Uncle Bob Samuels is the son of Richard Samuels and Mary. He was a slave
of David Block. After freedom he came to Little Rock with a sister and a
brother, John. Uncle Bob said he often heard his mother speak of a gold
mine. She had a trunk of maps and charts which her mother had given to
her. In this was supposed to be the papers regarding De Soto's legendary
gold mine. The trunk had been lost as Uncle Bob has no idea where the
gold mine is. He tells the story the same way, never varying a point. He
does not claim to remember Indian trails or names.
Uncle Bob is tall and straight. He is blind. Was clean in appearance
dressed in slightly faded overalls. He has a short, clean grey beard. He
talks with a clear accent, no Negro accent. During Reconstruction days
he served as County Clerk of Hempstead County under Carpetbaggar rule.
During those days he was a political power to be reckoned with. He was
a national as well as a state figure in the "Lily White Republican"
organization. [His wife was a Negro, good looking, but showed little
trace of much white blood.]
Interviewer: Mary D. Hudgins
Person Interviewed: Emma Sanderson
Home: 617 Wade Street, Hot Springs.
Aged: 75
"Emma Sanderson"--"Wade Street". That was all the prospective
interviewer could learn. "Emma Sanderson--ex-slave!" "Wade Street"--"Why
it's way off that way. You go sort of thatta way, and then thatta way."
A city map disclosed no Wade Street. Maps belonging to a local
abstractor helped not a whit. "Insurance maps are in more detail."
someone advised, "Wade Street," mused the young woman at the desk, "I've
heard of it. We have written a policy for someone there." The head of
the department was new to the city, but he was eager to help. After
about five minutes search--from wall maps to bound volumes of blocks
and back again it appeared that "Wade Street" more frequently known as
"Washington Street" meanders wanderingly from Silver Street, in the
colored section out to the "Gorge addition" inhabited by low economic
level whites.
Down Malvern Avenue (Hot springs' Beale Street) went the interviewer. On
she went past the offices of a large Chicago packing house. For better
then a block she trudged by dilapidated shops which a few seasons back
had housed one of the key transient centers of the U.S.A. Down the
street she walked, pausing for a moment to note that coffee colored
faces decorated the placards in the beauty shop window--two well groomed
mulatto girls sitting inside, evidently operators. Her course took her
past sandwich joints and pool halls. Nails, she noted as she drifted
along, had been driven into the projection beneath the plate glass
window of the brick bank (closed during the depression--a building and
bank built, owned and operated by negro capital) to keep loungers away.
The colored theater (negroes are admitted only to the balconies of
theaters in Hot Springs--one section of the balcony at the legitimate
theater) she noticed was now serving as a religious gathering place. The
well built and excellently maintained Pythian Bath house (where the hot
waters are made available to colored folk) with the Alice Eve Hospital
(45 beds, 5 nurses, 2 resident physicians--negro doctors thruout the
town cooperating--surgical work a specialty) stood out in quiet dignity.
For the rest, buildings were an indiscriminate hodge-podge of homes,
apartment houses, shacks, and chain groceries. At the corner where "the
street turns white" the interviewer turned east.
The Langston High School (for colored--with a reputation for turning out
good cooks, football players and academicians) stands on Silver Street.
A few paces from the building the interviewer met a couple of plump
colored women laughing and talking loudly.
"I beg your pardon," was her greeting, "can you tell me where Wade
Street is?" They could and did. They were so frankly interested in
knowing why the white women wanted Emma Sanderson that she told them
her mission. They were not taken aback--there was no servility--no
resentment they were frankly charmed with the idea. Their directions for
finding Mrs. Sanderson became even more explicit.
When the proper turn off was found the question of Wade versus
Washington Street was settled. A topsy-turvy sign at the intersection
announced that Wade Street was ahead. Emma Sanderson's grandson lived a
couple of blocks down the road.
Only the fact that she could hear someone inside moving about kept the
interviewer hammering on the door. Finally she was rewarded by a voice.
"Is that somebody a' knockin'?" In a moment the door opened. The
question, "Were you a slave" no matter how delicately put is a difficult
one to ask, but Mrs. Sanderson was helpful, if doubtful that her story
would do much good. "I was just so little when it all happened." But the
interviewer was invited in and placed in a chair near the fire.
