"No, ma'am. I ain't got no folks. They've all died out. My son, he may
be alive. When I last heard from him, he was in Pine Bluff. But I wrote
down lots of times and nobody can't find him. Brother said, that was
before he died, that I could stay on in the place as long as I lived.
His wife come to see me some years back and she said it was that way.
The comodity gives me milk, and a little beside. I'm expectin' to hear
if I get the pension, Tuesday. No ma'am, I ain't worked in three years.
Yes, ma'am, I was a slave. I was about 8 years old when they mustered
'em out the last time.
My daddy went along to take care of his young master. He died, and my
daddy brought his horse and all his belongings home.
You see it was this way. My mother was a run-away slave. She was from,
what's that big state off there--Virginia--yes, ma'am, that's it. There
was a pretty good flock of them. They came into North Carolina--Wayne
County was where John Elliott found them. They was in a pretty bad way.
They didn't have no place to go and they didn't have nothing to eat.
They didn't have nobody to own 'em. They didn't know what to do. My
mother was about 13.
By some means or other they met up with a man named John Elliott. He was
a teacher. He struck a bargain with them. He pitched in and he bought
200 acres of land. He built a big house for Miss Polly and Bunk and
Margaret. Miss Polly was his sister. And he built cabins for the black
folks.
And he says 'You stay here, and you take care of Miss Polly and the
children. Now mind, you raise lots to eat. You take care of the place
too. And if anybody bothers you you tell Miss Polly.' My Uncle Mose, he
was the oldest. He was a blacksmith. Jacob was the carpenter. 'Now look
here, Mose,' says Mister John, 'you raise plenty of hogs. Mind you give
all the folks plenty of meat. Then you take the rest to Miss Polly and
let her lock it in the smokehouse.' Miss Polly carried the key, but Mose
was head man and had dominion over the smokehouse.
They didn't get money to any extreme. But whatever they wanted, Miss
Polly would go along with them and they would buy it. They went to
Goldsboro. That was the biggest town near us. The patrollers never
bothered any of us. Once or twice they tried it. But Miss Polly wrote to
Mr. John. He'd write it all down like it ought to be. Then they didn't
bother us any more.
There was no speculation wid 'em like there was with other negro people.
They never had to go to the hiring ground. Mr. John built a church for
my mother and the other women who was running mates with her. And he
built a school for the children. Some other colored children tried to
come to the school too. They was welcome. But sometimes the white folks
would tear up the books of the colored children from outside that tried
to come.
Our folks stayed on and on. Mr. John was off teaching school most of the
time. We stayed on and on. Pretty soon there was about 150-200, of us.
Some of them was carpenters and some of them was this and some was that.
Mr. John even put in a mill. A groundhog saw mill, it was. Some white
men put it in. But it was the colored folks who run it. They all stayed
right on on the farm. There wasn't any white folks about at all, except
Miss Polly and Bunk and Margaret.
No, ma'am, after the war it didn't make much difference. We all stayed
on. We worked the place. And when we got a chance, Mr. John let us hire
out and keep the money. And if the folks wouldn't pay us, Mr. John would
write the Federal and the Federal would see that we got our money for
what we had worked. Mr. John was a mighty good man to us.
No ma'am. Nobody got discontented for a long time. Then some men come in
and messed them up. Told us that we could make more money other places.
And it was true too--if they had let us get the money. By that time Mr.
John, had died. Bunk had died too, Miss Margaret had grown up and
married. Her husband was managing the farm. He was good, but he wasn't
like Mr. John. So lots of us moved away.
But about not making money. Take me. I raised 14-16 bales of cotton. The
man who owned the land, I worked on halvers, sold it on the Liverpool
market. But he wouldn't pay me but about 1/3 of what he collected on my
half. And I says to him, 'You gets full price for your half, why can't I
get full price for mine?' And he says, 'It's against the rules.' And I
says, 'It ain't fair! And he says, 'It's the rules.' So after about six
years I quit farming. You can't make no money that way. Yes--you make
it, but you can't get it.
I went to town at Pine Bluff. There I got to mixing concrete. I made
pretty good at it, too. I stayed on for some years. Then I came to Hot
Springs. My brother was along with me. We both worked and after work we
built a house. It took us four years. But it was a good house. It has
six rooms in it. It makes a good home. My brother had the deed. But his
widow says I can stay on. The folks what lives in the rest of the house
are good to me.
When I got to Hot Springs I worked mixing concrete. There was lots of
sidewalks being made along about that time. Then I scatter dirt all
around where the court house is now. Then I worked at both of the very
biggest hotels. I washed. I washed cream pitchers--the little ones with
corners that were hard to clean.
No, I ain't worked in three years. It hard to try to get along. Some
states, they pays good pensions. I can't be here long--don't look like I
can be here long. Seems as if they could take care of me for the few
days I'm going to be on this earth. Seems like they could.
Interviewer: Mrs. Carol Graham
Person interviewed: Millie Evans
Age:
[Illustration: Millie Evans]
Yo' say yo' is in'rested in the lives of the slaves? Well, Miss, I is
one of 'em. Was born in 1849 but I don' know jus' when. My birthday
comes in fodder pullin' time cause my ma said she was pullin up till
bout a hour 'fore I was born. Was born in North Carolina and was a young
lady at the time of surrender.
