"It started outener the bushwhackers. Some say they didn't get what was
promised em at Shiloh Battle. They didn't get their rights. I don't know
what they meant by it. The bushwhackers ketch the men in day goiner
work--ketch em this way [by the shoulders or collar]. Such hollerin' and
scramblin' then you never heard. They hide behind big pine trees till he
come up then step out behind and grab him. They first come an' call fer
water. Plenty water in the well or down at the spring. They knowed it
too. Then they waste all you had brought up and say--'Ah! First drink I
had since I come from hell.' They all knowed ain't nobody come from
hell. They had hatchets an' they burst in your house. Jes' to scare you.
They shoot under your house. They wore their wives big wide nightgowns
and caps and ugliest faces you eber seed. They looked like a gang from
hell--ugliest things you ebber _did_ see. It was cold--ground spewed up
wid ice and men folks so scared they run out in woods, stay all night.
Old mistress died at the close of de war an' her son what was a
preacher, he put on a long preacher coat and breeches (britches) [TR:
'britches' is marked out by hand] all black. He put a navy six in his
belt and carried carbeen [carbine] on his shoulder. It was a long gun
shoot sixteen times. He was a dangerous man. He made the Ku Klux let his
folks alone. He walk all night bout his place. He say, 'Forward March!'
Then they pass by. He was a dangerous man. So much takin' place all time
I was scared nearly to death all time."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Maria Sutton Clements
De Valls Bluff, Arkansas
Age:
[Dec 31 1937]
[TR: Also reported as Maria Sutton Clemments]
"Missus, I thought if I'd see you agin I'd tell you this song:
'Jeff Davis is President
Abe Lincoln is a fool
Come here, see Jeff ride the gray horse
And Abe Lincoln the mule.'
"They sang all sich songs durin' of the war.
"Five wagons come by. They said it was Jeff Davise's wagons. They was
loaded wid silver money--all five--in Lincoln County, Georgia. Somehow
the folks got a whiz of it and got the money outen one the wagons.
Abraham, my old mistress' son had old-fashion saddle bag full. Sho it
was white folks all but two or three slaves. Hogs tore up sacks money,
find em hid in the woods. They thought it was corn. They found a leather
trunk full er money--silver money--down in the creek. Money buried all
round. The way it all started one colored man throwed down a bright dime
to a Yankee fo sompin he wanter buy. That started it all. They tied
their thumbs this way (thumbs crossed) behind em, then strung em up in
trees by their wrists behind em. It put heep of em in bed an' some most
died never did get over it. The Yankee soldiers come down that [HW:
then?] and got all the money nearly. They say the war last four years,
five months. Seemed like twenty years."
Interviewer: Pernella Anderson
Person Interviewed: Fannie Clemons
940 N. Washington
El Dorado, Ark.
Age: 78
"I was born down in Farmerville, Louisiana in the year of 1860. Now my
ma lived with some white people, but now the name of the people I do not
know. You see, child, I am old and I can't recollect so good. I didn't
know my pa cause my ma quit him when I was little. My ma said she worked
hard in the field like a black stepchild. My ma had nine chilluns and I
was the oldest of the nine. She said her old miss wouldn't let her come
to the house to nurse me, so she would slip up under the house and crawl
through a hole in the floor. She took and pulled a plank up so she could
slip through.
"I would drink any kind of water that I saw if I wanted a drink. If the
white folks poured out wash water and I wanted a drink that would do me.
It just made me fat and healthy. Most we played was tussling, and
couldn't no boy throw me. Nobody tried to whip me cause they couldn't.
"We always cooked on fireplaces and our cake was always molasses cakes.
At Christmas time we got candy and apples, but these oranges and bananas
and stuff like that wasn't out then. Bananas and oranges just been out a
few years. And sugar--we did not know about that. We always used sugar
from molasses. I don't think sugar been in session long. If it had I did
not get it.
"I got married when I was pretty old, I lived with my husband eight
years and he died. I had some children, but I stole them. The biggest
work I ever done was farm and we sure worked."
