Uncle D. Davis, an ex-slave, 85 years of age lives some miles north of Marvell, Arkansas with a widowed daughter on a small farm the daughter owns. Uncle D himself also owns a nice little farm some distance further up the road and which he rents out each year since he is no longer able to tend the land. This old negro, now old and bent from years of work and crippled from the effects of rheumatism hobbles about with the assistance of a crutch and a cane. His mind however is very clear and his recollection keen. As I sat with him on the porch of his daughter's home he told me the following story:
"Yes Sir, Mr. McKinney, I has been in Phillips County fer pas forty-five years and I is now pas eighty-five. I wuz a grown en settled man when I fust cum here en hed chillun nigh bout growd. Dats how cum me ter com here on er count of one of my boys. Dis boy he cum befo I did en hed done made one crop en dat boy fooled me ober here from Mississippi. Yo know how dese young bucks is, allus driftin er roun en he hed done drifted rite down dere below Marvell on de Cypress Bayou, en war wukin fer Mr. Fred Mayo when he writ me de letter ter cum ober here. I guess dat yo has heard of Mr. Fred Mayo dat owned de big plantation dere close ter Turner. Well dat is de man whut ay boy wuz wid and atter I cum I jined up wid Mr. Mayo en stayed wid him fer two years en I wud er ben wid him fer good I rekkin iffen I hadn't wanter buy me er place of my own, kase Mr. Fred Mayo he wuz a nathal good man en treted all he hands fair.
"When I cided ter git me er little place of my own, I went en got quainted wid Mr. Marve Carruth kase he hed er great name wid de niggers, en all de niggers in dem days dey went ter Mr. Carruth fer ter git de advice, en Mr. Carruth he hoped me ter git de place up de road whut is mine yit. Dere neber wuz no white man whut wuz no better dan Mr. Marve Carruth. No Sir dat is a fac.
"Yo see, Capn, I wuz borned en raised in de hills of Mississippi, in Oktibbawa County not so fer frum Starkville, en dat wuz a ole country time I hed got grown en de lan hit wuz gittin powful thin, en when I cumed ter dis state en seen how much cotton de folks mekin on de groun, en how rish de lan, I jist went crazy ober dis country en stayed rite here en mobed my fambly rite off. Folkses hed cotton piled up all er round dey houses en I cided rite off dat dis war gwine ter be my home den.
"My ole Marster wuz Tom Davis en Capn dere warnt never no finer man whut ever libed dan Marse Tom. Marse Tom wuz lubed by ebery nigger dat he hed, en Marse Tom sho hed a passel of em. He had bettern two-hundred head en de las one dey crazy bout Marse Tom Davis. He war rather old frum my fust riccolection of im, en he neber libed meny years atter de war. Marse Tom he owned a grete heap er lan. His lan hit stretch out fer God knows how fer en den too he hed de big mill whut runned wid de water wheel whar dey saw de lumber en grine de meal en de flour. Dey neber bought no flour en dem days kase dey raised de wheat on de place, en all de meat en nigh bout ebery thing whut dey hed er need of. Marse Tom he tuk de best kine er care of his slabe people en he neber blebe in buyin er sellin no niggers. Dat he didn't. He neber wud sell er one, en he neber did buy but three. Dat is er fac, Capn, en one of dem three whut he bought wuz "Henry" whut wuz my own pappy, en he buyed Henry frum Mr. Spence kase Henry hed done got married ter Malindy, whut wuz my mammy. Dat is whut my Mammy en Pappy dey bofe tole me.
"Marse Tom he neber jine de army kase he too old when de war brek out, but Marse Phil he jined up. Marse Phil dat war Marse Tom's son, en de onliest boy dat Ole Marster en Ole Mis hed, en dey jist hed one mo chile en dat wuz de girl, Miss Rachel, en atter de war ober Miss Rachel she married Capn Dan Travis whut cum from Alabama. Ole Marster he neber laked Capn Dan er bit, en he jes bucked en rared er bout Miss Rachel gwine ter git married ter dat Capn, but hit neber done him no good ter cut up kase Ole Mis she sided wid Miss Rachel, en den too Miss Rachel she hab er head of her own en she know her Pa aint gwine ter stop her. Marse Tom he didn't lak Capn Dan kase de Capn he er big sport, en mighty wild, en lub he whiskey too well, en den he a gamblin man besides dat, do he sho war a fine lookin gentman.
