Sarah and Sam Douglas [TR: The Library of Congress photo archive notes
"'Tom' written in pencil above 'Sam' in title."]
Millie Evans
[TR: Some interviews were date-stamped; these dates have been added
to interview headers in brackets. Where part of date could not be
determined -- has been substituted. These dates do not appear to
represent actual interview dates, rather dates completed interviews
were received or perhaps transcription dates.]
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Frank Cannon
R.F.D., two miles, Palestine, Arkansas
Age: 77
"I was born three miles west of Starkville, Mississippi on a pretty
tolerable large farm. My folks was bought from a speculator drove come
by. They come from Sanders in South Ca'lina. Master Charlie Cannon
bought a whole drove of us, both my grandparents on both sides. He had
five farms, big size farms. Saturday was ration day.
"Our master built us a church in our quarters and sont his preacher to
preach to us. He was a white preacher. Said he wanted his slaves to be
Christians.
"I never went to school in my life. I was taught by the fireside to be
obedient and not steal.
"We et outer trays hewed out of logs. Three of us would eat together. We
had wooden spoons the boys made whittling about in cold rainy weather.
We all had gourds to drink outer. When we had milk we'd get on our knees
and turn up the tray, same way wid pot-liquor. They give the grown up
the meat and us pot-liquor.
"Pa was a blacksmith. He got a little work from other plantations. The
third year of the surrender he bought us a cow. The master was dead. He
never went to war. He went in the black jack thickets. His sons wasn't
old enough to go to war. Pa seemed to like ole master. The overseer was
white looking like the master but I don't know if he was white man or
nigger. Ole master wouldn't let him whoop much as he pleased. Master
held him off on whooping.
"When the master come to the quarters us children line up and sit and
look at him. When he'd go on off we'd hike out and play. He didn't care
if we look at him.
"My pa was light about my color. Ma was dark. I heard them say she was
part Creek (Indian).
"Folks was modester before the children than they are now. The children
was sent to play or git a bucket cool water from the spring. Everything
we said wasn't smart like what children say now. We was seen and not
heard. Not seen too much or somebody be stepping 'side to pick up a
brush to nettle our legs. Then we'd run and holler both.
"Now and then a book come about and it was hid. Better not be caught
looking at books.
"Times wasn't bad 'ceptin' them speculator droves and way they got
worked too hard and frailed. Some folks was treated very good, some
killed.
"Folks getting mean now. They living in hopes and lazing about. They
work some."
Interviewer: Bernice Bowden
Person Interviewed: Zenie Cauley
1000 Louisiana
Pine Bluff, Ark.
Age: 78
[-- 7 1938]
"I member when they freed the people.
"I was born in Bedie Kellog's yard and I know she said, 'Zenie, I hate
to give you up, I'd like to keep you.' But my mother said, 'No, ma'am, I
can't give Zenie up.'
"We still stayed there on the place and I was settled and growed up when
I left there.
"I'm old. I feels my age too. I may not look old but I feels it.
"Yes ma'am, I member when they carried us to church under bresh arbors.
Old folks had rags on their hair. Yes'm, I been here.
"My father was a Missionary Baptist preacher and he _was_ a preacher.
Didn't know 'A' from 'B' but he was a preacher. Everbody knowed Jake
Alsbrooks. He preached all over that country of North Carolina. They'd
be as many white folks as colored. They'd give him _money_ and he never
called for a collection in his life. Why one Sunday they give him
sixty-five dollars to help buy a horse.
"Fore I left the old county, I member the boss man, Henry Grady, come by
and tell my mother, 'I'm gwine to town now, have my dinner ready when I
come back--kill a chicken.' She was one of the cooks. Used to have us
chillun pick dewberries and blackberries and bring em to the house.
"Yes, I done left there thirty-six years--will be this August.