Interviewer: Watt McKinney
Person interviewed: Joe Clinton, Route 2, Marvell, Arkansas
Age: 86
"Uncle Joe" Clinton, on ex-Mississippi slave, lives on a small farm that
he owns a few miles north of Marvell, Arkansas. His wife has been dead
for a number of years and he has only one living child, if indeed his
boy, Joe, who left home fifteen years ago for Chicago and from whom no
word has been received since, is still alive. Due to the infirmities of
age "Uncle Joe" is unable to work and obtains his support from the
income received off the small acreage he rents each year to the Negro
family with whom he lives. Seated in an old cane-bottomed chair "Uncle
Joe" was dozing in the warm sunshine of on afternoon in early October as
I passed through the gate leading into the small yard enclosing his
cabin. Arousing himself on my approach, the old Negro offered me a
chair. I explained the purpose of my visit and this old man told me the
following story:
"I'se now past eighty-six year ole an' was borned in Panola County,
Mississippi 'bout three miles from Sardis. My ole mars was Mark
Childress, en he sure owned er heap of peoples, womens an' mens bofe, en
jus' gangs of chillun. I was real small when us lived in Panola County;
how-some-ever I riccolect it well when us all lef' dar and ole mars sold
out his land and took us all to de delta where he had bought a big
plantation 'bout two or three miles wide in Coahoma County not far from
Friar Point. De very place dat my mars bought and dat us moved to is
what dey call now, de 'Clover Hill Plantation'. De fust year dat us
lived in de delta, us stayed on de place what dey called de 'Swan Lake
Place'. Dat place is over dere close to Jonestown and de very place dat
Mr. Billy Jones and his son John bought, en dats zackly how come dat
town git its name. It was named for Mr. John Jones.
"My mars, Mark Childress, he never was married. He was a bachelor, en
I'se tellin' you dis, boss, he was a good, fair man and no fault was to
be found wid him. But dem overseers dat he had, dey was real mean. Dey
was cruel, least one of them was 'bout de cruelest white man dat I is
ever seen. Dat was Harvey Brown. Mars had a nephew what lived with him
named Mark Sillers. He was mars' sister's son and was named for my mars.
Mr. Mark Sillers, he helped with de runnin' of the place en sich times
dat mars 'way from home Mr. Mark, he the real boss den.
"Mr. Harvey Brown, the overseer, he mean sure 'nough I tell you, and de
onliest thing that keep him from beatin' de niggers up all de time would
be old mars or Mr. Mark Sillers. Bofe of dem was good and kind most all
de time. One time dat I remembers, ole mars, he gone back to Panola
County for somepin', en Mr. Mark Sillers, he attendin' de camp meeting.
That was de day dat Mr. Harvey Brown come mighty nigh killin' Henry.
I'll tell you how dat was, boss. It was on Monday morning that it
happened. De Friday before dat Monday morning, all of de hands had been
pickin' cotton and Mr. Harvey Brown didn't think dat Henry had picked
enough cotton dat day en so he give Henry er lashin' out in de field.
Dat night Henry, he git mad and burn up his sack and runned off and hid
in de canebrake 'long de bayou all of de nex' day. Mr. Harvey, he missed
Henry from de field en sent Jeff an' Randall to find him and bring him
in. Dey found Henry real soon en tell him iffen he don't come on back to
de field dat Mr. Harvey gwine to set de hounds on him. So Henry, he
comed on back den 'cause de niggers was skeered of dem wild bloodhounds
what they would set on 'em when dey try to run off.
"When Henry git back Mr. Harvey say, 'Henry, where your sack? And how
come you ain't pickin' cotton stid runnin' off like dat?' Henry say he
done burnt he sack up. Wid dat Mr. Harvey lit in to him like a bear,
lashin' him right and left. Henry broke en run den to de cook house
where he mammy, 'Aunt Mary', was, en Mr. Harvey right after him wid a
heavy stick of wood dat he picked up offen de yard. Mr. Harvey got Henry
cornered in de house and near 'bout beat dat nigger to death. In fact,
Mr. Harvey, he really think too dat he done kilt Henry 'cause he called
'Uncle Nat' en said, 'Nat, go git some boards en make er coffin for dis
nigger what I done kilt.'
"But Henry wasn't daid though he was beat up terrible en they put him in
de sick house. For days en days 'Uncle Warner' had to 'tend to him, en
wash he wounds, en pick de maggots outen his sores. Dat was jus' de way
dat Mr. Harvey Brown treated de niggers every time he git a chanct. He
would even lash en beat de wimmens.