I don' 'member ol' master's name; all I 'member is that we call 'em ol'
master an ol' mistress. They had bout a hundred niggers and they was
rich. Master always tended the men and mistress tended to us.
Ev'y mornin' bout fo' 'clock ol' master would ring de bell for us to git
up by an yo could hear dat bell ringin all over de plantation. I can
hear hit now. Hit would go ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling and I can see 'em
now stirrin in Carolina. I git so lonesome when I thinks bout times we
used to have. Twas better livin back yonder than now.
I stayed with my ma every night but my mistress raised me. My ma had to
work hard so ev'y time ol' mistress thought we little black chilluns was
hungry 'tween meals she would call us up to the house to eat. Sometime
she would give us johnny cake an plenty of buttermilk to drink wid it.
They had a long trough fo' us dat day would keep so clean. They would
fill dis trough wid buttermilk and all us chillun would git roun' th'
trough an drink wid our mouths an hol' our johnny cake wid our han's. I
can jus' see myself drinkin' now. Hit was so good. There was so many
black fo'ks to cook fuh that the cookin was done outdoors. Greens was
cooked in a big black washpot jus' like yo' boils clothes in now. An'
sometime they would crumble bread in the potlicker an give us spoons an
we would stan' roun' the pot an' eat. When we et our regular meals the
table was set under a chinaberry tree wid a oil cloth table cloth on
when dey called us to th' table they would ring the bell. But we didn'
eat out'n plates. We et out of gourds an had ho'made wood spoons. An' we
had plenty t'eat. Whooo-eee! Jus' plenty t'eat. Ol' master's folks
raised plenty o' meat an dey raise dey sugar, rice, peas, chickens,
eggs, cows an' jus' ev'ything good t'eat.
Ev'y ev'nin' at three 'clock ol' mistress would call all us litsy bitsy
chillun in an we would lay down on pallets an have to go to sleep. I can
hear her now singin' to us piccaninnies:
"Hush-a-bye, bye-yo'-bye, mammy's piccaninnies
Way beneath the silver shining moon
Hush-a-bye, bye-yo'-bye, mammy's piccaninnies
Daddy's little Carolina coons
Now go to sleep yo' little piccaninnies."
When I got big 'nough I nursed my mistress's baby. When de baby go to
sleep in de evenin' I woul' put hit in de cradle an' lay down by de
cradle an go to sleep. I played a heap when I was little. We played
Susannah Gal, jump rope, callin' cows, runnin', jumpin', skippin', an
jus' ev'ythin' we could think of. When I got big 'nough to cook, I
cooked den.
The kitchen of the big house was built way off f'om the house and we
cooked on a great big ol' fi' place. We had swing pots an would swing
'em over the fire an cook an had a big ol' skillet wi' legs on hit. We
call hit a ubben an cooked bread an cakes in it.
We had the bes' mistress an master in the worl' and they was Christian
fo'ks an they taught us to be Christianlike too. Ev'y Sunday mornin' ol'
master would have all us niggers to the house while he would sing an
pray an read de Bible to us all. Ol' master taught us not to be bad; he
taught us to be good; he tol' us to never steal nor to tell false tales
an not to do anythin' that was bad. He said: Yo' will reap what yo' sow,
that you sow it single an' reap double. I learnt that when I was a
little chile an I ain't fo'got it yet. When I got grown I went de
Baptist way. God called my pa to preach an ol' master let him preach in
de kitchen an in the back yard under th' trees. On preachin' day ol'
master took his whole family an all th' slaves to church wid him.
We had log school houses in them days an fo'ks learnt more than they
does in the bricks t'day.
Down in the quarters ev'y black family had a one or two room log cabin.
We didn' have no floors in them cabins. Nice dirt floors was de style
then an we used sage brooms. Took a string an tied the sage together an
had a nice broom out'n that. We would gather broom sage fo' our winter
brooms jus' like we gathered our other winter stuff. We kep' our dirt
floors swep' as clean an' white. An our bed was big an tall an had
little beds to push under there. They was all little er nough to go
under de other an in th' daytime we would push 'em all under the big one
an make heaps of room. Our beds was stuffed wid hay an straw an shucks
an b'lieve me chile they sho' slep' good.
When the boys would start to the quarters from th' fiel' they would get
a turn of lider knots. I specks yo' knows 'em as pine knots. That was
what we use' fo' light. When our fire went out we had no fire. Didn'
know nothin' bout no matches. To start a fire we would take a skillet
lid an a piece of cotton an a flint rock. Lay de cotton on th' skillet
lid an' take a piece of iron an beat the flint rock till the fire would
come. Sometime we would beat fo' thirty minutes before the fire would
come an start the cotton then we woul' light our pine.
Up at th' big house we didn' use lider knots but used tallow candles for
lights. We made the candles f'om tallow that we took f'om cows. We had
moulds and would put string in there an leave the en' stickin' out to
light an melt the tallow an pour it down aroun' th' string in the mould.
