Texas, especially those who had assistance by the white community.
Th
e task proved more diffi
cult for some. Th
e sight of “[l]ittle niggers as well as
grown ones” going to school off ended white sensibilities. For those lacking
white assistance, Texas truly was the “darkest fi eld educationally.” Agent Har-
din Hart at Greenville was frustrated by whites “not willing to give State[,]
county[,] or individual assistance. . . .” L. S. Barnes had the same problem in his
district. At Bastrop, Alex B. Coggeshall informed superiors the white owner of
a building that had been chosen as the school had changed his mind. He
declared, “he will not give up the building.” Coggeshall threatened to remove
the freedpeople (i.e., the labor pool) from the area. “Th
e whites of my Dist
appear to quietly acquiesce on the eff ort made to educate th
e freedpeople,”
reported John H. Archer at Beaumont, “but most certainly . . . [believe] the ‘nig-
ger’ should educate themselves.” Mahlon E. Davis predicted without “the Assis-
tance of the Bureau very little would be Accomplished in the way of Education.”
He noted whites believed the concept “quite repugnant to the feeling of the
Texas Chivalry. ”
White Texans, however, threw up only some of the obstacles. Some freed-
people appeared uninterested in education, not “making present sacrifi ce for a
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The Bureau’s Highwater Mark
far off good.” Consider two examples. In Round Top, H. S. Howe reported “both
white and black are indiff erent in regard to . . . education.” In late 1866 John H.
Archer frustratingly relayed “I came here to get the Freedpeople to subscribe
suffi
cient energy to make the [school] building comfortable . . . [and] getting
it done by them as it seems impossible to get them to understand the impor-
tance of education & I confess I am almost tired of lecturing them upon the
subject. . . .”
Besides reporting on the educational eff orts, an agent’s time was greatly
consumed with protecting both the students and teachers. As freedmen’s
school historian Sandra Eileen Small noted, SACs could win acceptance from
the white community, but the teachers generally could not. Most white South-
erners simply resented “Yankees” indoctrinating the freedpeople. Bureau
men took great pains to recommend the “right” person as a teacher, partly for
the students’ sake and partly for their own. Besides someone who could teach,
they needed someone who would not unnecessarily exacerbate white resis-
tance, or in the words of one, not “give the rebels too good a chance to cry
‘Scalawag’. . . .” Some preferred men, since they had a presence in the class-
room unlike women. A few desired married men. Th
ey would “not only add
to the morale, but would . . . elevate the manners and social habits of the col-
ored people.” Nesbit B. Jenkins at Wharton, frustrated because the “good and
faithful” teachers have been driven off , needed someone not “sordid,” “mean,”
“too low to be hurt by insult,” or “indiff erent to contempt.” Still, others did
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