"Whilst Marse Tom he too old ter jine up wid de army, he hired him er man ter fite fer him in his place jes de same, en him en Ole Mis dey neber want Marse Phil ter jine up, en sey dey gwine ter hire er man fer ter tek Marse Phil's place so he won't hatter go, but Marse Phil he sey he gwine ter do he own fitin, en eben do he Ma en Pa dey cut up right smart bout Marse Phil goin ter de war, he up en jine jes de same. Marse Phil he neber wuz sich a stout, healthy pussen, en he always sorter sikly, en it warnt long fore he tuk down in de camp wid sum kine er bad spell er sikness en died. Dat wuz sho tuf on Marse Tom en de Ole Mis fer dem ter lose Marse Phil, kase dey put er heap er sto by dat boy, him bein de onliest son dat dey got, en day so tached ter im. Hit mighty nigh broke dem ole peoples up.
"No Sir, Capn, I betcha dat dere warnt airy uther er slabe-owning white man ter be foun dat wuz er finer man, er dat was mo good ter he niggers dan Marse Tom Davis. Now jes tek dis, dere wuz "Uncle Joe" whut wuz my grand-pappy, en he wuz jes bout de same age as Marse Tom, en dey growed up ter gedder, en dey tole hit dat Marse Tom's pappy git "Uncle Joe" when he war jes a boy frum de speckle-lady (speculator) fer er red hankerchief, dats how cheap he git im en, dat rite off he gib im ter Marse Tom, en atter Marse Tom git up en growd ter be er man, en he pappy died en lef him all de lan en slabes, en den atter er lot mo years pas, en Uncle Joe done raise Marse Tom seben chillun, den Marse Tom he up en sot Uncle Joe free, en gib him er home en forty acres, en sum stock kase Uncle Joe done been good en fathful all dem years, en raise Marse Tom all dem seben chillun, en one of dem seben wuz my own mammy.
"Capn, aint yo eber heard tell of de speckle-ladies? (speculators) Well, I gwine ter tell yo who dey wuz. Dey wuz dem folkses whut dealed in de niggers. Dat is whut bought em, en sole em, en dey wud be gwine round thru de country all de time wid a grete gang er peoples bofe men en womens, er tradin, en er buyin, en er sellin. Hit wuz jes lak you mite sey dat dey wud do wid er gang er mules. Jist befo dese here speckle-ladies wud git ter er town er plantation whar dey gwine ter try ter do sum bizness lak tradin er sich matter, dey stop de crowd long side er creek er pond er water en mek em wash up en clean up good lak, en comb em up rite nice, en mek de wimmens wrap up dey heads wid some nice red cloth so dey all look in good shape ter de man whut dey gwine try ter do de bizness wid. Dats zackly de way dey do Capn, jes lak curryin en fixin up mules fer ter sell, so dey look bettern dey actually is.
"Whilst Marse Tom Davis hed oberseers hired ter look atter de farmin of de lan, he hed his own way er doin de bizness, kase he know dat all he niggers is good wukkers, en dat he kin pend on em, so de fust of ebery week he gib each en ebery single man er fambly er task fer ter do dat week, en atter dat task is done den dey fru wuk fer dat week en kin den ten de patches whut he wud gib dem fer ter raise whut dey want on, en whut de slabes raise on dese patches dat he gib em wud be deres whut-sum-eber hit wud be, cotton er taters er what, hit wub be, dey own, en dey cud sell hit en hab de money fer demselves ter buy whut dey want.
"Marse Tom he wud ride out ober de place at least once a week en always on er Sattidy mornin, en ginerally he wud pass de word out mongst de folkses fer em all ter cum ter de big house er Sattidy atter noon fer er frolic. Ebery pussen on de place frum de littlest chile ter de oldest man er woman wud clean dey selves up en put on dey best clo's for ter "go befo de King", dats whut us called it. All wud gather in bak of de big house under de big oak trees en Marse Tom he wud cum out wid he fiddle under he arm, yo kno Marse Tom he war a grete fiddler, en sot hisself down in de chere whut Uncle Joe done fotched fer im, en den he tell Uncle Joe fer ter go git de barrel er whiskey en he wud gib em all er gill er two so's dey cud all feel rite good, en den Marse Tom he start dat fiddle playin rite lively en all dem niggers wid dance en hab de bes kin er frolic, en Marse Tom he git jes es much fun outen de party as de niggers demselves. Dats de kine er man whut Marse Tom wuz.