We use to play at night by moonlight and I can recollec' singin wid the
fiddle. Oh, Lord, dat fiddle could almos' talk an I can hear it ringin
now. Sometime we would dance in the moonlight too.
Ol' master raised lots of cotton and the women fo'ks carded an spun an
wove cloth, then they dyed hit an made clothes. An we knit all the
stockin's we wo'. They made their dye too, f'om diffe'nt kin's of bark
an leaves an things. Dey would take the bark an boil it an strain it up
an let it stan' a day then wet the 'terial in col' water an shake hit
out an drop in the boilin' dye an let it set bout twenty minutes then
take it out an hang it up an let it dry right out of that dye. Then
rinse it in col' water an let it dry then it woul' be ready to make.
I'll tell yo' how to dye. A little beech bark dyes slate color set with
copperas. Hickory bark and bay leaves dye yellow set with chamber lye;
bamboo dyes turkey red, set color wid copperas. Pine straw dyes purple,
set color with chamber lye. To dye cloth brown we would take de cloth an
put it in the water where leather had been tanned an let it soak then
set the color with apple vinegar. An we dyed blue wid indigo an set the
color wid alum.
We wo' draws made out of termestic that come down longer than our
dresses an we wo' seven petticoats in the winter wid sleeves in dem
petticoats in the winter an the boys wo' big ol' long shirts. They didn'
know nothin bout no britches till they was great big, jus' wen' roun' in
dey shirttails. An we all wo' shoes cause my pa made shoes.
Master taught pa to make shoes an the way he done, they killed a cow an
took the hide an tanned it. The way they tanned it was to take red oak
bark and put in vats made somethin' like troughs that held water. Firs'
he would put in a layer of leather an a layer of oak ashes an a layer of
leather an a layer of oak ashes till he got it all in an cover with
water. After that he let it soak till the hair come off the hide. Then
he would take the hide out an it was ready for tannin'. Then the hide
was put to soak in with the red oak bark. It stayed in the water till
the hide turned tan then pa took the hide out of the red oak dye an it
was a purty tan. It didn' have to soak long. Then he would get his
pattern an cut an make tan shoes out'n the tanned hides. We called 'em
brogans.
They planted indigo an it growed jus' like wheat. When it got ripe they
gathered it an we would put it in a barrel an let it soak bout a week
then we woul' take the indigo stems out an squeeze all the juice out of
'em an put the juice back in the barrel an let it stan' bout nother
week, then we jus' stirred an stirred one whole day. We let it set three
or four days then drained the water off an left the settlings and the
settlings was blueing jus' like we have these days. We cut ours in
little blocks an we dyed clothes wid it too.
We made vinegar out of apples. Took over ripe apples an ground 'em up an
put 'em in a sack an let drip. Didn' add no water an when it got through
drippin we let it sour an strained an let it stan for six months an had
some of the bes vinegar ever made.
We had homemade tubs and didn' have no wash boa'ds. We had a block an
battlin' stick. We put our clo'es in soak then took 'em out of soak an
lay them on the block an take the battling stick an battle the dirt out
of 'em. We mos'ly used rattan vines for clotheslines an they made the
bes clo'es lines they was.
Ol' master raised big patches of tobaccy an when dey gather it they let
it dry an then put it in lasses. After the lasses dripped off then they
roll hit up an twisted it an let it dry in the sun 10 or 12 days. It
sho' was ready for some and chewin an hit was sweet an stuck together so
yo' could chew an spit an 'joy hit.
The way we got our perfume we took rose leaves, cape jasmines an sweet
bazil an laid dem wid our clo'es an let 'em stay three or fo' days then
we had good smellin' clo'es that would las' too.
When there was distressful news master would ring the bell. When the
niggers in the fiel' would hear the bell everyone would lis'en an wonder
what the trouble was. You'd see 'em stirrin' too. They would always ring
the bell at twelve 'clock. Sometime then they would think it was some
thin' serious an they would stan up straight but if they could see they
shadow right under 'em they would know it was time for dinner.
The reason so many white folks was rich was they made money an didn'
have nothin' to do but save it. They made money an raised ev'ything they
used, an jus' didn' have no use fo' money. Didn' have no banks in them
days an master buried his money.
The floo's in the big house was so pretty an white. We always kep' them
scoured good. We didn' know what it was to use soap. We jus' took oak
ashes out of the fi'place and sprinkled them on the floo' and scoured
with a corn shuck mop. Then we would sweep the ashes off an rinse two
times an let it dry. When it dried it was the cleanes' floo' they was.
To make it white, clean sand was sprinkled on the floo' an we let it
stay a couple of days then the floo' would be too clean to walk on. The
way we dried the floo' was with a sack an a rag. We would get down on
our knees an dry it so dry.
I 'member one night one of ol' master's girls was goin' to get married.
That was after I was big 'nough to cook an we was sho' doin' some
cookin. Some of the niggers on the place jus' natchally would steal so
we cook a big cake of co'n-bread an iced it all pretty an put it out to
cool an some of 'em stole it. This way old master found out who was doin
the stealin cause it was such a joke on 'em they had to tell.
