"There was a bunch of Ku Klux that a colored man led. He was a fellow by
the name of Fount Howard. They would come to his house and he would call
himself showing them how to catch old people he didn't like. He told
them how to catch my old man. I have heard my mother tell about it time
and time again. The funny part of it was there was a cornfield right
back of the kitchen. Just about dusk dark, he got up and taken a big
old horse pistol and shot out of it, and when he fired the last shot out
of it, a white man said, 'Bring that gun here.' Believe me he cut a road
through that field right now.
"They stayed 'round for a little while and tried to bully his people.
But the old lady stood up to them, so they finally carried her and her
children in the house and told her to tell him to come on back they
wouldn't hurt him. And they didn't bother him no more.
"My mother's master told my mother that she was free. He called all the
slaves in and told them they were free as he was. I don't think he give
them anything when they were freed. He was a kind a poor fellow. Didn't
have but six or seven slaves. He offered to let them stay and make
crops. My father had a better job than that. Did you ever know Bishop
Lane out in Tennessee? My father and he were ordained at the same time
in the some C. M. E. Church. Then he moved to Kentucky and joined the
A. M. E. Church. My father died in 1875 and my mother in 1906.
"I have been married forty-seven years. I married on the twenty-sixth
day of December in 1889. I heard my mother and father say that they
married in slavery time and they just jumped over a broom. I don't
belong to no church. I am off on a pension. I got a good job doin'
nothing. My pension is paid by the Railroad.
"I put up forty-four years as a brakeman and five years on ditching
trains before I went to braking. My old road master put me on the
braking. A fellow got his fingers cut off and they turned his keys over
to me and put me to braking and I went there and stayed.
"I have two children. Both of them are living--a girl and a boy. I have
had a big bunch of young people 'round me ever since I married. Raised
a couple of nephews. Then my two. All of them married. That is my
daughter's oldest child right there. (He pointed to a pretty brownskin
girl--ed.)
"My father died when I was eight, and I was away from home railroading
most of the time and didn't hear much about old times from my mother. So
that's all I know.
"I have lived right here on this spot for forty-three years. About 1893
I bought this place and have lived here ever since. This was just a big
woods and weed patch then. There weren't more than about six houses out
here this side of the Rock Island Railroad.
"I commenced voting in 1889. Cast my first ballot then. I never had any
trouble about it."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Ambus Gray
R.F.D. #1. Biscoe, Arkansas
Age: 80
"I was ten year old when the Civil War come on. I was born Tallapoosy
County, Alabama. I belong to Jim Gray. I recollect the paddyrollers. I
don't recollect the Ku Klux Klan. There was twelve boys and two girls in
our family in time. I was among the older set.
"Bout all I remembers bout slavery was how hard the hands had to work.
We sho did haf to work! When we wasn't clerin new ground and rollin pine
logs an burnin brush we was er buildin fences and shuckin an shellin
corn. Woman you don't know nufin bout work! We cler new groun all day
den burn brush and pile logs at nite. We build fences all day and kill
hogs and shuck corn dat night. No use to say word bout bein tired. Never
heard nobody complainin. They went right on singin or whislin'. Started
out plowin and drappin corn then plantin' cotton. Choppin' time come on
then pullin' fodder and layin' by time be on. Be bout big meetin time
and bout fo that or was over everybody was dun in the cotton field till
dun cold weather. I remembers how they sho did work.
"Both my parents was field hands. They stayed on two years after the war
was over. Jim Gray raised red hogs and red corn, whooper-will peas. He
kept a whole heap of goats and a flock of sheep.
"We didn't see no real hard times after the war. We went to Georgia to
work on Armstrongs farm. We didn't stay there long. We went to Atlanta
and met a fellar huntin' hands down at Sardis, Mississippi. We come on
there. Rob Richardson brought the family out here. I been here round
Biscoe 58 years when it was sho nuf swamps and woods.
"I don't think the Ku Klux ever got after any us but I seen em, I
recken. I don't know but mighty little. The paddyrollers is what I
dreaded. Sometime the overseer was a paddyroller. My folks didn't go to
war. We didn't know what the war was for till it had been going on a
year or so. The news got circulated round the North was fighting to give
the black man freedom. Some of em thought they said that so they'd
follow and get in the lines, help out. Some did go long, some didn't
want to go get killed. Nobody never got nuthin, didn't know much when it
was freedom. I didn't see much difference for a year or more. We
gradually quit gettin' provisions up at the house and had to take a
wagon and team and go buy what we had. We didn't have near as much.
Money then like it is now, it don't buy much. It made one difference.
You could change places and work for different men. They had overseers
just the same as they did in slavery.
"The Reconstruction time was like this. You go up to a man and tell him
you and your family want to hire fer next year on his place. He say I'm
broke, the war broke me. Move down there in the best empty house you
find. You can get your provisions furnished at certain little store in
the closest town about. You say yesser. When the crop made bout all you
got was a little money to take to give the man what run you and you
have to stay on or starve or go get somebody else let you share crop wid
them. As the time come on the black man gets to handle a little mo
silver and greenbacks than he used to. Slaves didn't hardly ever handle
any money long as he live. He never buy nothin, he have no use for
money. White folks burried money durin the war. Some of them had a heap
of money.