"No ma'am. He ain't my grandson--I's the third grandmother. No son, you
ain't three--you's five. Don't you remember what I told you? Yes, he
stays with me, ma'am. I take care of him while the rest of 'em works.
"It's hard for me to remember. I was just so little. Yes, ma'am, I was
born a slave--but I was so little. Seems to me like I remember a big,
big house. We was sort of out in the country---out from Memphis. I know
there was my father and my mother and my uncles and my aunts. I know
there was that many. How many more of us old man Doc Walker had--I just
don't know. They must have took good care of us tho. My mother was a
house nigrah.
"When the war was ready to quit they gave us our pick. We could stay on
and work for wages or we could go. The folks decided that the'd go on in
to Memphis. My Mother and Father didn't live together none after we went
to town. First I lived with Mother and then when she died my Father took
me. My mother died when I was 9. She worked at cooking and washing. When
I was big enough I went to school. I kept on going to school after my
Father took me. He died when I was about 15. By that time I was old
enough to look out after myself.
"What did I do? I stayed in folkses houses. I cooked and I washed. Then
when I was about 16, I married. After that I had a man to take care of
me. He was a carpenter.
"We been here in Hot Springs a long time--you maybe heared of
Sanderson--he took up platering and he was good too. How long I been in
Hot Springs--law I don't know--'cept I was a full grown women when we
come.
"I's had four children--all of 'em is dead. I lives with my grandson.
The little fellow, he'll be old enough to go to school in a year or two.
A dime for him ma'am--an' 2 cents besides? Now son you keep the dime and
you can spend the pennies. I always tries to teach him to save. Then
when he gets big he'll know what to do."
Dining room and living room joined one another by means of a high and
wide arch. The stove was sensibly set up in this passage. Both rooms
were comfortably furnished with products which had in all probability
been bought new. The child stood close by thruout the entire
conversation. There was no whit of timidity about him, nor was he the
least impertinent. He was frankly interested and wanted to know what was
being said. He received the dime and the pennies with a pleasant grin
and a (grandmother prompted) "Thank you". But the gift didn't startle
him. Dimes must have been a fairly usual part of his life. But a few
minutes before the interviewer left she dropped her pencil. It was new
and long and yellow. The child's eyes clung to it as he returned it.
"Would you like to have it." the young woman asked, "would you like a
pencil of your very own, to draw with?" Would he! The child's whole face
beamed. Dimes were as nothing compared to shiney new pencils. The third
grandchild was overjoyed with his new plaything. Ella Sanderson was
delighted with her great grandchild's pleasure. The interviewer received
a warm and friendly "Good-bye".
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person Interviewed: Mary Scott
DeValls Bluff or Biscoe
Age:
"I said if ever I seed you agin I'd show you dis here scar on my head.
See here [a puffed-out, black, rusty, not quite round place, where no
hair grew]. Dat dar what my young mistress put on me when I was a chile.
Dock Hardy hired me. He was rich and married a pore gal. It went to her
head. He was good to me. She was mean. She had him whoop me a time or
two for nothin'. They had two little babies, I stayed round wid. I loved
em. I churned, brought in all the wood mighty near, brought bout all the
water from the spring. Master Dock be coming horseback from Franklin,
Tennessee. I knowed bout time I take the babies to meet him. He'd wait
at a big stump we could climb on his horse, take the baby in front and
us up behind him, and put us off on the back piazza at the house. I
wrapped up the churn and quit. She ax me what I quit churnin' for. I say
the butter come. She say it ain't had time. I say it ready to take up
anyhow. She got so mad she throwed a stick of stove wood, hit me on
my head. I run out crying, the blood streamin' down. I started to the
spring, come back and got the water bucket. I got me some water and
brought back a fresh bucket full. I washed my head in cool water where
it was bleedin'. It bled all way back. She say, 'Where you been?' I say
I been to the spring, brought some cool water to the babies. I give em
some I told her. When I got water I always give them some. She took the
bucket, made me go wid her, poured the water out in the path under a
shade tree, and made me take 'nother bucketful home. I thought she was
so mean; I didn't know what she was doing that about. Got to the house
she put me on a clean chemisette. I slipped off down to the feed house,
lay down, my head on the cotton seeds, and went to sleep.