"Ole mars had a right good size house in dar 'mongst de quarters where
dey kept all de babies en right young chillun whilst dey mammies workin'
in de fields pickin' en hoein' time. Old 'Aunt Hannah', an old granny
woman, she 'tend to all dem chillun. De chillun's mammies, dey would
come in from de fields about three times er day to let de babies suck.
Dere was er young nigger woman name Jessie what had a young baby. One
day when Jessie come to de house to let dat baby suck, Mr. Harvey think
she gone little too long. He give her a hard lashin'.
"Ole mars had a big cook house on de plantation right back in behind he
own house en twix his house en de nigger's quarters. Dat was where all
de cookin' done for all de niggers on de entire place. Aunt Mary, she de
head cook for de mars en all of de niggers too. All of de field hands
durin' crop time et dey breakfast en dey dinners in de field. I waited
on de table for mars en sort er flunkyed 'round da house en de quarters
en de barns, en too I was one of de young darkies what toted de buckets
of grub to de field hands.
"Ole mars had a house on de place too dat was called de 'sick house'.
Dat was where dem was put dat was sick. It was a place where dey was
doctored on en cared for till dey either git well er die. It was er sort
er hospital like. 'Uncle Warner', he had charge of de sick house, en he
could sure tell iffen you sick er not, or iffen you jus' tryin' to play
off from work.
"My pappy, he was named Bill Clinton en my mammy was named Mildred. De
reason how come I not named Childress for my mars is 'cause my pappy, he
named Clinton when mars git him from de Clintons up in Tennessee
somewhere. My mars, he was a good man jus' like I'm tellin' you. Mars
had a young nigger woman named Malinda what got married to Charlie
Voluntine dat belonged to Mr. Nat Voluntine dat had a place 'bout six
miles from our place. In dem days iffen one darky married somebody offen
de place where dey lived en what belonged to some other mars, dey didn't
git to see one annudder very often, not more'n once a month anyway. So
Malinda, she got atter mars to buy Charlie. Sure 'nough he done that
very thing so's dem darkies could live togedder. Dat was good in our
mars.
"When any marryin' was done 'mongst de darkies on de place in dem days,
dey would first hab to ask de mars iffen dey could marry, en iffen he
say dat dey could git married den dey would git ole 'Uncle Peyton' to
marry 'em. 'Course dere wasn't no sich thing as er license for niggers
to marry en I don't riccolect what it was dat 'Uncle Peyton' would say
when he done de marryin'. But I 'members well dat 'Uncle Peyton', he de
one dat do all of de marryin' 'mongst de darkies.
"My mars, he didn't go to de War but he sure sent er lot er corn en he
sent erbout three hundred head er big, fat hogs one time dat I 'members.
Den too, he sent somepin like twenty er thirty niggers to de Confedrites
in Georgia. I 'members it well de time dat he sent dem niggers. They was
all young uns, 'bout grown, en dey was skeered to death to be leavin' en
goin' to de War. Dey didn't know en cose but what dey gwine make 'em
fight. But mars tole 'em dat dey jus' gwine to work diggin' trenches en
sich; but dey didn't want to go nohow en Jeff an' Randall, they runned
off en come back home all de way from Georgia en mars let 'em stay.
"Boss, you has heered me tellin' dat my mars was er good, kine man en
dat his overseer, Mr. Harvey Brown, was terrible cruel, en mean, en
would beat de niggers up every chance he git, en you ask me how come it
was dat de mars would have sich a mean man er working for him. Now I'se
gwine to tell you de reason. You know de truth is de light, boss, an'
dis is de truth what I'se gwine to say. Mars, he in love with Mr. Harvey
Brown's wife, Miss Mary, and Miss Mary's young daughter, she was mars'
chile. Yas suh, she was dat. She wasn't no kin er tall to Mr. Harvey
Brown. Her name was Miss Markis, dats what it was. Mars had done willed
dat chile er big part of his property and a whole gang of niggers. He
was gwine give her Tolliver, Beckey, Aunt Mary, Austin, an' Savannah en
er heap more 'sides dat. But de War, it come on en broke mars up, en all
de darkies sot free, en atter dat, so I heered Mr. Harvey Brown en Miss
Mary, and de young lady Miss Markis, dey moved up North some place en I
ain't never heered no more from dem.