"I have voted but I don't keep up wid it no mo. It been a long time
since I voted. This is the white folks country an they goiner run it
theirselves. No usen me vote. No use the women votin as I see it. Jes
makes mo votes to count. The rich white man is goiner run the country
anyhow.
"I farmed all my life. I been here in Biscoe fifty-eight years. I worked
for Richardson, Biscoe, Peeples, Nail. I owned a home, paid $150 for it.
I made it in three years when we had good crops.
"Times are harder now than I ever seen em here. If you have a hog you
have to pen it up and buy feed. If you have a cow, when the grass die,
she is to feed. If you have chickens there ain't no use talkin, they
starve if you don't feed em. No money to buy em wid an no money to buy
feed for em. Times is hard. Durin the cotton boom times do fine (cotton
picking time). The young folks is happy. They ain't got no thought of
the future. Mighty hard to make young folks think they ever get old.
Theys lookin at right now. Havin em a good time while they young."
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: Green Gray
R.F.D. #1 Biscoe, Arkansas
Age: 70--73?
"I was born after de war in Alabama. Then we went to Atlanta, Georgia.
Bout the first I recollect much bout was in Atlanta. I was seventeen
years old. They was building the town back up where it had been burnt.
If you was a carpenter you could get rough work to do. My father was a
farmer and had a family; soon as he could he come with a man he met up
wid to Sardis, Mississippi. He had twelve children. Some of em born down
in Mississippi. The reason we all went to Atlanta was dis--we was workin
fer a man, white man, named Armstrom. White woman told me go do
somethin, bring in a load er wood I think it was, and my mother told me
not to do it. He and my father had a fuss an he tied my father to some
rails and whooped him. Soon as they done that we all left. They hunted
us all night long. Crowd white folks said they goiner kill us. Some
fellow come on to Atlanta and told us bout em huntin us. Thater way
folks done. It muster been bout the very closin of the war cause I heard
em say I was give to my young mistress, Sallie Gray. I don't remember
who they say she married. I never did live wid em long fore my papa took
me.
"The first free school was in Pinola County, Mississippi. I went to it.
The teacher was a white man named George Holliday.
"I votes a Republican ticket. Miss, I don't know nothin much bout votin,
cassionly I vote to help my side out a little. We used to elect our town
officers here in Biscoe but the white folks run it now. Professor Hardy
and Professor Walker was the postmasters (both Negroes) for a long
while. John Clay was constable and Oscar Clark magistrate (both
Negroes). One of the school board was Dr. Odom (Negro). They made pretty
fair officers.
"I was a cow herder, and a fire boy, and a farmer. When I come to Biscoe
I was a farmer. I married and had two children. My wife lef me and went
wid another fellar then she jumped in the river right down yonder and
drowned. I started workin at the sawmill and workin in the lumber. I
owns a little home and a spot of ground it on 25' × 90'. I made it
workin fer Mr. Betzner (white farmer). I'm farmin now.
"Times is hard. You can't get no credit. Between times that you work in
the crop it is hard to live. Used to by workin hard and long hours could
make a good livin. Wages better now, $1 to $1.75 a day. Long time ago
60¢ a day was the price. Then you could buy meat five and six cents a
pound. Now it 20¢. Flour used to be 40¢ a sack. Now it way outer sight.
The young folks don't work hard as I used to work but they has a heap
better chance at edgercation. Some few saves a little but everything jes
so high they can't get ahead very much. It when you get old you needs a
little laid by."
#666
Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden
Person interviewed: Neely Gray
818 E. Fifteenth, Pine Bluff, Arkansas
Age: 87
"I was born in Virginia. Dr. Jenkins bought my mother from a man named
Norman. Brought us here on the boat. I know I was walkin' and talkin'. I
don't remember about the trip, but I remember they said they had to keep
me out from fallin' in the river. I was too playified to remember
anything about it.
"Durin' the War I was a girl six or seven years old. Big enough to nuss
my mother's next chile, and she was walkin' and talkin' 'fore surrender.
"My mother was pushin' a hundred when she died. I was her oldest chile.
Sold with her.
"Dr. Jenkins had three women and all of 'em had girls. Raised up in the
house. Dr. Jenkins said, 'Doggone it, I want my darkies right back of my
chair.' He never did 'buse his colored folks. He was a 'cepted
(exceptional) man--so different. I never saw the inside of the quarters.
"Dr. Jenkins' house wasn't far from the river. You could hear the boats
goin' up and down all night.
"I was scared of the Yankees 'cause they always p'inted a gun at me to
see me run. They'd come in the yard and take anything they wanted, too.
"After surrender mama went and cooked for a man named Hardin.
"Hardest time I ever had was when I got grown and had to take care of my
mother and sister. Worked in the field.
"I was married out from behind a plow. Never farmed no more.
"My fust husband was a railroad man. I tried to keep up with him but he
went too fast; I couldn't keep up. He got so bad they finally
black-balled him from the road.
"I tell you nobody knows what it is till you go through with it. I've
had my bitters with the sweet.