"When we was small, my daddy would make horse collars, cotton baskets
and mattresses at night and work in the field in the daytime and preach
on Sunday. He fell down in Bedie Kellog's lot throwin' up shucks in the
barn. He was standin' on the wagon and I guess he lost his balance. They
sent and got the best doctor in the country and he said he broke his
nabel string. They preached his funeral ever year for five years. Seemed
like they just couldn't give him up.
"White folks told my mother if she wouldn't marry again and mess up
Uncle Jake's chillun, they'd help her, but she married that man and he
beat us so I don't know how I can remember anything. He wouldn't let us
go to school. Had to work and just live like pigs.
"Oh, I used to be a tiger bout work, but I fell on the ice in
'twenty-nine and I ain't never got over it. I said I just had a death
shock.
"I never went to school but three months in my life. Didn't go long
enough to learn anything.
"I was bout a mile from where I was born when I professed religion. My
daddy had taught us the right way. I tell you, in them days you couldn't
join the church unless you had been changed.
"I come here when they was emigratin' the folks here to Arkansas."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Liney Chambers, Brinkley, Arkansas
Age:
[TR: Some word pronunciation was marked in this interview. Letters
surrounded by [] represent long vowels.]
"I was born in Tennessee close to Memphis. I remember seein' the
Yankees. I was most too little to be very scared of them. They had their
guns but they didn't bother us. I was born a slave. My mother cooked for
Jane and Silas Wory. My mother's name was Caroline. My father's name was
John. An old bachelor named Jim Bledsoe owned him. When the war was over
I don't remember what happened. My mother moved away. She and my father
didn't live together. I had one brother, Proctor. I expect he is dead.
He lived in California last I heard of him.
"They just expected freedom all I ever heard. I know they didn't expect
the white folks to give them no land cause the man what owned the land
bought it hisself foe he bought the hands whut he put on it. They
thought they was ruined bad enouf when the hands left them. They kept
the land and that is about all there was left. Whut the Yankees didn't
take they wasted and set fire to it. They set fire to the rail fences so
the stock would get out all they didn't kill and take off. Both sides
was mean. But it seemed like cause they was fightin' down here on the
Souths ground it was the wurst here. Now that's just the way I sees it.
They done one more thing too. They put any colored man in the front
where he would get killed first and they stayed sorter behind in the
back lines. When they come along they try to get the colored men to go
with them and that's the way they got treated. I didn't know where
anybody was made to stay on after the war. They was lucky if they had a
place to stay at. There wasn't anything to do with if they stayed. Times
was awful unsettled for a long time. People whut went to the cities
died. I don't know they caught diseases and changing the ways of eatin'
and livin' I guess whut done it. They died mighty fast for awhile. I
knowed some of them and I heard 'em talking.
"That period after the war was a hard time. It sho was harder than the
depression. It lasted a long time. Folks got a lots now besides what
they put up with then. Seemed like they thought if they be free they
never have no work to do and jess have plenty to eat and wear. They
found it different and when it was cold they had no wood like they been
used to. I don't believe in the colored race being slaves cause of the
color but the war didn't make times much better for a long time. Some of
them had a worse time. So many soon got sick and died. They died of
Consumption and fevers and nearly froze. Some near 'bout starved. The
colored folks just scattered 'bout huntin' work after the war.
"I heard of the Ku Klux but I never seen one.
"I never voted. I don't believe in it.
"I never heard of any uprisings. I don't know nobody in that rebellion
(Nat Turner).
"I used to sing to my children and in the field.
"I lived on the farm till I come to my daughters to live. I like it
better then in town. We homesteaded a place at Grunfield (Zint) and my
sister bought it. We barely made a living and never had money to lay up.
"I don't know what they'll (young generation) do. Things going so fast.
I'm glad I lived when I did. I think it's been the best time for p[o]r
folks. Some now got too much and some not got nothin'. That what I
believe make times seem so hard."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Willie Buck Charleston, Jr., Biscoe, Arkansas
Age: 74
"I was born up here on the Biscoe place before Mr. Biscoe was heard of
in this country. I'm for the world like my daddy. He was light as I is.