"Mr. Clarke and Mrs. Clarke what de town of Clarksdale is named for, dey
lived not far from our place. I knowed dem well. Albert, one of mars'
darkies, married Cindy, one of Mr. Clarke's women. General Forrest, I
know you is heered of him. I speck he 'bout de bes' general in de War.
He sure was a fine looking man en he wore a beard on he face. De
general, he had a big plantation down dere in Coahoma County where he
would come ever so offen. A lot of times he would come to our place en
take dinner wid ole mars, en I would be er waitin' on de table er takin'
dem de toddies on de front gallery where dey talkin' 'bout day bizness.
"Boss, you axed me if dey was any sich thing in slavery times as de
white men molestin' of de darky wimmen. Dere was a heap of dat went on
all de time an' 'course de wimmens, dey couldn't help deyselves and jus'
had to put up wid it. Da trouble wasn't from de mars of de wimmens I'se
ever knowed of but from de overseers en de outside white folks. Of
course all dat couldn't have been goin' on like it did without de mars
knowin' it. Dey jus' bound to know dat it went on, but I'se never heered
'bout 'em doin' nothin' to stop it. It jus' was dat way, en dey 'lowed
it without tryin' to stop all sich stuff as dat. You know dat niggers is
bad 'bout talkin' 'mongst demselves 'bout sich en sich er goin' on, and
some of mars' darkies, dey say dat Sam and Dick, what was two real light
colored boys, dat us had was mars' chillun. Dat was all talk. I nebber
did believe it 'cause dey nebber even looked like mars en he nebber
cared no more for dem dan any of the rest of de hands."
Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden
Person interviewed: Betty Coleman
1112-1/2 Indiana Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas
Age: 80
Occupation: Cotton Picker
[Dec 31 1937]
"My father belonged to Mr. Ben Martin and my mother and me belonged to
the Slaughters. I was small then and didn't know what the war was about,
but I remember seein' the Yankees and the Ku Klux.
"Old master had about fifteen or twenty hands but Mr. Martin had a
plenty--he had bout a hundred head.
"I member when the war was goin' on we was livin' in Bradley County. We
was goin' to Texas to keep the Yankees from gettin' us. I member Mr. Gil
Martin was just a young lad of a boy. We got as far as Union County and
I know we stopped there and stayed long enough to make two crops and
then peace was declared so we cane back to Warren.
"While the war was goin' on, I member when my mother took a note to some
soldiers in Warren and asked em to come and play for Miss Mary. I know
they stood under a sycamore and two catawba trees and played. There was
a perty big bunch of em. Us chillun was glad to hear it. I member just
as well as if 'twas yesterday.
"I member when the Yankees come and took all of Miss Mary's silver--took
every piece of it. And another time they got three or four of the
colored men and made em get a horse apiece and ride away with em
bareback. Yankees was all ridin' iron gray horses, and lookin' just as
mad. Oh Lord, yes, they rid right up to the gate. All the horses was
just alike--iron gray. Sho was perty horses. Them Yankees took
everything Miss Mary had.
"After the war ended we stayed on the place one year and made a crop and
then my father bought fifty acres of Mr. Ben Martin. He paid some on it
every year and when it was paid for Mr. Ben give him a deed to it.
"I'm the only child my mother had. She never had but me, one. I went to
school after the war and I member at night I'd be studyin' my lesson and
rootin' potatoes and papa would tell us stories about the war. I used to
love to hear him on long winter evenings.
"I stayed right there till I married. My father had cows and he'd kill
hogs and had a peach orchard, so we got along fine. Our white folks was
always good to us."
Interviewer: Thomas Elmore Lucy
Person interviewed: Lucy Cotton
Russellville, Arkansas
Age: 72
[Jan 7 1938]
"Lucy Cotton's my name, and I was born on the tenth day of June, 1865,
jist two months after the surrender. No suh, I ain't no kin to the other
Cottons around here, so far as I knows. My mother was Jane Hays, and she
was owned by a master named Wilson.
"I've belonged to the Holiness Church six years. (They call us
'Holiness,' but the real name is Pentecostal.)