"Been married four times and I've buried two husbands. I just raised one
chile and now she's dead. But I got great-grandchillun--third
generation--in Houston, Texas, but I never hear from 'em.
"I get along all right. The Welfare helps me and I try to live right."
Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden
Person interviewed: Nely Gray
821 E. 18th Avenue, Pine Bluff, Arkansas
Age: 84
Occupation: Does a little quilting
"Yes ma'm, I was sold from Richmond, Virginia. Dr. Jenkins bought my
mother when I was a little girl walkin' and talkin'. Put me up on the
block and sold me too. I was bout three years old.
"Dr. Jenkins was mighty good to his hands. Say he was goin' to raise his
little darkies up back of his chair. He thought lots of his colored
folks.
"I member seein' the Rebels ridin' horses, three double, down the road
time of the war. I used to run off from mama to the county band--right
where the roundhouse is now. Mama used to have to come after me. You
know I wasn't no baby when I shed all my teeth durin' slavery days.
"Yankee soldiers? Oh Lord--seed em by fifties and hundreds. Used to pint
the gun at me jest to hear me holler and cry. I was scared of em. They
come in and went in Dr. Jenkins' dairy and got what they wanted. And
every morning they'd blow that bugle, bugle as long as a broom handle.
Heard em blow 'Glory, Glory Hallelujah'. I liked to hear em blow it.
"Yankees marched all up and down the river road. They'd eat them navy
beans. I used to see where they throwed em in the fence corner. Saw so
many I don't like em _now_. They called em navy beans and I called em
soldier beans.
"I member it well. I'm a person can remember. Heap a folks tell what
other folks see but I tell what I see. Don't tell what nobody told me
and what I heard.
"I member when they had the battle in Pine Bluff. We was bout three
miles from here when they fit-up here. I member all of it.
"They started to send us to Texas and we got as far as the ravine when
they heard the Yankees wasn't comin' so we went back home.
"I stayed round the house with the white folks and didn't know what
nothin' was till after surrender. We stayed with Dr. Jenkins for a week
or two after surrender, then a man come and took my mother down in the
country. I don't know what she was paid--she never did tell us her
business.
"I was mama's onliest girl and she worked me day and night. Hoed and
picked cotton and sewed at night. Mama learned me to knit and I used to
crochet a lot. She sure learned me to work and I ain't sorry.
"I worked in the field till I come out to marry a railroad man. I never
went to school but two or three months in my life directly after
freedom. My husband was a good scholar and he learned me how to read and
write. I learned my daughter how to read and write so when she started
to school they didn't have to put her in the chart class. When she was
six years old she could put down a figger as quick as you can.
"Been married four times and they's all dead now. Ain't got nobody but
myself. If it wasn't for the white folks don't know what I'd do.
"I used to cook for Dr. Higginbotham when she had company. She couldn't
do without old Nely. One time she sent for me to cook some hens. I
soaked em in soda water bout an hour and fried em and you couldn't tell
em from friers.
"I'm weak in my limbs now but I believe in stirrin'. Welfare helps me
but I quilts for people. Yes'm, I stirs--if I didn't I just couldn't
stand it.
"This here younger generation is gone. They ain't goin'--they's gone.
Books ain't done no good. I used to teach the Bible lesson once a week,
but I don't fool with em now. Ain't got no manners--chews gum and
whispers.
"I got great grand children lives in Houston and they don't give me a
penny. I don't know what I'd do if twasn't for the Welfare.
"Used to wash and iron. I've ironed twenty shirts in one-half a day."
MAY 11 1938
Interviewer: Miss Irene Robertson
Person interviewed: "Happy Day" Green
Near Barton and Helena, Arkansas
Age: Grown during the Civil War
"I don't know how old I is, young mistress. I was here 'fore the Civil
War, young mistress. I was born in South, Alabama, young mistress. Well,
it was nigh Montgomery, Alabama, young mistress. My mama name Emily
Green. She had three children to my knowing. I don't know no father. My
owner was Boss William Green, young mistress. His wife was Miss
Lizabuth, young mistress. They did have a big family, young mistress. To
my knowing it was: Billy, Charlie, Bunkum, Ida, Mary, Sally, Jimmy,
Buddy. I never went to school a day in my life, young mistress. When I
come on big 'nuff to work I had to help keer for mama and two girl
sisters, young mistress.
"When I come to this state, Van Vicks and Bill Bowman immigrated one
hundred head of us. They landed some of us at Helena. Our family was
landed at Phillips Bayou, young mistress.
"I was a cowboy, me and George. He was another black boy, young
mistress. We kept flies offen Boss William Green and Miss Lizabuth,
young mistress. They took naps purt nigh every day when it be the long
days (in summer), young mistress. Mama was milk woman. Boss William
Green had goats and 'bout a dozen heads of milch cows, young mistress. I
was willed to Mars Billy. He went off to war and died 'fore the War
begun, young mistress.
"Nobody run 'way from Boss William Green. He told 'em if they run off he
would whoop 'em. He didn't have no dogs, young mistress. They be a white
man near by owned nigger hounds, young mistress. He take his hounds, go
hunt a runaway, young mistress. You would pay him, I reckon, young
mistress.