I'm jus' his size and make. There was three of us boys. Dan was the
oldest; he was my own brother, and Ed was my half-brother. My daddy was
a fellar of few words and long betwix' 'em. He was in the Old War (Civil
War). He was shot in his right ankle and never would let it be took out.
Mother had been a cook. She and my grandmother was sold in South
Carolina and brought out here. Mother's name was Sallie Harry. Judging
by them being Harrys that might been who owned them before they was
sold. She was about as light as me. Mother died when I was a litter bit
er of a fellar. Then me and Dan lived from house to house. Grandma Harry
and my Aunt Mat and Jesse Dove raised us. My daddy married right er way
ag'in.
"I recollect mighty little about the war. We lived back in the woods and
swamps. I was afraid of the soldiers. I seen them pass by. I was so
little I can barely recollect seeing them and hiding from them.
"When we lived over about Forrest City I seen the Ku Klux whoop Joe Saw
and Bill Reed. It was at night. They was tied to trees and whooped with
a leather snake whoop. I couldn't say how it come up but they sure
poured it on them. There was a crowd come up during the acting. I was
scared to death then. After then I had mighty little use for dressed-up
folks what go around at night (Ku Klux). I can tell you no sich thing
ever took place as I heard of at Biscoe. We had our own two officers and
white officers and we get along all the time tollerably well together."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Lewis Chase; Des Arc, Arkansas
Age: 90?
[TR: Some word pronunciation was marked in this interview. Letters
surrounded by [] represent long vowels.]
"I answer all your questions I knows lady.
"When de Civil War goin on I heard lots folks talking. I don't know what
all they did say. It was a war mong de white folks. Niggers had no say
in it. Heap ob them went to wait on their masters what went to fight.
Niggers didn't know what the fight war bout. Yankey troops come take
everything we had made, take it to the Bluff (DeValls Bluff), waste it
and eat it. He claim to be friend to the black man an do him jes dater
way. De niggers what had any sense tall stuck to the white folks.
Niggers what I knowed didn't spec nothin an they sho didn't get nothin
but freedom.
"I was sold. Yes mam I sho was. Jes put up on a platform and auctioned
off. Sold right here in Des Arc. Nom taint right. My old mistress [Mrs.
Snibley] whoop me till I run off and they took me back when they found
out where I lef from. I stayed way bout two weeks.
"One man I sho was glad didn't get me cause he whoop me. N[o]'[o]m he
didn't get me. I heard him puttin up the prices and I sho hope he didn't
get me.
"I don't know whar I come from. Old Missus Snibley kept my hat pulled
down over my face so I couldn't see de way to go back. I didn't want to
come and I say I go right back. Whar I set, right between old missus and
master on de front seat ob de wagon and my ma set between missus
Snibley's two girls right behind us. I recken it was a covered wagon.
The girls name was Florence and Emma. Old master Snibley never whip me
but old Missus sho did pile it on me. Noom I didn't lack her. I run
away. He died f[o] the war was over. I did leave her when de war was
over.
"I saw a heap ob bushwhackers and carpet bagger but I nebber seed no Ku
Klux. I heard battles of the bushwhackers out at the Wattensaw bridge
[Iron bridge]. I was scared might near all de time for four years. Noom
I didn't want no soldiers to get me.
"I recken I wo long britches when de war started cause when I pulled off
dresses I woe long britches. Never wo no short ones. Nigger boys and
white boys too wore loose dresses till they was four, five or six years
old in them times. They put on britches when they big nough to help at
the field.
"I worked at the house and de field. I'se farmed all my life.
"I vote [HW: many] a time. I don't know what I vote. Noom I don't! I
recken I votes Democrat, I don't know. It don't do no good. Noom I ain't
voted in a long time. I don't know nothin bout votin. I never did.