"When Master Dock come he woke me up, wanted to know why I didn't meet
him. He seen that blood. Went on to the house. He ask her what done my
head that way. She say, 'She went to the spring, fell down, spilled the
water, and hurt it on a rock.' I told him that wasn't so--not so! I told
him all bout it. He told her she ought to be 'shamed treat good little
nigger chap mean. He was so sorry for me. She didn't care. They had been
goin' to old missis house every week. It was three weeks 'fo she would
go. I got to see my mama, 'fo she died.
"Old Mistress Emily was a doctor woman. Dock told her, 'Mama, Scrubbs
jumps and screams bout a hour late every evening wid her head.' When it
got late it hurt and I screamed and jump up and down. Mistress Emily
come got me in her arms, put me to sleep. When I woke up Dock and Kitty
gone home with the babies. I cried bout being from the babies; I loved
em, never been away from em 'fo. She got three maggots and says,
'Scrubbs, see what I got out your little head.' Mama had died then. She
say, 'Your mama would want me to keep you here wid me.' She kept me till
it healed up. Them maggots big as a sage broom straw. We swept the floor
wid sage straw tied together then. Mistress Emily kept me a month with
her and doctored my head every day. I slept on a pallet and on a little
bed she had in the room. When I went back to Kitty's she wasn't as mean
to me as she been--but mean nough then.
"My mama named Amy Hardy. She had five boys, three girls. She died with
a young baby. I reckon they had different papas. I was my papa's only
chile. They all said that. Bout a month after I went to Dock and
Kitty's, it was surrender. He (the little Negro girl's father) come,
stayed all night, and took me wid him to live. Dock wanted me to stay; I
love Dock and the children. Every year till a few years ago my head get
sore and run. We tried all kinds medicine on it. Don't know what cured
it.
"The week 'fo I left there I had a task to make a cut of thread every
night, a reel. When I heard papa was coming to git me, I put cotton bats
under the reels and kivered em up. Good thing papa got me--Kitty would
killed me when she went to spin next week. She been so mean why I done
that way.
"They never sold any of our set but some on the place was sold. The
mothers grieve and grieve over their children bein' sold. Some white
folks let their slaves have preachin', some wouldn't. We had a bush
arbor and set on big logs. Children set round on the ground. 'Fo freedom
I never went to preachin'. I kept Kitty's babies so she went. Mothers
didn't see their children much after they was sold.
"Fo freedom they would turn a wash pot upside-down at the door and have
singin' and prayer meetin'. The pot would take up the noise. They done
that when they danced too. I don't know how they found out the iron pot
would take up the noise. They had plenty of em settin' round in them
days. Somebody found it out and passed it on."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Mollie Hardy Scott, R.F.D., DeValls Bluff, Arkansas
Age: 90
"I was born at Granville, Georgia in Franklin County. I don't know my
age cept I was big enough to plow when young master lef and went to war.
My mother died bout time the war started. We belonged to Miss Eliza and
Master Jim Hardy. He had two boys bout grown, Jim and John. My father
belong to the Linzys. I don't know nuthin much bout them nor him
neither. When the war was done he come and got me and we went to Barton
County, Georgia. When I lef they give me my feather bed, two good
coverlets and my clothes. White folks hated fo me to leave. We all cried
but I never seen em no more. They said he take me off and let me suffer
or die or something. I was all the child my father had but my mother had
ten children I knowed of. We all lived on the place. They lived in a
little log house and I stayed wid em some an up at white folks house
mostly. No I never seed my folks no more. We had plenty to eat. Had meat
and garden stuff. We had pot full of lye hominy. It last several days.
It was good. I seed em open up a pot full of boiled corn-on-the-cob.
Plenty milk and butter. We had wash pot full of collards or turnip
salad. Maybe a few turnips on top and a big piece of fresh meat. We
had plenty to eat and wear long as I lived wid the white folks. We had
goobers, molasses candy to pull and pop corn every now and then. They
fill all the pockets, set around the fire an eat at night. Sometimes we
bake eggs and sweet potatoes, cracklin hoe cake covered up in the ashes.
Bake apples in front of the fire on de hearth. Everybody did work an we
sho had plenty to eat an wear.