"I did get some whoopings, young mistress. They used a cow hide strap on
me, young mistress. They blistered me a right smart, young mistress.
"We didn't have so much to eat. They give us one peck meal, four pounds
meat a week. Mama done our cooking, young mistress. We had good clothes,
warm clothes, woolen clothes, young mistress. We had a few sheep about
the place. We had a few geese 'mong the turkeys, guineas, ducks, and
chickens. They kept the peafowls for good luck, young mistress.
"Fur a fact they had a big garden, young mistress. Boss William Green
worked the garden. He made us pull the plow--four of us boys. He said
the stock would tromp down more'n they'd make, young mistress. Two of
his boys and me and George pulled his plough. We had a big garden.
"I chopped in the field, picked up chips on the clearings. I chopped
cook wood right smart, young mistress.
"When freedom come on, grandpa come after mama. Boss William Green told
her, 'You free.' He give her ten bushels corn, good deal of meat--back
bone and spareribs. He come one Saturday evening, young mistress. She
took 'long whatever she had at our house in the way of clothing and such
lack, young mistress. Well, grandpa was share crapping, young mistress.
"The Ku Kluckses come one night. They kept us getting 'em water to run
through something under their sheets. The water was running out on the
ground. We did see it for a fact, young mistress. We was scared not to
do that. They was getting submission over the country, young
mistress. They would make you be quiet 'long the roadside, young
mistress. They would make you be quiet where you have meeting. They
would turn the pots down on the floor at the doors, young mistress. The
Ku Kluckses whooped some, tied some out to trees and left 'em. They was
rough, young mistress.
"I worked in the field all my life.
"Times is good fer me, young mistress. I live with my niece. I get
twelve dollars assistance 'cause I been sick, young mistress. I owns a
pony. All I owns, young mistress.
"I hab voted, young mistress. I'm too old to vote now, young mistress. I
reckon I voted both ways some, young mistress.
"Young folks is so strong and happy they is different from old folks,
young mistress."
#774
Interviewer: Watt McKinney
Person interviewed: Henry Green
Barton, Arkansas
Age: 90
Uncle Henry Green, an ex-slave ninety years of age, is affectionately
known throughout a large part of Phillips County as "Happy Day". This
nickname, acquired in years long past, was given him no doubt partly on
account of his remarkably happy disposition, but mainly on account of
his love for the old religious song, "Happy Day", that Uncle Henry has
enjoyed so long to sing and the verses of which his voice still carries
out daily over the countryside each morning promptly at daybreak and
again at sundown.
Uncle Henry and his old wife, Louisa, live with Uncle Henry's sister,
Mattie Harris, herself seventy-five years of age, on a poor forty acre
farm that Mattie owns in the Hyde Park community just off the main
highway between Walnut Corner and West Helena. Henry acts as janitor at
the Lutherian Church at Barton and the three do such farming as they are
able on the thin acres and with the few dollars that they receive each
month from the Welfare Board together with the supplies furnished them
at the Relief Office these three old folks are provided with the bare
necessities sufficient to sustain them.
Uncle Henry, his wife and sister Mattie are the most interesting of the
several ex-slave Negroes in this county whom it has been my pleasure and
good fortune to interview. As I sat with them on the porch of their old,
rambling log house the following incidents and account of their lives
were given with Uncle Henry talking and Mattie and Louisa offering
occasional explanations and corrections:
"Yes sir, Boss Man, my right name is Henry Green but eberybody, dey all
calls me 'Happy Day'. Dat is de name whut mos' all calls me fer so long
now dat heap of de folks, dey don't eben know dat my name is sho nuf
Henry Green. I sho ain't no baby, Boss Man, kase I is been here er long
time, dat I is, and near as I kin cum at hit I is ninety years old er
mo, kase Mattie sey dat de lady in de cote-house tell her dat I is
ninety-fo, en dat wuz three years er go. I is er old nigger, Boss Man,
en er bout de onliest old pusson whut is lef er round here in dis part
of de county. I means whut is sho nuf old, en what wuz born way bak in
de slabery times, way fo de peace wuz 'clared.
"Us wuz borned, dat is me en sister Mattie, er way bak dere in Souf
Alabama, down below Montgomery, in de hills, en on de big place whut our
ole marster, William Green, had, en whar de tanyard wuz. Yo see, old
marster, he runned er big tanyard wid all de res of he bizness, whar dey
tan de hides en mek de shoes en leather harness en sich lak, en den too,
marster, he raise eberything on de place. All whut he need fer de
niggers en he own fambly, lak cotton, wheat, barley, rice en plenty hogs
en cows. Iffen peace hadn't er been 'clared en Marse Billy hadn't er
died I wuz gwine ter be Marse Billy's property, kase I wuz already
willed ter Marse Billy. Marse Billy wuz old Marster William Green's
oldest son chile, en Marse Billy claimed me all de while. Marse Billy,
he went off to de War whar he tukkin sik en died in de camp, 'fore he
cud eben git in de fitin.