"I tell yo, Capn, my marster he sho treated his slabes fair. Dey all draw er plenty rations once ebery week en iffen dey run out tween times dey cud always git mo, en Marse Tom tell em ter git all de meal en flour at de mill eny time dat dey need hit. Dats rite, Capn, en I sho tells dis fer de truf, en dat is I say dat iffen all de slabe owning white folks lak Marse Tom Davis, den dere wudn't ben no use er freedom fer de darkies, kase Marse Tom's slabes dey long ways better off wid him in dey bondage dan dey wuz wid out im when dey sot free en him dead en gone.
"At Chrismus time on Marse Tom's place dey wud hab de fun fer er week er mo, wid no wuk gwine on at all. De candy pullin, en de dances wid be gwine on nigh bout constant, en ebery one gits er present frum de marster.
"All endurin of de war times, Marse Tom he neber raised no cotton er tall but instid he raised de wheat, en de corn en hogs fer de Confedrits, en de baggage waggins wud cum from time ter time fer de loads of flour, en meal en meat dat he wud sen ter de army. De Yankees sumhow dey missed us place en neber did fin hit, en do de damage er bruning [TR: burning?] en sich dat I is heard dat dey done in places in other parts of de state. We all heard one time dat de Yankees wuz close er roun en wuz on de way ter burn Marse Tom's mill but dey got on de wrong road en day neber did git ter our place, en us sho wuz proud er dat too. Yit en still attar de war ober, Marse Tom, he had bout four hundred bales er cotton on han at de barn en de Yankee govment dey sho tuk dat en didn't pay him er bit fer dat cotton. I knows dat ter be er fac.
"I members de war rail well, kase ye see, I wuz bout twelve year old when hit ober. En de last two er three years of de trubble I wuz big enuf ter be doin sum wuk, so dey tuk me in de big house fer ter be er waitin boy round de house, en I slept in dar too on er pallit on de floor, en er lot er times de Calvary sojers wud stop at Marse Tom's en spen de nite, en I wud be layin on de pallit but wudn't be sleep, en I cud hear dem talkin ter Marse Tom, en Marster he wud ax dem how de fite cumin on, en iffen dey whippin de Yankees, en de Calvary sojers dey say dat dey whippin de Yankees ebery day en killin em out, en Marse Tom he sey "Yo is jes er big lie, how cum yo runnin er way iffen yo whippin dem Yankees? Dem Yankees is atter yo, en yo is runnin frum em dats whut yo doin. Yo know yo aint whippin no Yankees kase if yo wuz yo wud be atter dem rite now stid dem atter yo". No Sir, dem Calvary sojers cudn't fool Marse Tom.
"Yes sir, I tell yo, Capn, de slabes dey fared well wid Marse Tom Davis, en dere wudn't neber ben no war ober de slabery question iffen every body ben lak Marse Tom. All his peoples wuz satisfied en dey didn't eben know what de Yankees en de Southern white folks wuz fitin er bout, kase dey wuzn't worried bout no freedom, yit en still atter de freedom cum dey wuz glad ter git hit, but atter dey git hit dey don't know whut ter do wid hit. En atter de bondage lifted, Marse Tom he called em all up en tell em dat dey free es he is, en dey kin lebe if dey want to, but dere wuzn't nairy nigger lef de place. Dey ebery one stayed, en I spect dat er lot of dem Davis niggers is rite dere till yit on dat same lan wid whoever hit belongs to.
"When er slabe man en woman got married in dose days dere wuzn't no sich thing as er license fer dem. All dey hed ter do wuz ter git de permit frum de Marster en den ter start in ter libbin wid each udder. Atter de freedom do, all er dem whut wuz married en libbin wid one er nudder wuz giben er slip ter sho dat dey married, en ter mek dey marriage legal.
