Remembered In a
Slave Cemetery
ft?/ JAMES ELLIOTT MOOKE
I ;n from the turmoil of twentieth
century America in .1 quiet corner of
rural Hertford County one finds two
ancient cemeteries in the edge of a re¬
mote clearing of the Moore farm —
Maple Lawn. I lie more noticeable
bury ing ground is quickly recognized at
once as being the family plot of the
Moores, long-time owners of this his¬
toric farm. However, the discerning
visitor will look off to his left and
there discover yet another cemetery.
Now overgrown with scrub pines it
presents a sorry picture in comparison
with its mate, but it is by far the more
interesting as this is the old slave ceme¬
tery begun when the property was a co¬
lonial grant and used by the black
Moores for burials well into this cen¬
tury. Only some six tombstones now
remain to mark the innumerable
graves, but if these half-dozen markers
could speak they would spin a tale un¬
derstandably heartbreaking and sur¬
prisingly humorous.
The Same Red Vest
For instance, there comes to mind
the incidents surrounding the burial «if
Charlie Moore, who left the estate as a
youth and settled at I'ittsboro. Y'a.
Following his death in the I92()’s. the
local authorities sent a message to his
half-brother Herbert at Maple Lawn
requesting that he dispose of the de¬
ceased in an appropriate manner. Fol¬
lowing a consultation with my grand¬
father Raynor Moore, he telephoned
Pittsboro and made the appropriate ar¬
rangements.
On the set day. all that was mortal
of Charlie Moore arrived at Ahoskie on
the ACL and was conducted to the
cemetery at Maple Lawn with due form
and ceremony. My grandfather fol¬
lowed with the mourners as he was not
only the resident landlord but had
known Charlie as a boy. Following the
services, the coffin was opened, accord¬
ing to custom, so all the locals could
have their last look at their friend and
relative. However, they were in for a
shock for when they had last seen
Charlie, he had been a large, strapping
fellow and was now quite wasted away
from a long struggle with tuberculosis.
Therefore, the corpse did not look at
all like the Charlie they had known.
An uneasy murmuring passed through
the mourners and it was left to Horace
Moore to vocalize to his cousin Her¬
bert the doubts in the minds of all
present.
With all the feeling he could muster.
Horace exclaimed "It ain’t him. I'm
just as sure as I can be that it ain't
Charlie. And." he continued, turning to
Herbert, "if I was you I would ship
him back just as quick as I would a
bag of sweet potatoes."
Needless to say. Herbert had not en¬
visioned such a course of events but did
quite well under the circumstances by
pointing out that it was indeed Charlie.
"But he don’t look like himself be¬
cause he’s been sick for such a long
time." He then went on to describe his
half-brother’s features and how they
corresponded with those of the man in
the coffin. Finally he said "That’s got
to be him because he’s wearing the
same old red vest he always wore."
Thereupon. Horace grudgingly gave his
consent and Charlie Moore was buried.
The Night Funeral
At another time the cemetery had
the distinction of being the l«xation of
a night-time funeral. Hunter Moore’s
daughter Mag had died in Norfolk after
working there for years as a domestic.
Accordingly, her body was brought
back to old Moore Town, as the area
was known, for burial. The young
woman was "laid out" in her father’s
living room with everything going as
planned when the undertaker arrived
and demanded immediate payment for
the coffin in which the deceased was
resting. When told that he would not
receive his money until sometime in
the future, he had the gall to threaten
to repossess his merchandise. Needless
to say, the family was thrown into
great consternation. There followed
much discussion and delay during
which they considered sending to Win-
ton for a county box. Fortunately, a
local white man told the undertaker
he would become responsible and this
troublemaker left.
By now. it was quite late in the eve¬
ning and the sun had nearly vanished
from the sky. Many of the mourners
had gone home thinking that the fu¬
neral had been postponed until the next
day. Nevertheless, quite a few were
still on hand, and it was decided to go
ahead with the services. Thereupon, the
coffin, borne by a mule and cart, was
carried to the graveyard followed by
the mourners on foot.
The only light came from flickering
pine knots, and the resulting confusion
was beyond description. While groping
in the dark, the funeral procession dis¬
integrated into several parties with one
group getting bogged down in a swamp
while another became lost in the
woods. Another contingent became so
confused that they eventually stumbled
onto the head of the procession and
nearly scared seven years' growth out
of both parties. The poor woman was
finally buried, but all the veterans of
this expedition declared that they had
been to their first and last night funeral.
Lightning Struck
If sadness can be considered quanti¬
tatively. probably the most sorrowful
funeral ever held in the cemetery was
that of Joe Moore. A young man of
sixteen, he was chopping peanuts with
my great-uncle Cotton Moore when an
electrical storm came up. Throwing
their hoes over their shoulders, they
headed for the house as a bolt of
lightning struck Joe’s hoc and both
men fell to the ground. My grand¬
father. standing on the porch, had seen
it all. and hurried into the field. After
reviving Cotton with a pitcher of wa¬
ter. he turned to Joe. but there was
(Continued on page 44 )
26
THE STATE. NOVEMBER 1974