"Atter de War wuz ober en peace cum, my grandmammy en my grandpappy, dey
cum en got my mammy en all us chillun en tuk us wid dem ter Montgomery,
en dat wuz whar us wuz when dem two Yankee mens immigrated us here ter
Arkansas. Dey immigrated er bout er hundred head er niggers at de same
time dat us cum. My grandpappy en my grandmammy, dey didn't belong ter
old Marster William Green. I jist don't know whut white folks dey did
belong ter, but I knows dat dey sho cum en got my mammy en us chillun.
Old marster, he neber mine dem er leavin' en tole 'em dat dey free, en
kin go if us want ter go, en when us left old marster gib mammy ten
bushels er corn en some hog heads en spareribs en tole her ter bring de
chillun bak er gin 'fore long kase he gwine ter gib all de chillun some
shoes at de tanyard, but us neber did go bak ter git dem shoes kase we
wuz immigrated soon atter den.
"No sir, Boss Man, we don't know nuthin' 'bout who our pappy wuz. Dar
wuzn't no niggers much in slabery times whut knowed nuthin' 'bout dey
pappys. Dey jes knowed who dey mammys is. Dats all dey knowed 'bout dat.
Us neber hab no pappy, jes er mammy whut wuz name Emily Green.
"Boss Man, yo see how black I is en kinky dat my hair is en yo can see
dat me en sister Mattie is sho pure niggers wid no brown in us. Well, yo
know one thing, Boss Man, en dis is sho whut my mammy done tole us er
heap er times, en dat is dat when I wuz born dat de granny woman runned
ter old mis en tell her ter cum en look at dat baby whut Emily done
gibed birth ter, and dat I wuz nigh 'bout white en hed straight hair en
blue eyes, en when old mis seed me dat she so mad dat she gib mammy er
good stroppin kase I born lak dat but hit warn't long atter I born 'fore
I gits black, en old mis see den dat I er pure nigger, en den she tell
mammy dat she sorry dat she stropped her 'bout me being white en er
habin blue eyes en straight hair. No sir, Boss Man, I jes don't know how
cum I change but dat sho is whut mammy did tell us. Sister Mattie, she
know dat.
"Yes sir, Boss Man, I kin tell you all er bout de old slabery times, en
cordin ter whut I'se thinkin', en fer as me myself is, wid de times so
tight lak dey is now days wid me, and all de time be er stud'in' 'bout
how ter git er long, hit wud be er heap better fer hit to be lak hit wuz
den, kase us neber hed nuthin ter worry 'bout den cept ter do dat whut
we wuz tole ter do, en all de eatin' en de cloes wuz gib ter us. Our
marster trained us up right, fer ter do our wuk good en ter obey whut de
white folks sey en ter sho be polite to de white folks, en atter us lef
old marster den our mammy she trained us de same way, en we is always
polite, kase manners is cheap.
"All de nigger chillun in slabery time wore slips, bofe de gals en de
boys. Dere wuzn't no breeches fer de little ones eben atter dey git old
enuf ter wuk en go ter de fiel's, dey still wear dem slips, en dey used
ter feed us outen dem big wooden bowls whut dey mix de bread up in, wid
sometimes de pot-likker, en sometimes mostly wid de milk, en de chillun,
dey go atter dat grub en git hit all ober dey faces en dey hands en dey
slips en er bout de time dey git through eatin' de old mis she cum out
en when dey through old mis, she hab 'em ter wash dey hands en faces
nice en clean.
"On dem Sundays dat de marster want all de niggers ter go ter church fer
de preachin', he send dem all de order ter wash up good en clean en put
on dey clean cloes en git ready fer de preachin', en fust ter cum up dar
whar he waitin' ter see dat dey look good en nice en clean, en when us
git up dar ter de house lookin' fresh en good, de marster's folks, dey
talk lak dis ter one er nudder; dey sey: 'Look er here at my nigger,
Henry, dat boy is lookin' fine. He is gwine ter be er big healthy man en
er good wukker,' en atter dey all done looked all de niggers ober dey
tell 'em ter be gwine on ter de church en dey go on en sit in de bak
behine all de white folks en hear de white man preach. Dar wuzn't no
nigger preachers in dem days dat I ever seed.
"Now I know dat yo has heard of dem paddyrollers. Well, I tell yo, Boss
Man, dem paddyrollers, dey wuz bilious. Dey wuz de mens whut rid out on
de roads at night ter see dat all dem niggers whut wuz out en off dey
marster's places hed er pass from dey marsters. Dem paddyrollers, dey
wud stop er nigger whut dey find out at night en sey, 'Boy, whar yo
gwine? En is yo got yo pass?' En de Lawd help dem niggers whut dey cotch
widout dat pass. Iffen er nigger be cotch out et night widout de pass
writ down on de paper frum he marster, en dem paddyrollers cotch him,
dat nigger sho haf ter do sum good prayin' en pretty talkin' er else dey
tek him ter whar dey got four stobs drove down in de groun en dey tie he
hans en feet ter dem stobs en den ware him out wid er big heaby strop.