"Atter freedom cum ter de darkies, en de trubble all ober in de fitin, en atter de surrender, Marse Tom he hed his whole place lined out by de surveyor en marked off in plots er groun, en he sell er plot er forty acres ter ebery fambly dat he hed, on de credik too, en sell em de stock wid de place so dey kin all hab er home, en dey all set in ter buy de lan frum Marse Tom, but hit warnt long atter dat till Marse Tom en ole Mis bofe died, en dat wuz when Capn Dan Travis, Miss Rachel's husband, he taken charge of de bizness en broke all de contracts dat de darkies hed made wid Marse Tom, an dat wuz de las of de lan buyin on dat place, en dat wuz de startin of de niggers er leavin de Davis place, wid Capn Dan Travis in charge, en Marse Tom gone. But Capn Dan he en Miss Rachel didn't keep dey place long atter her Pa dead, kase de Capn he too wild, en he soon fooled all de money en lan off wid he drinkin en gamblin.
"Capn, did yo eber hear of de "Chapel Hill" fight dat de colored folks en de white folks hed in Mississippi? I will tell yo bout dat fight en de leadin up ter de trubble.
"Atter de war dey hed de carpet-baggers en de Klu Klux bofe, en de white folks dey didn't lak de carpet-baggers tolerable well, dat dey didn't. I don't know who de carpet-baggers wuz but dey wuz powful mean, so de white folks say. You know sum way er udder de Yankees er de carpet-baggers er sum ob de crowd, dey put de niggers in de office at de cote house, en er makein de laws at de statehouse in Jackson. Dat wuz de craziest bizness dat dey eber cud er done, er puttin dem ignorant niggers whut cudn't read er write in dem places. I tell yo, Capn, dem whut put dose niggers in de office dey mus not had es much since es de niggers, kase dey mought know dat hit wudn't wuk, en hit sho didn't wuk long. Dey hed de niggers messed up in sum kind er clubs whut dey swaded dem to jine, en gib em all er drum ter beat, en dey all go marchin er roun er beatin de drums en goin ter de club meetins. Dem ignorant niggers wud sell out fer er seegar er a stick er candy. Hit wasn't long do till de trubble hit broke out en de fite tuk place. De Klu Klux dey wuz er ridin de country continual, en de niggers dey skeered plum sick by dem tall white lookin hants wid dey hosses all white wid de sheets, en sum sey dey jes cum outen dey grabe en er lookin fer er niggers ter tek bak wid em when de day light cum. All de time de niggers habin dey club meetins in er ole loose house dere at Chapel Hill, en de Klux er gittin more numerous all de time, en de feelin mongst de white en de black wuz er gittin wus en wus, en one night when de niggers habin er grete big meetin, en er beatin dey drums en er carryin on, here cum de Klu Klux er sumpin er shootin right en lef en er pourin de shots in ter dat ole house en at ebery niggers dey see, en de niggers dey start er shootin bak but not fer long, kase mos of em done lit out fer de woods, dats is mos all whut ain't kilt, en dat wuz de bery las of de club meetins en de bery las of de niggers er holdin de office in de cote house. I heard bout de fight de nex morn in kase Chapel Hill hit warn't fer frum whar I libed at dat time. I seed Dr. Marris Gray on de rode on he hoss, en he hoss wuz kivered wid mud frum he tall ter he head. Dr. Marris Gray he pulled up en sed, "Good mornin "D" is ye heard bout de fite whut wuz had last nite at Chapel Hill" en I sey "No Sir Doctor, whut fite wuz dat en whut dey fitin er bout?", en de doctor sey he didn't know whut dey fightin bout lessin dey jes tryin ter brake up de club meetin, en he went on ter say dat er heap er niggers wuz kilt en also sum white folks too, en sum mo wuz shot whut ain't dead yit, en dat he been tendin ter dem whut is shot en still ain't dead. En den I sey "Doctor Morris wuz yo dere when de fightin goin on"?, en de doctor he say "En cose I warn't dere yo don't think I gwine be roun what no shootin tekin place, does yo"?, en I say "Naw Suh" en de doctor he rid on down de rode den, but I knowed in my own mine dat Doctor Morris wuz in dat fightin, kass he hoss so spattered up wid mud, en I seed er long pistol barrel stickin out frum under he coat, en den sides dat I iz knowed de doctor eber since I wuz a chile when Marse Tom uster hab him ter gib de darkies de medicine when dey sik, en I seed him one night er ridin wid de Klu Klux en heard him er talkin when I wuz hid in de bushes lon side de rode when I cumin home frum catchin me er possum in de thicket, en den Doctor Morris he wid General Forrest all throo de war en he know whut fightin is, an he sho wudn't neber go outen his way to miss no shootin."