All ol' master's niggers was married by the white preacher but he had a
neighbor who would marry his niggers hisself. He would say to the man:
"Do yo' want this woman?" and to the girl, "Do yo' want this boy?" Then
he would call the ol' mistress to fetch the broom an ol' master would
hold one end an ol' mistress the other an tell the boy and girl to jump
dis broom and he would say: "Dat's yo' wife." Dey called marryin' like
that jumpin the broom.
Now chile I can't 'member everything I done in them days but we didn'
have ter worry bout nothin. Ol' mistress was the one to worry. Twasn't
then like it is now, no twasn't. We had such a good time an ev'ybody
cried when the Yankees cried out: "Free." Tother niggers say dey had a
hard time 'fo' dey was free but twas then like tis now. If you had a
hard time we don it ourselves.
Ol' master didn' want to part with his niggers an the niggers didn' wan'
to part with ol' master so they thought by comin to Arkansas they would
have a chance to keep 'em. So they got on their way. We loaded up our
wagons an put up our wagon sheet an we had plenty to eat an plenty of
horse feed. We traveled bout 15 or 20 miles a day an would stop an camp
at night. We would cook enough in the morning to las' all day. The cows
was drove t'gether. Some was gentle an some was not an did dey have a
time. I mean, dey _had_ a time. While we was on our way ol' master died
an three of the slaves died too. We buried the slaves there but we
camped while ol' master was carried back to North Carolina. When ol'
mistress come back we started on to Arkansas an reached here safe but
when we got here we foun' freedom here too. Ol' mistress begged us to
stay wid her an we stayed till she died then they took her back to
Carolina. There wasn' nobody lef' but Miss Nancy an she soon married an
lef' an I los' track of her an Mr. Tom.
El Dorado District
FOLKLORE SUBJECTS
Name of Interviewer: Pernella Anderson
Subjects: Customs related to Slavery Time [HW: Ex Slave Story]
Subject: Food--Particular foods typical and characteristic of certain
localities and certain people (negroes)
[Nov 6 1936]
[TR: Additional topic moved from subsequent page.]
This information given by: Millie Evans (Negroes pronounce it Irvins)
Place of Residence: By Missouri Pacific Track near MOP Shops
Occupation: None
Age: 87
[TR: Personal information moved from bottom of interview.]
I wuz a young lady in the time of surrender. I am a slave chile. I am
one of them. I had a gran' time in slavery time. I wuz born wid de white
foks. I stayed wid mah muthah at night but mah mistress raised me. I
nussed mah mutha's gran'chile. I churned and sot de table. When de baby
go to sleep in de evenin' I put hit in de cradle. An' I'd lay down by
the cradle and go to sleep. Every evenin' I'd go git _lida knots_. I
played a lots. I wuz born 1849. We played Susanna Gals, and we just
played jump rope. Jes' we gals did. We played calling' cows. Dey'd come
to us and we run from um. My [TR: 'I' corrected to 'My'] mistess wuz a
millionaire. I went to school a while. I can count only lit bit. One uz
de girl made fun uz me. She kotch me nodding and we fit dare in de
school house. Old log school house. Dey had two big rooms. Ah went to de
ole fokes' church. Young un too. We'd cry if we didn't git ter go ter
church wid ma and pa.
Our table was sot under a china berry tree and ooo-eee chile I can see
hit now. We et on a loal (oil) table cloth. When dey called us to de
table dey would ring a bell. We didn' eat out uz plates. We et outn
gourds. We all et outn gourds. When I got big nuff ter cook I cooked
den. We had plenty to eat. We raised who-eee plenty meat. We raised our
sugar, rice, peas, chikens, eggs, cows. Who-eee chile we had plenty to
eat. Our mistess had ovah a hunert (100) niggers. Ole moster nevah did
whip none uv us niggers. He tended de men and mistess always tended to
us. I wudden (wasn't) quite grown when I wuz married. We cooked out in
de yard an' on fireplaces too in dose big ubbens (ovens). We cooked
greens in a wash pot jes like you boil clothes, dats de way we cook
greens. We cooked ash cakes too an we cooked persimmon braid (bread). An
evah thing we had wuz good too. We made our churns in dem days. Made dem
outn cypress.
Evahbody cried when dem yankees cried out: "Free." We cried too; we
hated hit so bad. We had such a good time. I is gittin so ole I can't
member so ever' thin' I done. Now chile ah cain't member evah' thin' I
done but in dem days we didn' have ter worry 'bout nothin'. Ole mistress
wuz de one ter worry. Twasn't den like hit is now. No Twasn't. Tother
niggers say dey had er hard time foe dem Yankee cried "Free" but it waz
den jes like hit is now if you had a hard time we done hit ourselves.
[HW: Negro food]
_PERSIMMON PIE_ Make a crust like you would any other pie crust and take
your persimmons and wash them. Let them be good and ripe. Get the seed
out of them. Don't cook them. Mash them and put cinnamon and spice in
and butter. Sugar to taste. Then roll your dough and put in custard pan,
and then add the filling, then put a top crust on it, sprinkle a little
sugar on top and bake.