De mostest reason dat sometimes de niggers out at night is on account
dey courtin' some gal whut libes on some udder place. When yo see de
paddyrollers er comin' en yo ain't got no pass writ down on de paper en
yo don't want ter git er stroppin, den de onliest thing fer yo ter do is
ter run en try ter git on yer marster's place 'fore dey git yo, er try
ter dodge 'em er somepin lak dat. Iffen de paddyrollers got dem nigger
hounds wid 'em when de nigger break en run, den de onliest thing dat de
nigger kin do den is ter wuk de conjure. He kin wuk dat conjure on dem
hounds in seberal different ways. Fust, he kin put er liddle tuppentine
on he feet er in he shoe, en er lot er times dat will frow de hounds off
de track, er else, iffen he kin git er hold er some fresh dirt whar er
grabe ain't been long dug, en rub dat on he feet, den dat is er good
conjure, en mo dan dat iffen he kin git ter catch er yearlin calf by der
tail en step in de drappins whar dat calf done runned er long wid him
er holdin' on ter de tail, den dat is a sho conjure ter mak dem hounds
lose de track, en dat nigger kin dodge de paddyrollers.
"Lak I sey, Boss Man, 'bout de onliest thing dat de niggers in slabery
time wud lebe de place at night fer, wud be dey courtin', en mostly den
on er Wednesday er Saturday night, so I gwine ter tell yo how dey
sometimes dodge de paddyrollers whilst dey courtin' dere wimmens at
night. Yo see, mos' all de wimmens, dey be er wukkin at night on dey
tasks dat dere old mis gib 'em ter do, er weavin' er de cloth. Dese
wimmens wud be er settin' 'roun de fire weavin' de cloth en de nigger be
dar too er courtin' de gal, en all ter once here cum dem paddyrollers,
some at de front door en some at de back door, en when de wimmens er
hear 'em er comin', dey raise er loose plank in de flo whut dey done
made loose fer dis bery puppus, en de nigger he den drap right quick
down 'neath de flo twix de jists, en de wimmens den slap de plank right
bak in place on top er de man ter hide him, so iffen de paddyrollers
does come in dat dey see dat dere ain't no man in dar. Dat wuz de way
dat de niggers used ter fool 'em heap er times.
"I 'members dem days well when de War gwine on yit I neber did see no
Yankee mens er tall, en de closest dat us eber cumbed ter see de Yankees
wuz dat time when old marster hed de horn blowed ter signal de niggers
ter git de kerrige hosses en de milk cows off ter de woods kase he had
done heard dat de Yankees wuz er cumin, but dey missed us en dem
Yankees, dey neber find old marster's place. I seed some of our sojer
mens do, once, atter us lef old marster en go ter Montgomery wid our
grandpappy. Dese sojer mens, dey come in ter town on de train bak frum
de War whar dey been fitin fer so long, en dey happy en singin', dey so
glad dat peace done 'clared. Hit wuz er whole train full er dem Fedrit
sojers, en dey wimmens en chilluns all dere er huggin' en er kissin' 'em
ginst dey git off de train en gibin 'em cakes en sich good things ter
eat.
"Yes sir, Boss Man, de niggers wuz treated good in slabery times en wuz
trained up right, ter wuk, en obey, en ter hab good manners. Our old
marster, he neber wud sell er nigger en he feed 'em good, en dey lub en
'spected him. Yo sho hed better 'spect him, en iffen yo didn't dat strop
wud be er flyin'. All er old marster's niggers wuz good multiplyin'
peoples. Dey sho wuz, en dey raise big famblies. Dats one thing whut er
woman hed ter be in dem days er she sho be sold quick. Iffen she ain't
er good multiplier dey gwine ter git shut er her rail soon. Day tuk
extra pains wid dem good multiplyin' wimmins too en neber gib dem no
heaby wuk ter do no mo dan weavin' de cloth er sich roun de place.
"Whilst our old marster, he neber sell no niggers, de speculators, dey
hab 'em fer sale er plenty, en I has seed 'em er passin' in de road en
er long string er gwine ter de place whar de sale gwine ter be. 'Fore
dey git ter de sale place dey roach dem niggers up good jes lak dey
roach er mule, en when dey put 'em on de block fer de white mens ter bid
de price on 'em den dey hab 'em ter cut de shines en de pidgeon wing fer
ter show off how supple dey is, so dey bring de bes' price.
"Dey neber hed no farm bells in slabery times fer ter ring en call de
hans in en outen de fiel's. Dey hed horns whut dey blowed early en late.
De wuk wud go on till hit so dark dat dey can't see. Den de horn wud
blow en de niggers all cum in en git dey supper, en cook dey ash cakes
in de fire whut dey build in dey own cabins. Boss Man, is yo eber et er
ash cake? I don't 'spects dat yo know how ter mek one er dem ash cakes.
I gwine ter tell yo how dat is done. Fust yo git yo some good home groun
meal en mix hit well wid milk er water en a liddle salt an bakin'
powder whut yo mek outen red corn cobs, den yo pat dem cakes up right
good en let 'em settle, den put 'em in de hot ashes in de fireplace en
kiver 'em up good wid some mo hot ashes en wait till dey done, en Boss
Man, yo sho is got er ash cake dat is fitten ter eat. Dats de way dat us
made 'em in slabery times en de way dat us yit meks 'em. Us didn't know
whut white bread wuz in de old days, hardly, 'ceptin sometimes 'roun de
marster's kitchen er nigger wud git er hold of er biscuit. All de bread
dat de slabe niggers git wud be made outen cornmeal er dem brown shorts
whut de marsters gib 'em in de rashions.