"Noom I never owned no land, noom no home neither. I didn't need no
home. The man I worked for give me a house on his place. I work for
another man and he give me a house on his land. I owned a horse one
time. I rode her.
"I don't know nuthin bout the young generation. I takes care bout
myself. Dats all I'm able to do now. Some ob dem work. Nom they don't
work hard as I did. I works now hard as they do. They ought to work. I
don't know what going to become ob them. I can't help what they do.
"The times is hard fo old folks cause they ain't able to work and heap
ob time they ain't no work fo em to do.
"Noom I lived at Bells, Arkansas for I come to Hickory Plains and Des
Arc. I don't know no kin but my mother. She died durin the war. Noom not
all de white folks good to the niggers. Some mean. They whoop em. Some
white folks good. Jes lak de niggers, deres some ob em mighty good and
some ob em mean.
"I works when I can get a little to do and de relief gives me a little.
"I _am_ er hundred years old! Cause I knows I is. White folks all tell
you I am."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Katherine Clay, Forrest City, Arkansas
Age: 69
"I was born in West Point, Mississippi. My folks' owners was Master
Harris and Liddie Harris. My parent's name was Sely Sikes. She was
mother of seven children. Papa was name Owen Sikes. He never was
whooped. They had different owners. Both my grandparents was dead on
both sides. I never seen them.
"Mama said her owners wasn't good. Her riding boss put a scar on her
back she took to her grave. It was deep and a foot long. He wanted to
whoop her naked. He had the colored men hold her and he whooped her. She
run off and when her owner come home she come to him at his house and
told him all about it. She had been in the woods about a week she
reckon. She had a baby she had left. The old mistress done had it
brought to her. She was nursing it. She had a sicking baby of her own.
She kept that baby. Mama said her breast was way out and the doctor had
to come wait on her; it nearly ruined.
"Mama said her master was so mad he cursed the overseer, paid him, and
give him ten minutes to leave his place. He left in a hurry. That was
her very first baby. She was raising a family, so they put her a nurse
at the house. She had been ploughing. She had big fine children. They
was proud of them. She raised a big family. She took care of all her and
Miss Liddie's babies and washed their hippins. Never no soap went on
them she said reason she had that to do. Another woman cooked and
another woman washed.
"Mama said she was sold once, away from her mother but they let her have
her four children. She grieved for her old mama, 'fraid she would have a
hard time. She sold for one thousand dollars. She said that was half
price but freedom was coming on. She never laid eyes on her mama ag'in.
"After freedom they had gone to another place and the man owned the
place run the Ku Klux off. They come there and he told them to go on
away, if he need them he would call them back out there. They never came
back, she said. They was scared to death of the Ku Klux. At the place
where they was freed all the farm bells rung slow for freedom. That was
for miles about. Their master told them up at his house. He said it was
sad thing, no time for happiness, they hadn't 'sperienced it. But for
them to come back he would divide long as what he had lasted. They
didn't go off right at first. They was several years getting broke up.
Some went, some stayed, some actually moved back. Like bees trying to
find a setting place. Seem like they couldn't get to be satisfied even
being free.
"I had eleven children my own self. I let the plough fly back and hit me
once and now I got a tumor there. I love to plough. I got two children
living. She comes to see me. She lives across over here. I don't hear
from my boy. I reckon he living. I gets help from the relief on account
I can't work much with this tumor."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Maria Sutton Clemments, DeValls Bluff, Ark.