_PERSIMMON CORNBREAD_ Sift meal and add your ingredients then your
persimmons that have been washed and the seeds taken out and mash them
and put in and stir well together. Grease pan well and pour in and bake.
Eat with fresh meat.
_PERSIMMON BEER_ Gather your persimmons, wash and put in a keg, cover
well with water and add about two cups of meal to it and let sour about
three days. That makes a nice drink.
Boil persimmons just as you do prunes now day and they will answer for
the same purpose.
_ASH CAKE_ Two cups of meal and one teaspoon of salt and just enough hot
water to make it stick together. Roll out in pones and wrap in a corn
shuck or collard leaves or paper. Lay on hot ashes and cover with hot
ashes and let cook about ten minutes.
_CORNBREAD JOHNNY CAKE_ Two cups of meal, one half cup of flour about a
teaspoon of soda, one cup of syrup, one-half teaspoon salt, beat well.
Add teaspoon of lard. Pour in greased pan and bake.
[HW: _Water_ or _Milk_ added?]
(Old Mistress wud give us this corn bread johnny cake about four o'clock
in de evening and give us plenty of buttermilk to drink wid it. Dey had
a long trough. Dey kep' hit so clean fur us. Ev'ry evening about four
dey would fill de trough full uv milk and wus abut 100 of us chilluns.
We'd all get round de trough and drink wid our mouth and hold our johnny
cake in our han's. I can jes see mahself drinkin now. It wus so good.)
_BEEF DUMPLINS_ Take the brough (meaning broth) from boiled beef and
season with salt, peper and add you dumplins jus as you would chicken
dumplins.
Pick and wash beet tops just as you would turnip greens and cook with
meat to season. Season to suit taste. This makes the best vegetable
dish.
_POTATO BISCUIT_ Two cups flour. Two teaspoons of baking powder, pinch
of soda, teaspoon of salt, tablespoon of lard, two cups of cooked, well
mashed sweet potatoes and milk to make a nice dough.
_IRISH POTATO PIE_ Boil potatoes, set off and let cool, then mash well
and add one cup sugar, two eggs, butter size of an egg, milk, spice to
suit taste, bake in pie crust. Irish potatoes make a better pie than
sweet potatoes.
Interviewer: Mary D. Hudgins
Person Interviewed: Mose Evans
Home: 451 Walnut
Aged: 76
Radios from half a dozen houses blared out on the afternoon air.
Ben[TR:?] Winslow was popular but ran a poor second to jazz bands in
which moaning trombones predominated.
At one or two houses a knock or jangling bell had roused nobody. "They's
all off at work," a neighbor usually volunteered. But in this block of
comfortable cottages fronting on the paved section of Walnut evidently
there were a goodly number of stay-at-homes. A mild prosperity seemed to
pervade everything. The Walnut section is in the "old part of town".
Some of the houses had evidently been built during the 90s; but they
were well kept up and painted.
There was evidence here and there of former dependence on wells for
water. One or two had been simply boarded over. One, a front yard affair
had been ingeniously converted into a huge flower pot. The well had been
filled in, its circular brick walls covered with a thick layer of
cement. Into this, while still damp, had been pressed crystals. Even in
January the vessel bore evidence of summer blooming.
"_PREPARE TO MEET YOUR GOD_" admonished the electrified box sign
attatched to the front porch of one dwelling. Its border was of black
wood. The sign itself was of white frosted glass. Letters of the slogan
were in scarlet.
Next doer was another religious reminder. It was a modest pasteboard
window card and announced Bible Study at 2: P.M. daily.
Three blocks up Walnut the pavement ends. Beyond that sidewalks too,
listlessly peter out. A young, but enthusiastically growing ditch is
beginning to separate path from street. Houses begin to take on a more
dilapidated appearance. They lean uncertainly.
A colored woman stops to stare at the white one, plants herself directly
in the stranger's path and demands, "Is you the investigator? No? Well
who is you looking for? Oh, Mose, he's at his son's. Good thing I
stopped you. Cause you would have gone too far. He's at his son's. His
grandson just done had his tonsils out. He's over there."
The interviewer climbed the ladder-like steps leading to "his son's
house". No Mose wasn't there. He had just left. Maybe he'd gone home.
The de-tonsiled child proved to be a bright eyed, saddle-colored
youngster of three, enormously interested in the stranger. He wore
whip-cord jodphurs--protruding widely on either side of his plump
thighs--and knee high leather riding boots. Plump and smiling, he looked
for all the world like a kewpie provided with a kink ey crown and
blistered to a rich chocolate by a friendly sun.
The child eyed the interviewer's pencil. Since, she was carrying a
"spare" she offered it to him. He smiled and accepted with alacrity.
Later when the interviewer had found Mose and brought him back to the
house to be questioned, the grandson brought forth his long new pencil
and showed it with heartfelt pride.
On up the street went the interviewer. Arrived at 451 she approached the
house through a yard strewn, with wood chips and piled with cordwood.
Nobody answered her knock. Two blocks back toward town she was stopped
by the same woman who had accosted her before. "Did you find him?" "No,"
replied the interviewer. "Well he's somewhere on the street. He's
a'carrying a cane. You just stop any man you see with a cane and ask him
if he ain't Mose Evans." The advice was sound/ The first elderly man
coming north was carrying a cane. He was Mose Evans.