"Us wuz all well fed do in slabery times en kept in good fat condition.
Ebery once in er while de marster wud hab er cow kilt en de meat
'stributed out mongst de folks en dey cud always draw all de rashions
dat dey need.
"Dey used ter hab dem big corn shuckin's too in de old days. De corn wud
be piled up in er pile es big es er house en all de han's wud be
scattered out roun' dat pile er corn shuckin' fas' as dey cud, en atter
dey done shucked dat pile er corn, ole marster wud hab two big hogs kilt
en cooked up in de big pots en kittles, en den dem niggers wud eat en
frolic fer de longes', mekin music wid er hand saw en er tin pan, en er
dancin', en laffin, en cuttin' up, till dey tired out. Dem wuz good
days, Boss Man. I sho wish dat I cud call dem times bak ergin. De
marsters whut hed de big places en de slabe niggers, dey hardly do no
wuk er tall, kase dey rich wid niggers en lan', en dem en dey famblies
don't hab no wuk ter do, so de old marsters en de young marsters, dey
jes knock erbout ober de country on dey hosses, en de young misses en de
old misses, dey ride er bout in de fine kerrige wid de coachman er doin'
de drivin'. Dey hab de oberseers ter look atter de mekin er de crops,
so de bosses, dey jes sort er manage, en see dat de bizness go on de
right way.
"De marsters en de misses, dey look atter dere niggers good do en see
dat dey keep demselves clean en 'spectible, en try ter keep de disease
outen 'em. Ebery Monday mornin' dey gib 'em all er little square, brown
bottle er bitters fer dem ter take dat week. Dat wuz dere medicine, but
iffen er nigger do git sick, den dey sent fer de doctor right er way en
hab de doctor ter 'zamine de sick one en sey, 'Doctor, kin you do dat
nigger eny good?' er 'Do whut yo kin fer dat nigger, Doctor, kase he is
er valuable han' en wuth muney.'
"I neber wuz sick none do in my life, but I jes nathally been kilt, near
'bout, one time in de gin when my head git cotched twixt de lever en de
band wheel en Uncle Dick hed ter prize de wheel up offen my head ter git
me loose, en dat jes nigh 'bout peeled all de skin offen my head. Old
marster, he gib me er good stroppin fer dat too. Dat wuz fer not
obeyin', kase he hed done tole all us young niggers fer ter stay 'way
frum de gin house.
"I wuzn't gwine ter be trained up ter wuk in de fiel's, I wuz trained
ter be er pussonal servant ter de marster, en sister Mattie, she wuz
gwine ter be trained up ter be er house woman, en so wuz my old woman,
Louisa, kase her mammy wuz er house woman herself fer her white folks in
South Carolina, so I rekkin dats de reason us always thought we so much
en better 'en de ginral run er niggers.
"Yes sir, Boss Man, de niggers is easy fooled. Dey always is been dat
way, en we wuz fooled er way frum Alabama ter Arkansas by dem two Yankee
mens, Mr. Van Vleet en Mr. Bill Bowman, whut I tole yo er bout, dat
brung dat hundred head er folks de time us cum. Dey tole us dat in
Arkansas dat de hogs jes layin' er roun already baked wid de knives en
de forks stickin' in 'em ready fer ter be et, en dat dere wuz fritter
ponds eberywhars wid de fritters er fryin' in dem ponds er grease, en
dat dar wuz money trees whar all yo hed ter do wuz ter pik de money
offen 'em lak pickin' cotton offen de stalk, en us wuz sho put out when
us git here en fine dat de onliest meat ter be hed wuz dat whut wuz in
de sto, en dem fritters hed ter be fried in de pans, en dat dar warn't
no money trees er tall. Hit warn't long 'fore my grandpappy en my
grandmammy, dey lef 'en went bak ter Alabama, but my mammy en us
chillun, we jes stayed on right here in Phillips County whar us been
eber since, en right en dat room right dar wuz whar us old mammy died
long years er go.
"Well, Boss Man, yo done ax me en I sho gwine ter tell yo de truf. Yes
sir, I sho is voted, en I 'members de time well dat de niggers in de
cotehouse en de Red Shirts hab ter git 'em out. Dat wuz de bes' thing
dat dey eber do when dey git de niggers outen de cotehouse en quit 'em
frum holdin' de offices, kase er nigger not fit ter be no leader. I
neber cud wuk under no nigger. I jes nathally neber wud wuk under no
nigger. I jist voted sich er length er time, en when de Red Shirts, dey
say dat er nigger not good enuf ter vote, en dey stopped me frum votin',
en I don't mess wid hit no mo.
"Yes sir, Boss Man, I blebe dat de Lawd lef' me here so long fer some
good puppose, en I sho hopes dat I kin stay here fer er heap er mo
years. I jes nathally lubes de white folks en knows dat dey is sho gwine
ter tek care of old 'Happy Day', en ain't gwine ter let me git hurt.