"Yes suh, there's a heap of difference in folks now 'an when I was a
girl--especially among the young people. I think no woman, white or
black, has got any business wastin' time around the votin' polls. Their
place is at home raisin' a family. I hear em sometimes slinging out
their 'damns' and it sure don't soun' right to me.
"Good day, mistah. I wish you well--but the gov'ment ain't gonna do
nothing. It never has yit."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: T.W. Cotton, Helena, Arkansas
Age: 80
[May 11 1938]
"I was born close to Indian Bay. I belong to Ed Cotton. Mother was sold
from John Mason between Petersburg and Richmond, Virginia. Three sisters
was sold and they give grandma and my sister in the trade. Grandma was
so old she wasn't much account fer field work. Mother left a son she
never seen ag'in. Aunt Adeline's boy come too. They was put on a block
but I can't recollect where it was. If mother had a husband she never
said nothing 'bout him. He muster been dead.
"Now my papa come from La Grange, Tennessee. Master Bowers sold him to
Ed Cotton. He was sold three times. He had one scar on his shoulder. The
patrollers hit him as he went over the fence down at Indian Bay. He was
a Guinea man. He was heavy set, not very tall. Generally he carried the
lead row in the field. He was a good worker. They had to be quiet wid
him to get him to work. He would run to the woods. He was a fast runner.
He lived to be about a hundred years old. I took keer of him the last
five years of his life. Mother was seventy-one years old when she died.
She was the mother of twenty-one children.
"Sure, I do remember freedom. After the Civil War ended, Ed Cotton
walked out and told papa: 'Rob, you are free.' We worked on till 1866
and we moved to Joe Lambert's place. He had a brother named Tom Lambert.
Father never got no land at freedom. He got to own 160 acres, a house on
it, and some stock. We all worked and helped him to make it. He was a
hard worker and a fast hand.
"I farmed all my life till fifteen years ago I started trucking here in
Helena. I gets six dollars assistance from the Sociable Welfare and some
little helpouts as I calls it--rice and potatoes and apples. I got one
boy fifty-five years old if he be living. I haven't seen him since 1916.
He left and went to Chicago. I got a girl in St. Louis. I got a girl
here in Helena. I jus' been up to see her. I had nine children. I been
married twice. I lived with my first wife thirteen years and seven
months. She died. I lived with my second wife forty years and some
over--several weeks. She died.
"I was a small boy when the Civil War broke out. Once I got a awful
scare. I was perched up on a post. The Yankees come up back of the house
and to my back. I seen them. I yelled out, 'Yonder come Yankees.' They
come on cussing me. Aunt Ruthie got me under my arms and took me to Miss
Fannie Cotton. We lived in part of their house. Walter (white) and me
slept together. Mother cooked. Aunt Ruthie was a field hand. Aunt
Adeline must have been a field hand too. She hung herself on a black
jack tree on the other side of the pool. It was a pool for ducks and
stock.
"She hung herself to keep from getting a whooping. Mother raised
(reared) her boy. She told mother she would kill herself before she
would be whooped. I never heard what she was to be whooped for. She
thought she would be whooped. She took a rope and tied it to a limb and
to her neck and then jumped. Her toes barely touched the ground. They
buried her in the cemetery on the old Ed Cotton place. I never seen her
buried. Aunt Ruthie's grave was the first open grave I ever seen. Aunt
Mary was papa's sister. She was the oldest.
"I would say anything to the Yankees and hang and hide in Miss Fannie's
dress. She wore long big skirts. I hung about her. Grandma raised me on
a bottle so mother could nurse Walter (white). There was something wrong
wid Miss Fannie. We colored children et out of trays. They hewed them
out of small logs. Seven or eight et together. We had our little cups.
Grandma had a cup for my water. We et with spoons. It would hold a peck
of something to eat. I nursed my mother four weeks and then mama raised
Walter and grandma raised me. Walter et out of our tray many and many a
time. Mother had good teeth and she chewed for us both. Henry was
younger than Walter. They was the only two children Miss Fannie had.
Grandma washed out our tray soon as ever we quit eating. She'd put the
bread in, then pour the meat and vegetables over it. It was good.