Age: Between 85 and 90 years
[TR: Also reported as Maria Sutton Clements]
I don't know jes how old I is. Yes mum I show do member the war jes lack
as if it was yesterday. I was born in Lincoln County, Georgia. My old
mistress was named Frances Sutton. She was a real old lady. Her husband
was dead. She had two sons Abraham and George. One of them tried to get
old missus to sell my ma jes before the war broke out. He wanter sell
her cause she too old to bear children. Sell her and buy young woman
raise mo children to sell. Put em in the nigger drove and speculate on
em. Young nigger, not stunted, strong made, they look at their wristes
and ankles and chestes, bout grown bring the owner fifteen hundred
dollars. Yea mam every cent of it. Two weeks after baby born see the
mother carrin it cross the field fur de old woman what kept all the
children and she be going right on wid de hoe all day. When de sun come
up the niggers all in the field and workin when de ridin boss come wid
de dogs playin long after him. If they didn't chop dat cotton jes right
he have em tied up to a stake or a big saplin and beat him till de blood
run out the gashes. They come right back and take up whar they lef off
work. Two chaps make a hand soon as dey get big nuf to chop out a row.
Had plenty to eat; meat, corncake and molasses, peas and garden stuff.
They didn't set out no variety fo the niggers. They had pewter bowls to
eat outer and spoons. Eat out in the yard, at the cabins, in the
kitchen. Eat different places owin to what you be workin at when the
bell rung. Big bell on a high post.
My ma's name was Sina Sutton. She come from Virginia in a nigger traders
drove when she was sixteen years old and Miss Frances husband bought er.
She had nine childen whut lived. I am de youngest. She died jes before
de war broke out. Till that time I had been trained a house girl. My ma
was a field hand. Then when the men all went to the army I plowed. I
plowed four years I recken, till de surrender. Howd I know it was
freedom? A strange woman--I never seed fore, came runnin down where we
was all at work. She say loud as she could "Hay freedom. You is free."
Everything toe out fer de house and soldiers was lined up. Dats whut
they come by fer. Course dey was Yankee soldiers settin the colored
folks all free. Everybody was gettin up his clothes and leaving. They
didn't know whar des goin. Jes scatterin round. I say give 'em somethin.
They was so mad cause they was free and leavin and nobody to work the
land. The hogs and stock was mostly all done gone then. White folks sho
had been rich but all they had was the land. The smoke houses had been
stripped and stripped. The cows all been took off cept the scrubs. Folks
plowed ox and glad to plow one.
Sometime we had a good time. I danced till I joined the church. We
didn't have no nigger churches that I knowed till after freedom. Go to
the white folks church. We danced square dance jess like the white folks
long time ago. The niggers baptized after the white folks down at the
pond. They joined the white folks church sometimes. The same woman on
the place sewed for de niggers, made some things for Miss Frances. I
recollects that. She knitted and seed about things. She showed the
nigger women how to sew. All the women on the place could card and spin.
They sat around and do that when too bad weather to be on the ground.
They show didn't teach them to read. They whoop you if they see you have
a book. If they see you gang round talkin, they say they talkin bout
freedom or equalization. They scatter you bout.
When they sell you, they take you off. See drove pass the house. Men be
ridin wid long whips of cow hide wove together and the dogs. The slaves
be walkin, some cryin cause they left their folks. They make em stand in
a row sometimes and sometimes they put em up on a high place and auction
em.
The pore white folks whut not able to buy hands had to work their own
land. There shore was a heap of white folks what had no slaves. Some ob
dem say theys glad the niggers got turned loose, maybe they could get
them to work for them sometimes and pay em.
When you go to be sold you have to say what they tell you to say. When a
man be unruly they sell him to get rid of him heap of times. They call
it sellin nigger meat. No use tryin run off they catch you an bring you
back.
I don't know that there was ever a thought made bout freedom till they
was fightin. Said that was what it was about. That was a white mans war
cept they stuck a few niggers in front ob the Yankee lines. And some ob
the men carried off some man or boy to wait on him. He so used to bein
waited on. I ain't takin sides wid neither one of dem I tell you.
If der was anything to be knowed the white folks knowed it. The niggers
get passes and visit round on Saturday evening or on Sunday jes mongst
theirselves and mongst folks they knowed at the other farms round.