"De young niggers in dis day sho ain't lak de old uns. Dese here young
niggers is jes nathally de cause of all de trubble. Dey jes ain't been
raised right en ter be polite lak de old ones, lak me, I don't hold it
er gin yo, kase, mebbe yo pappy en yo mammy owned my pappy en my mammy
in slabery times en whupped 'em, kase I 'spects dat dey needed all de
punishment whut dey got. All de education whut I got, Boss Man, is jes
ter wuk, en obey, en ter lib right.
"I knows dat I ain't here far many mo years, Boss Man, en I sho hopes
dat I kin git ter see some of my marsters, de Greens, ergin, 'fore I
goes. I ain't neber been back since I lef, en I ain't neber heard frum
none of 'em since I been in Arkansas, en I know en cose dat all de old
uns is gone by now, but I 'spects dat some of de young uns is lef yit. I
wud sho lak ter go back dar ter de old place whar de tanyard wuz, but I
neber wud hab dat much money ter pay my way on de train, en den, I don't
rekkin dat I cud fine de way nohow. I wud git some of de white folks ter
write er letter back dar fer me iffen I know whar ter send hit, er de
name of some of my young marsters whut mebbe is dar still. Yes sir, Boss
Man, I sho hopes dat I kin see some of dem white folks ergin, en dat
some of dese days dey will fine me. Yo know I is de janitor at de church
at Walnut Corner whar de two hard roads cross, en whar all de cars cum
by. De cars, dey cum by dar frum eberywhars, en so ebery Sunday morning
atter I gits through er cleanin' up de church, I sets down on de bench
dar close ter Mr. Gibson's sto, whar dey sell de gasolene en de cold
drinks, en whar de cars cum by frum eberywhar, en I sets dar er lookin'
at all dem white folks er passin' in dey cars, en sometimes dey stop fer
ter git 'em some gasolene er sumpin, en I says ter myself dat mebbe one
er my young marsters sometimes gwine ter be in one of dem cars, en gwine
ter drive up dar er lookin' fer me. Er heap er times when de cars stop
dar will be er white gentman in de cars whut git out en see me a settin'
dar on de bench, en he sey, 'Uncle, yo is rail old, ain't yo?' An den he
ax me my name en whar I borned at, en er heap er times dey buy me er
cigar. Well, Boss Man, dats how cum I sets on dat bench dar at de road
crossin' at Walnut Corner ebery Sunday, mos' all day, atter I gits
through er cleanin' up de church, jes settin' dar watchin' dem cars cum
by en 'spectin one of dese days fer one of my young marsters ter drive
up en ter fine me er settin' dar waitin' fer him, en when he cum, iffen
he do, I know dat he sho gwine ter tek me back home wid him."
Interviewer: Mrs. Bernice Bowden
Person interviewed: Frank Greene
2313 Saracen Street, Pine Bluff, Arkansas
Age: 78
"Yes'm, I can remember the Civil War and the Yankees, too. I can really
remember the Yankees and my old boss. I can't remember everything but I
can remember certain things just as good.
"Dr. Ben Lawton was my old boss. That was in South Carolina. That was
what they called Buford County at that time.
"Had a place they called the Honey Hill Fight. I used to go up there and
pick up balls.
"I can remember the Yankees had little old mules and blue caps and the
folks was runnin' from 'em.
"I remember old boss run off and hid from 'em--first one place and then
another.
"I remember the Yankees would grab up us little folks and put us on the
mules--just for fun you know. I can remember that just as well as if
'twas yesterday--seems like.
"They burned old boss's place down. He had five or six plantations and I
know he come back and rebuilt after peace declared, but he didn't live
long.
"He wasn't a mean man. He was good to his folks. We stayed there two
years after surrender and when I come to this country, I left some of my
uncles on that same place.
"I remember a white gentlemen in South Carolina would just jump his
horse over the fence and run over the folks, white and black, cotton and
all. He was a rich man and he'd just pay 'em off and go on. He wouldn't
put up the fence neither. He was a hunter--a sporting man.
"Me? Yes ma'am, I used to vote--the Republican ticket. We ain't nothin'
now, we can't vote. I never had any trouble 'bout votin' here but in the
old country we had some trouble. The Democrats tried to keep us from
votin'. Had to have the United States soldiers to open the way. That was
when Hays and Wheeler was runnin'.
"Here in the South the colored folks is free and they're not free. The
white folks gets it all anyway--in some places.
"But they ain't nobody bothered me in all my life--here or there.
"I went to school some after the war. Didn't have very much, but I
learned to read and write and 'tend to my own affairs.
"I have done farm work all my life and some public work. I got the same
ambition to work as I used to have but I can't hold it. I start out but
I just can't hold it.
"Just to pass my opinion of the younger generation, some of 'em
level-headed, but seems to me like they is a little rougher than they
was in my day.
"I think every one should live as an example for those coming behind."
MAY 11 1938
Interviewer: Samuel S. Taylor
Person interviewed: George Greene
Temporary--1700 Pulaski St., Little Rock, Ark.
Permanent--Wrightsville, Ark.
Age: 85?