"Did you ever hear of Walter Cotton, a cancer doctor? That was him. He
may be dead now. Me and him caused Aunt Sue to get a whooping. They had
a little pear tree down twix the house and the spring. Walter knocked
one of the sugar pears off and cut it in halves. We et it. Mr. Ed asked
'bout it. Walter told her Aunt Sue pulled it. She didn't come by the
tree. He whooped her her declaring all the time she never pulled it nor
never seen it. I was scared then to tell on Walter. I hope eat it. Aunt
Sue had grown children.
"The Ku Klux come through the first and second gates to papa's house and
he opened the door. They grunted around. They told papa to come out. He
didn't go and he was ready to hurt them when they come in. He told them
when he finished that crop they could have his room. He left that year.
They come in on me once before I married. I was at my girl's house. They
wanted to be sure we married. The principal thing they was to see was
that you didn't live in the house wid a woman till you be married. I
wasn't married but I soon did marry her. They scared us up some.
"I don't know if times is so much better for some or not. Some folks
won't work. Some do work awful hard. Young folks I'm speaking 'bout.
Times is mighty fast now. Seems like they get faster and faster every
way. I'll be eighty years old this May. I was born in 1858."
Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor
Person interviewed: Ellen Cragin
815-1/2 Arch Street, Little Rock, Arkansas
Age: Around 80 or more
[May 31 1939]
[HW: Escapes on Cow]
"I was born on the tenth of March in some year, I don't know what one. I
don't know whether it was in the Civil War or before the Civil War. I
forget it. I think that I was born in Vicksburg, Mississippi; I'm not
sure, but I think it was.
"My mother was a great shouter. One night before I was born, she was at
a meeting, and she said, 'Well, I'll have to go in, I feel something.'
She said I was walkin' about in there. And when she went in, I was born
that same night.
"My mother was a great Christian woman. She raised us right. We had to
be in at sundown. If you didn't bring it in at sundown, she'd whip
you,--whip you within an inch of your life.
"She didn't work in the field. She worked at a loom. She worked so long
and so often that once she went to sleep at the loom. Her master's boy
saw her and told his mother. His mother told him to take a whip and wear
her out. He took a stick and went out to beat her awake. He beat my
mother till she woke up. When she woke up, she took a pole out of the
loom and beat him nearly to death with it. He hollered, 'Don't beat me
no more, and I won't let 'em whip you.'
"She said, 'I'm goin' to kill you. These black titties sucked you, and
then you come out here to beat me.' And when she left him, he wasn't
able to walk.
"And that was the last I seen of her until after freedom. She went out
and got on an old cow that she used to milk--Dolly, she called it. She
rode away from the plantation, because she knew they would kill her if
she stayed.
"My mother was named Luvenia Polk. She got plumb away and stayed away.
On account of that, I was raised by my mother. She went to Atchison,
Kansas--rode all through them woods on that cow. Tore her clothes all
off on those bushes.
"Once a man stopped her and she said, 'My folks gone to Kansas and I
don't know how to find 'em.' He told her just how to go.
"My father was an Indian. 'Way back in the dark days, his mother ran
away, and when she came up, that's what she come with--a little Indian
boy. They called him 'Waw-_hoo_'che.' His master's name was Tom Polk.
Tom Polk was my mother's master too. It was Tom Polk's boy that my
mother beat up.
"My father wouldn't let nobody beat him either. One time when somethin'
he had did didn't suit Tom Polk--I don't know what it was--they cut
sores on him that he died with. Cut him with a raw-hide whip, you know.
And then they took salt and rubbed it into the sores.
"He told his master, 'You have took me down and beat me for nothin', and
when you do it again, I'm goin' to put you in the ground.' Papa never
slept in the house again after that. They got scared and he was scared
of them. He used to sleep in the woods.
"They used to call me 'Waw-hoo'che' and 'Red-Headed Indian Brat.' I got
in a fight once with my mistress' daughter,--on account of that.
"The children used to say to me, 'They beat your papa yesterday.'
"And I would say to them, 'They better not beat my papa,' and they would
go up to the house and tell it, and I would beat 'em for tellin' it.
"There was an old white man used to come out and teach papa how to read
the Bible.
"Papa said, 'Ain't you 'fraid they'll kill you if they see you?'
"The old man said, 'No; they don't know what I'm doing, and don't you
tell 'em. If you do, they will kill me.'