"So you-all got together?" called the officious neighbor. "Mose, you
ought of asked her--when you see her coming up the street if she wasn't
looking for you." "Maybe," said Mose, "but then I didn't know, and I
don't want to butt into other folks business" "Huh," snorted the woman,
"spose I hadn't butted in. Where'd you be. You wouldn't have found her
and she wouldn't have found you!" Both Mose and the interviewer wore
forced to admit that she was right--but from Mose's disapproving
expression he, like the interviewer, was sorry of it.
"No, ma'am. I ain't been here long. Just about two weeks. You want to
talk to me. Let's go on up to my son's house. We'll stop there. I's
tired. Seems like I get tired awful quick. Had to go down to the store
to get some coal." (He was carrying a paper sack of about two gallon
capacity. "Coal" was probably charcoal--much favored among wash women
for use in a small bucket-furnace for heating "flat-irons".) My wife has
to work awful hard to earn enough, to buy enough coal and wood.
Did I say I'd been here two weeks? I meant I has been here two years.
I's lived all over. Came here from Woodruff county. Yes, ma'am. I can't
work no more. My wife she gets 2-3 days washing a week. Then she gets
some bundles to bring home and do. She got sick, same as me and her
brothers come on down to bring her up here to look after. They provided
for me too. They took good care of us. Then one of 'em got sick himself,
and the other he lost out in a money way. So she's a washing.
Can't remember very much about the war. I was just a little thing when
it was a'going on. Was hardly any size at all. I does remember standing
in the door of my mother's house and watching the soldiers go by. Men
dressed in blue they was. Wasn't afraid of them--didn't have sense
enough to be, I guess. Looked sort of pretty to me, dressed all in blue
that way. And they was riding fine horses. Made a big noise they did.
They was a'riding by in a sort of sweeping gallop. I won't never forgot
it.
Guess Confederates passed too. I was too small to know about them. They
was all soldiers to me. Folks told me they was on their way to
Vicksburg. I heard tell that there was lots of fighting down around
Vicksburg.
I was born on a place which belonged to a man named Thad Shackleford.
Don't remember him very well. They took me away from his place when I
was little. But I never did hear my mother say anything against him.
Awful fine man, she said, awful fine man. I had lots of half sisters--5
of 'em and 6 half brothers. There was just one full sister.
Farm? Not until I was 14. Just stayed around the house and nursed the
children. Nursed lots of children. Took care of them and amused them.
Played with them. But for four, five, maybe six years I helped my mother
farm. Went out into the fields and worked.
Then I went to myself. Yes, ma'am, I share cropped. Share cropped up
until about 1908. By that time I had got together a pretty good lot and
bought stock and tools. Then I rented--rented thirds and fourths. I
liked that way lots best. It's best if a body can get himself stocked
up.
But let me tell you, ma'am. It's a lot easier to get behind than it is
to catch up. Falling behind is easy. Catching up ain't so simple. I sort
of lost my health and then I had to sell my stock. After that it was
share-crop again. I share cropped right up until 1935. That's when we
come here.
Yes, ma'am we moved around a lot. Longest what I worked for any man was
12 years. He was J.W. Hill, the best man I ever did see. Once I rented
from a colored man, but he died. Was with him 6 years before another man
came into possession. Rented from Cockerill 4 years and Doss 2 years,
and Doyle 3 years. But now I's like an old shoe. I's worn out. Been a
good, faithful servant, but I's wore out."
Interviewer: S.S. Taylor
Person interviewed: Rachel Fairley
1600 Brown St.
Little Rock, Ark.
Age: 75
Occupation: General Housework
[Jan 23 1938]
[HW: Mother Stole to Get Food]
"My mother said she had a hard time getting through. Had to steal half
the time; had to put her head under the pot and pray for freedom. It was
a large pot which she used to cook in on the yard. She would set it
aside when she got through and put it down and put her head under it to
pray.
"My father, when nine years old, was put on the speculator's block and
sold at Charlottesville, North Carolina. My mother was sold on the same
day. They sold her to a man named Paul Barringer, and refugeed her to a
place near Sardis, Mississippi, to the cotton country. Before he was
sold, my father belonged to the Greers in Charlottesville. I don't know
who owned my mother. I never did hear her say how old she was when she
was sold. They was auctioned off just like you would sell goods. One
would holler one price and another would holler another, and the highest
bid would get the slave.
"Mother did not go clear to Sardis but to a plantation ten miles from
Sardis. This was before freedom. We stayed there till two years after
freedom.
"I remember when my mother moved. I had never seen a wagon before. I was
so uplifted, I had to walk a while and ride a while. We'd never seen a
wagon nor a train neither. McKeever was the place where she moved from
when she moved to Sardis.
"The first year she got free, she started sharecropping on the place.
The next year she moved. That was the year she moved to Sardis itself.
There she made sharecrops. That was the third year after freedom. That
is what my father and mother called it, sharecropping. I don't know what
their share was. But I guess it was half to them and half to him.