"I had plenty when I stayed at my father's an we worked together all the
time. When he died I married. I've had a hard time not able to work.
There ain't no hard time if yous able to get bout. I pieces quilts an
sells em now. Sells em if I can. For $150 piece (has no idea of money
value). Some women promissed to come git 'em but they ain't come yet. I
wanter buy me some shoes. I could do a heap if they send fo me. I can
nurse. I kept a woman's children when she teached last year (Negro
woman's children).
"I brought four or five when I come to Arkansas of my own. They all dead
but my one girl I lives wid.
"Seemed lack so many colored folks coming out West to do better. We
thought we come too. We come on immigrate ticket on the train. All the
people I worked for was Captain Williams, Dr. Givens. Mr. Richardson
right where Mesa is now but they called it 88 then (88 miles from
Memphis). Mr. Gates. I farmed, washed and ironed. I nursed some since
I'm not able to get about in the field. I never owned nothing. They run
us from one year till the next and at the end of the year they say we
owe it bout all. If we did have a good crop we never could get ahead. We
couldn't get ahead nuff not to have to be furnished the next year. We
did work but we never could get ahead. If a darky sass a white land
owner he would be whooped bout his account or bout anything else. Yes
siree right here in dis here county. Darky have to take what the white
folks leave fo em and be glad he's livin.
"I say I ain't never voted. Whut in de world I would want er vote for?
Let em vote if they think it do em good.
"I seen a whole gang of Ku Kluxes heap of times when I was little back
in Georgia. I seed paddyrollers and then they quit and at night the Ku
Kluxes rode by. They would whoop or shoot you either if you didn't tend
to yo own business and stay at home at night. They kept black and white
doing right I tell you. I sho was afraid of them but they didn't bother
us. If you be good whose ever place you lives on would keep 'em from
harmin you. They soon got all the bad Yankies ran back North from
Georgia. They whip the black men and women too but it was mostly the men
they watched and heap of it was for stealing. Folks was hungry. Couldn't
help stealin if they seed anything. I seed heap of folks having a mighty
hard time after the war in them restruction (Reconstruction) days. I was
lucky.
"My daughter would do mo than she do fo me but she is a large woman and
had both her legs broke. They hurt her so bad it is hard fo her to do
much. She good as she can be to everybody. The Welfare give three of us
$10.00 a month (daughter, husband, and Mollie). We mighty glad to get
that. We sho is. I am willin to work if I could get work I could do.
That's my worst trouble. Like I tell you, I can nurse and wash dishes if
I could get the jobs.
"I don't see much of the real young folks. I don't know what they are
doing much. If a fellow is able he ought to be able to do good now if he
can get out and go hunt up work fo himself. That the way it look like. I
don't know."
Interviewer: Thomas Elmore Lucy
Person interviewed: Sam Scott, Russellville, Arkansas
Age: 79
"Hello dar, Mistah L----! Don' you dare pass by widout speakin' to dis
old niggah friend of yo' chil'hood! No suh! Yuh can't git too big to
speak to me!
"Reckon you've seen about all dar is to see in de worl' since I seen
you, ain't you? Well, mos' all de old-time niggahs and whites is both
gone now. I was born on de twentieth of July, 1879. Count up--dat makes
me 79 (born 1859), don't it? My daddy's name was Sam, same as mine, and
mammy's was Mollie. Dey was slaves on de plantation of Capt. Scott--yes
suh, Capt. John R. Homer Scott--at Dover. My name is Sam, same as my
father's, of course. Everybody in de old days knowed Sam Scott. My
father died in slavery times, but mother lived several years after.
"No, I never did dance, but I sure could play baseball and make de home
runs! My main hobby, as you calls it, was de show business. You remember
de niggah minstrels we used to put on. I was always stage manager
and could sing baritone a little. Ed Williamson and Tom Nick was de
principal dancers, and Tom would make up all de plays. What? Stole a
unifawm coat of yours? Why, I never knowed Tom to do anything like that!
Anyway, he was a good-hearted niggah--but you dunno what he might do.