When dat war was done Georgia was jes like being at the bad place. You
couldn't stay in the houses fear some Ku Klux come shoot under yo door
and bust in wid hatchets. Folks hide out in de woods mostly. If dey hear
you talkin they say you talkin bout equalization. They whoop you. You
couldn't be settin or standing talkin. They come and ask you what he
been tell you. That Ku Klux killed white men too. They say they put em
up to hold offices over them. It was heap worse in Georgia after freedom
than it was fore. I think the poor nigger have to suffer fo what de
white man put on him. We's had a hard time. Some of em down there in
Georgia what didn't get into the cities where they could get victuals
and a few rags fo cold weather got so pore out in the woods they nearly
starved and died out. I heard em talk bout how they died in piles.
Niggers have to have meat to eat or he get weak. White folks didn't have
no meat, no flour.
The folks was after some people and I run off and kept goin till I
took up with some people. The white folks brought them to
Tennessee--Covington--I come too. They come in wagons. My father, he got
shot and I never seed him no mo. He lived on another farm fo de war. I
lived wid them white folks till bout nine years and I married. My old
man wanted to come to dis new country. Heard so much talk how fine it
was. Then I had run across my brother. He followed me. One brother was
killed in the war somehow. My brother liked Memphis an he stayed there.
We come on the train. I never did like no city.
We farmed bout, cleared land. Never got much fo the hard work we done.
The white man done learned how to figure the black folks out of what was
made cept a bare living.
I could read a little and write. He could too. We went to school a
little in Tennessee.
When we got so we not able to work hard he come to town and carpentered,
right here, and I cooked fo Mr. Hopkins seven years and fo Mr. Gus
Thweatt and fo Mr. Nick Thweatt. We got a little ahead then by the
hardest. I carried my money right here [bag on a string tied around her
waist]. We bought a house and five acres of land. No mum I don't own it
now. We got in hard luck and give a mortgage. They closed us out. Mr.
Sanders. They say I can live there long as I lives. But they owns it. My
garden fence is down and won't nobody fix it up fo me. They promises to
come put the posts in but they won't do it and I ain't able no mo. I had
a garden this year. Spoke fo a pig but the man said they all died wid
the kolerg [cholera]. So I ain't got no meat to eat dis year.
I ain't never had a chile. I ain't got nobody kin to me livin dat I
knows bout. When I gets sick a neighbor woman comes over and looks after
me.
I thinks if de present generation don't get killed they die cause they
too lazy to work. No mum dey don't know nuthin bout work. They ain't got
no religion. They so smart they don't pay no tention to what you advise
em. I never tries to find out what folks doin and the young generation
is killin time. I sho never did vote. I don't believe in it. The women
runnin the world now. The old folks ain't got no money an the young ones
wastes theirs. Theys able to make it. They don't give the old folks
nuthin. The times changes so much I don't know what goiner come next. I
jes stop and looks and listens to see if my eyes is foolin me. I can't
see, fo de cataracts gettin bad, nohow. Things is heap better now fo de
young folks now if they would help derselves. I'm too wo out. I can't do
much like I could when I was young. The white folks don't cheat the
niggers outen what they make now bad as they did when I farmed.
I never knowed about uprisings till the Ku Klux sprung up. I never heard
bout the Nat Turner rebellion. I tell you bout the onliest man I knowed
come from Virginia. A fellow come in the country bout everybody called
Solomon. Dis long fo the war. He was a free man he said. He would go
bout mong his color and teach em fo little what they could slip him
along. He teached some to read. When freedom he went to Augusta. My
brother seed him and said "Solomon, what you doin here?" and he said "I
am er teaching school to my own color." Then he said they run him out of
Virginia cause he was learnin his color and he kept going. Some white
folks up North learned him to read and cipher. He used a black slate and
he had a book he carried around to teach folks with. He was what they
called a ginger cake color. They would whoop you if they seed you with
books learnin. Mighty few books to get holt of fo the war. We mark on
the ground. The passes bout all the paper I ever seed fo I come to
Tennessee. Then I got to go to school a little.