"I do general housework. I been doing that for eleven years. I never
have any trouble. Whenever I want to I get off.
"The slaves used to live in one room log huts. They cooked out in the
yard. I have seen them huts many a time. They had to cook out in the
yard in the summertime. If they didn't, they'd burn up.
"My mother seen her master take off a big pot of money to bury. He
didn't know he'd been seen. She didn't know where he went, but she seen
the direction he took. Her master was Paul Barringer. That was on
McKeever Creek near Sardis. It was near the end of the war. I never
heard my mother say what became of the money, but I guess he got it back
after everything was over.
"They had to work all the time. When they went to church on Sunday, they
would tell them not to steal their master's things. How could they help
but steal when they didn't have nothin'? You didn't eat if you didn't
steal.
"My mother never would have been sold but the first bunch of slaves
Barringer bought ran away from him and went back to the places where
they come from. Lots of the old people wouldn't stay anywheres only at
their homes. They would go back if they were sold away. It took a long
time because they walked. When my mother and father were sold they had
to walk. It took them six weeks,--from Charlottesville, North Carolina
to Sardis, Mississippi.
"In Sardis my father was made the coachman, and mother was sent to the
field. Master was mean and hard. Whipped them lots. Mother had to pick
cotton all day every day and Sunday. When I first seen my father to
remember him, he had on a big old coat which was given to him for
special days. We called it a ham-beater. It had pieces that would make
it set on you like a basque. He wore a high beaver hat too. That was his
uniform. Whenever he drove, he had to dress up in it.
"My mother tickled me. She said she went out one day and kill a
billygoat, but when she went to get it it was walking around just like
the rest of them. My mother couldn't eat hogshead after freedom because
they dried them and give them to them in slave time. You had to eat what
you could git then.
"My mother said you jumped over a broomstick when you married.
"My father and mother were not exactly sold to Mississippi. My father
was but my mother wasn't. When Paul Barringer lost all of his niggers,
what he first had, his sister give him my mother and a whole lot more of
them. I don't know how many he had, but he had a great many. My father
went alone, but all my mother's people were taken--four sisters, and
three brothers. They were all grown when I first seen them. I never seen
my mother's father at all.
"There was a world of yellow people then. My mother said her sister had
two yellow children; they were her master's. I know of plenty of light
people who were living at that time.
"My mother had two light children that belonged to her sister. They were
taken from her after freedom, and were made to cook and work for their
sister and brother (white). All the orphans were taken and given back to
the people what owned them when freedom came. My mother's sister was
refugeed back to Charlottesville, North Carolina before the end of the
war so that she wouldn't get free. After the war they were set free out
there and never came back. The children were with my mother and they had
to stay with their master until they were twenty years old. Then they
would be free. They wouldn't give them any schooling at all. They were
as white as the white children nearly but their mother was a colored
woman. That made the difference.
"My mother said that the Ku Klux used to come through ridin' horses. I
don't remember her saying what they wore.
"When the Yanks came through, they took everything. Made the niggers all
leave. My mother said they just came in droves, riding horses, killing
everything, even the babies.
"I was born in Sardis, Mississippi, Panolun (?) County, April 10, 1863."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Pauline Fakes, Brinkley, Arkansas
Age: 74
"My mama come from Virginia. Her owner was Moses Crawford. He had a
bachelor son Prior Crawford. My papa's owner was Step Crawford. They was
in Arkansas during the Civil War I know because I was born close to
Cotton Plant. Papa's folks had lived in Tennessee but grandma and
grandpa was raised in Indian Nation; they called it Alabama afterwards.
She was a full blooded Creek and he was part Cherokee.
"Mama had twelve sisters and they was all sold. They took them to Texas.
She never seen one of them again. Mama had scrofula and her owners let a
woman take her North. She cured her. She wanted to keep her but they
didn't let her. They kept her till freedom.
"The owners told them they was free. Stayed on a while. We never have
got very fur off from where I was born. I had thirteen children of my
own. Three living now.
"I know times was mighty hard when I was a child. Biscuits was big
rarity as cake is now. I don't have much cake. Little cornbread and
meat, molasses and proud to get that. We didn't have much clothes but we
had plenty wood. We had wood to keep up the fire in the fireplace all
night. They saw the back sticks in the woods and roll em up. In the
coldest part of the winter they throw on a back log of green wood and
pull the seats, had benches, didn't have chairs, way back in the middle
of the room. It be snow and ice all over the ground. I got wood many a
day. Yes, I plowed many a day. I done all kinds of field work, cook and
wash and iron. Mid-wife is my talent. I been big and strong and work was
the least of my worries.
"I can barely recollect seeing soldiers. They must have just got home
from the war. The shiny buttons is about all I can recollect.
"I recollect the Ku Klux. They rode at night, some dressed in dark and
some white clothes. They come through our house one time. I got under
the cover. I was scared nearly to death.