Yes, I still takes out a show occasionally to de towns around Pope
and Yell and Johnson counties, and folks treat us mighty fine. Big
crowds--played to $47.00 clear money at Clarksville. Usually take about
eight and ten in our comp'ny, boys and gals--and we give em a real hot
minstrel show.
"De old show days? Never kin forgit em! I was stage manager of de old
opery house here, you remember, for ten years, and worked around de
old printin' office downstairs for seven years. No, I don't mean stage
manager--I mean property man--yes, had to rustle de props. And did we
have road shows dem days! Richards & Pringle's Georgia minstrels, de
Nashville students, Lyman Twins, Barlow Brothers Minstrels, and--oh,
ever so many more--yes, Daisy, de Missouri Girl, wid Fred Raymond. Never
kin forgit old black Billy Kersands, wid his mouf a mile wide!
"De songs we used to sing in old days when I was a kid after de War
wasn't no purtier dan what we used to sing wid our own minstrel show
when we was at our best twenty-five and thirty years ago; songs like
'Jungletown,' 'Red Wing,' and 'Mammy's Li'l Alabama Coon.' Our circuit
used to be around Holla Bend, Dover, Danville, Ola, Charleston, Nigger
Ridge, out from Pottsville, and we usually starred off at the old opery
house in Russellville, of course.
"I been married, but ain't married now. We couldn't git along somehow.
Yes suh, I been right here workin' stiddy for a long time. Been janitor
at two or three places same time; was janitor of de senior high school
here for twenty-two years, and at de Bank of Russellville twenty-nine
years.
"Folks always been mighty nice to me--and no slave ever had a finer
master dan old Captain Scott.
"In de old show days de manager of de opery always said. 'Let de
niggers see de show,' and sometimes de house was half full of colored
folks--white folks on one side de house and niggahs on de other--and
dere never was any disturbance of any kind. Ain't no sich good times now
as we had in de old road show days. No suh!"
NOTE: Sam Scott, who has been personally known to the interviewer
for many years, is above the average of the race for integrity and
truthfulness. His statement that he was born a few years after slavery
and that his father died during slavery was not questioned the matter
being a delicate personal affair and of no special moment.
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Cora Scroggins, Clarendon, Arkansas
Age: 48 or 50
"My mother was born in Spring Hill, Tennessee and brought to Arkansas by
her master. Her name was Margaret. Dr. and Mrs. Porter brought my mother
to Batesville, Arkansas when she was eight years old and raised her. She
was very light. She had long straight hair but was mixed with white. She
never knew much about her parents or people.
"Mr. William Brook (white) came to De Valls Bluff from Tennessee and
brought her sister soon after the War. She was a very black woman.
"Dr. Porter had a family. One of their daughters was Mrs. Mattie Long,
another Mrs. Willie Bowens. There were others. They were all fine to my
mother. She married in Dr. Porter's home. Mrs. Porter had learnt her to
sew. My father was a mechanic. My mother sewed for both black and white.
She was a fine dressmaker. She had eight children and raised six of us
up grown.
"My father was a tall rawbony brown man. His mother was an Indian squaw.
She lived to be one hundred seven years old. She lived about with her
children. The white folks all called her 'Aunt Matildy' Tucker. She was
a small woman, long hair and high cheek bones. She wore a shawl big as a
sheet purty nigh all time and smoked a pipe. I was born in Batesville.
"My mother spoke of her one long journey on the steamboat and
stagecoach. That was when she was brought to Arkansas. It made a
memorable picture in her mind.
"Dr. and Mrs. Porter told her she was free and she could go or stay. And
she had nowheres to go and she had always lived with them white folks.
She never did like black folks' ways and she raised us near like she was
raised as she could.
"She used to tell us how funny they dressed and how they rode at night
all through the country. She seen them and she could name men acted as
Ku Kluxes but they never bothered her and she wasn't afraid of them.
"I cooked all my life till I got disabled. I never had a child. I wish I
had a girl. I've been considered a fine cook all of my life."
Circumstances of Interview
STATE--Arkansas
NAME OF WORKER--Bernice Bowden
ADDRESS--1006 Oak Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas
DATE--November 4, 1938
SUBJECT--Ex-slaves
[TR: Repetitive information deleted from subsequent pages.]
1. Name and address of informant--Sarah Sexton, Route 4, Box 685, Pine
Bluff