Whah would the niggers get guns and shoot to start a uprisin? Never had
none cept if a white man give it to him. When you a slave you don't have
nothin cept a big fireplace and plenty land to work. They cook on the
fireplace. Niggers didn't have no guns fo the war an nuthin to shoot in
one if he had one whut he picked up somewhere after the war. The Ku Klux
done the uprisin. They say they won't let the nigger enjoy freedom. They
killed a lot of black folks in Georgia and a few white folks whut they
said was in wid em. We darkies had nuthin to do wid freedom. Two or
three set down on you, take leaves and build a fire and burn their feet
nearly off. That the way the white folks treat the darky.
I never knowed nobody to hold office. Them whut didn't want to starve
got someplace whut he could hold a plow handle. You don't know whut hard
times is. Dem was hard times. They used to hide in big cane brakes,
nearly wild and nearly starved. Scared to come out. I ain't wanted to go
back to Georgia.
The folks I lived wid fo I come to Tennessee, he tanned hides down at
the branch and made shoes and he made cloth hats, wool hats. He sold
them. We farmed but I watched them up at the house minu a time.
One thing I recollect mighty well. Fo de war a big bellied great monster
man come in an folks made a big to do over him. He eat round and laughed
round havin a big time. His name was Mr. Wimbeish (?). He wo white
britches wid red stripes down the sides and a white shad tail coat all
trimmed round de edges wid red and a tall beaver hat. He blowed a bugle
and marched all the men every Friday ebening. He come to Miss Frances.
They fed him on pies and cakes and me brushin the flies off im and my
mouth fairly waterin for a chunk ob de cake. When de first shot of war
went off no more could be heard ob old Mr. Wimbeish. He lef an never was
heard tell ob no mo. _He said never was a Yankee had a hart he didn't
understand_! I never did know whut he was. He jess said that right
smart.
I gets the Old Age Pension and meets the wagon and gets a little
commodities. I works my garden and raises a few chickens round my house.
I trusts in de Lord and try to do right, honey, dat way I lives.
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Maria Sutton Clements, De Valls Bluff, Ark.
Age: Between 85 and 90
[TR: Also reported as Maria Sutton Clemments]
"Miss, I don't know a whole heap bout Mr. Wimbeish. I don't know no
other name that what they all call him. Some I heard say it like
Wimbush. He was a great big man, big in here [chest], big in here
[stomach]. He have hair bout color youn [light]. He have big blue eyes
jes' sparklin' round over the victuals on the table. He was a lively
man. He had a heap to tell and a heap to talk bout. He had fair skin and
rosy jaws--full round face. He laughed out loud pretty often. He looked
fine when he laughed too. They all was foolish bout him. He was a
newcommer in there. I don't know whah he stay. He come down the road
regular as Friday come, going to practice em marchin'. Looked like bout
fifty fellows. I never seed Mr. Wimbeish on a horse all time he passed
long that road. He miter jes' et round mong the people while he stayed
there. He wore red 'appletts' on his shoulders. I never seed him outer
that fresh starched white suit. It was fishtail coat and had red bands
stitched all round the edge and white breetches [britches] [TR:
'britches' is marked out by hand] with red bands down the side. He sure
was a young man. They had him bout different places eatin'. Old mistress
said, 'Fix up a good dinner today we gwiner have company.' That table
was piled full. It was fine eatin'. He say so much I couldn't forgit.
Never was a Yankee what have a heart he couldn't understand. I don't
know what he was. He was so different. He muster been a Southerner
'cause white folks would not treated him near that good. It was fo de
war. They say when the first bugle blowed fo war he was done gone an'
nebber been heard of till dis day. I heard some say last they seed him,
he was rollin' over an' over on the ground and the men run off to find
em nother captain. I don't know if they was tellin' like it took place.
I know I never seed him no more.