"Near Cotton Plant there was a log cabin (Methodist?) church--Negro
church two and one-half miles northeast direction. They had a Negro
preacher. When they went to church they whooped and hollowed along the
road. White people lived close to the road. The Ku Klux planned to break
it up. They went down there and went in during their preaching, broke up
and scattered their seats. One was killed. He may have acted 'smarty' or
saucy or he may have been the leader."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Mattie Fannen, Forrest City, Arkansas
Age: 87
"My mother was named Silla Davis. She had four children. Her owners was
Jep Davis and Tempy Davis. She died and he married her niece, Sally
Davis. He had fifteen children by his first wife and five more by his
second wife. Wasn't that a plenty children doe? Mama was a field hand.
She ploughed in slavery right along. My father was named Bob Lee (Lea?).
I never knowed much about him. His folks moved and took him off. Mother
was sold but not on a stand. She belong to Bill Davis. He was Jep's
brother. They said Bill Davis drunk up mother and all her children. He
sold Aunt Serina to a man in Elberton, Georgia and all he had left then
was grandma. He couldn't sell her. She was too old and Aunt Kizziah and
Aunt Martha lived with her. Mother was born in Georgia. When a child was
sold it nearly grieved the mothers and brothers and sisters to death. It
was bad as deaths in the families. Jep Davis had forty or fifty niggers.
He had six boys. They all had to go to war. They was in the Confederate
army. Billy Davis was his daddy's young overseer. He had been raised up
with some of the nigger boys then come over them. They wouldn't mind his
orders. He tried to whoop them. They'd fight him back, choke him, throw
him on the ground. Then the old man would whoop them. We all wanted 'em
all to come home but Billy. Billy Davis got killed at war and never come
home. His sisters was afraid some of the nigger boys raised up with him
on the place would kill him and wanted Jep to make him stay at the
house. Jep Davis was a good master and he was bad enough.
"I seen mama whooped. They tied some of them to trees and some they just
whooped across their backs. It was 'cordin' to what they had done. Some
of them would run off to the woods and stay a week or a month. The other
niggers would feed them at night to keep them from starving.
"Jep Davis made a will after his first wife died and give out all his
young niggers to his first set of children. His young wife cried till he
destroyed it. She said, 'You kept the old ones here and me and my
children won't have nothing.' I was willed to Miss Lizzie. They was
fixing the wagon for me to go in. I wanted to go to Jefferson on the
train. I told them so. I wanted to ride on the train. I never did get
off. His young wife started crying. Miss Lizzie lived with her brother.
They didn't want this young woman to have their father and he did. They
kept a fuss up with her and all left. Then he divided the land.
"I nursed for his second wife, Miss Sally. I was five years or little
older when I started nursing for his first wife. I nursed for a long
time. I don't like children yet on that account. I got so many whoopings
on their blame. I'd drap 'em, leave 'em, pinch 'em, quit walking 'em and
rocking 'em. I got tired of 'em all the time.
"Me and Zack (white) was raised up together. He was one of the old set
of children. The baby in that set. I'd set on the log across a branch
and wait till Zack would break open a biscuit and sop it in ham gravy
and bring it to me after he eat his breakfast. One morning the sun was
so bright; he run down there crying, said his mama was dead. He never
brought me no biscuit. He had just got up. I was five years old. I said
I was glad. Emily was the cook and she come down there and kicked me off
the log and made my nose bleed. I cried and run home. My mother picked
me up in her arms, took me in her lap and asked me about it. I told her
I was glad 'cause she kept that little cowhide and whooped me with it.
They took me to the grave. She wanted to be buried in a pretty grave at
the side of the house off a piece. She was buried there first. There was
a big crowd. I kept running up towards the grave and they would pull me
back by my dress tail. She was buried in a metal coffin. Susan was the
oldest girl. She fainted. They took her to a carriage standing close.
The whole family was buried there. Took back from places they lived to
be buried in that graveyard. That was close to Nuna, Georgia.
"When the old man Jep Davis married again, Miss Sally must have me sleep
in her room on a pallet so I could tend to the baby. The older girls
would pick me and I would tell them what they talked about after they
went to bed.
"When the War come on, the boys and Jep Davis dug a hole in the
henhouse, put the guns in a box and buried them. They was there when the
War ended. They had some jewelry. I don't know where they kept it. They
sent all of the niggers fifteen miles on the river away from the
Yankees. Not a one of us ever run off. Not a one ever went to the War or
the Yankees. Jep Davis had been to get his mail on his horse. A Yankee
come up at the gate walking and took it. He asked for the bridle and
saddle but the Yankee laughed in his face. We never seen our horse no
more. 'Babe' we called her. She was a pretty horse and so gentle we
could ride her bare back.
"Jep Davis was religious. They had preaching at his church, the Baptist
church at Nuna, for white folks in the morning and a white preacher
preach for the niggers at the same church in the evening. He'd go to
prayer meeting on Wednesday night and Thursday night he would come to
the boys' house and read the Bible to his own niggers. We would sing and
pray. He never cared how much we would sing and pray but he never better
ketch 'em dancing. He'd whoop every one of 'em.
"I learned same of the ABC's in playing ball with the white children. We
never had a book. I never went to school in my life. The boys not
married but up grown lived in a house to their own selves. They got
cooked fer up at Jep Davises house till they got a house built for them
and give them a wife. Maybe they would see a woman on another plantation
and claim her. Then the master had to talk that over.