"This is what's left of me. How old? Me? Now listen and let me tell you how 'twas. Old mistress put all our ages in the family Bible, and I was born on Christmas morning in 1840 in Raleigh, North Carolina.
"My old master was Peter Davis and he was old Jeff Davis' brother. There was eight of them brothers and every one of em was as rich as cream.
"Old master was good to us. He said he wanted us singin' and shoutin' and workin' in the field from morning to night. He fed us well and we had plenty good clothes to wear—heavy woolen clothes and good shoes in the winter time. When I was a young man I wore good clothes.
"I served slavery about twenty-four years before peace was declared. We didn't have a thing in God's world to worry bout. Every darky old master had, he put woolen goods and good heavy shoes every winter. Oh, he was rich—had bout five or six thousand slaves. Oh, he had darkies aplenty. He run a hundred plows.
"I went to work when I was seven pullin' worms off tobacco, and I been workin' ever since. But when I was comin' up I had good times. I had better times than I ever had in my life. I used to be one of the best banjo pickers. I was good. Played for white folks and called figgers for em. In them days they said 'promenade', 'sashay', 'swing corners', 'change partners'. They don't know how to dance now. We had parties and corn shuckin's, oh lord, yes.
"I'll sing you a song
"When I was twenty-one I was sold to the speculator and sent to Texas. They started me at a thousand and run me up to a thousand nine hunnerd and fifty and knocked me off. He paid for me in old Jeff Davis' shin plasters.
"I runned away and I was in Mississippi makin' my way back home to North Carolina. I was hidin' in a hollow log when twenty-five of Sherman's Rough Riders come along. When they got close to me the horses jumped sudden and they said, 'Come out of there, we know you're in there!' And when I come out, all twenty-five of them guns was pointin' at that hole. They said they thought I was a Revel and 'serted the army. That was on New Years day of the year the war ended. The Yankees said, 'We's freed you all this mornin', do you want to go with us?' I said, 'If you goin' North, I'll go.' So I stayed with em till I got back to North Carolina.
"After surrender, people went here and yonder and that's how come I'm here. I emigrated here. I left Raleigh, North Carolina Christmas Eve 1883. I've seen ninety-six Christmases.
"I member the folks said the war was to keep us under bondage. The South wants us under bondage right now or they wouldn't do us like they do.
"When I come to this country of Arkansas I brought twelve chillun and left four in North Carolina. I've had six wives and had twenty-nine chillun by the six wives.
"I've seen them Ku Klux in slavery times and I've cut a many a grapevine. We'd be in the place dancin' and playin' the banjo and the grape vine strung across the road and the Ku Klux come ridin' along and run right into it and throw the horses down.
"Cose I believe in hants. They're in the air. Can't everybody see em. Some come in the shape of a cat or a dog—you know, old folks spirits. I ain't afeared of em—ain't afeared of anything cept a panter. Cose I got a gun—got three or four of em. You can't kill a spirit cept with silver.
"I was in the road one time at night next to a cemetery and I see somethin' white come right up side of me. I didn't run then. You know you can git so scared you can't run, but when I got so I could, I like to killed myself runnin'.
"I'm not able to work now, but I just go anyhow. I got a willin' mind to work and a strong constitution but I ain't got nothin' to back it. I never was sick but twice in my life.
"Since I been in Pine Bluff I worked sixteen years at night firing up and watchin' engines, makin' steam, and never lost but one night. I worked for the Cotton Belt forty-eight years. I worked up until the fust day of this last past May, five years ago, when they laid me off.
"I'm disabled wif dis rheumatism now but I works every day anyway.
"I'll show you I haven't been asleep atall. I worked for the railroad company forty-eight years and I been tryin' to get that railroad pension but there's so much Red Cross (tape) to these things they said it'd be three months before they could do anything."
[TR: Same as previous informant despite age difference.]
"Well, I've broke completely down. I ain't worth nothing. Got rheumatism all over me.
"I never seen inside a schoolhouse—allus looked on the outside.
"The general run of this younger generation ain't no good. What I'm speakin' of is the greatest mass of 'em. They ain't healthy either. Why, when I was comin' along people was healthy and portly lookin'. Why, look at me. I ain't never had but two spells of sickness and I ain't never had the headache. The only thing—I broke these three fingers. Hit a mule in the head. Killed him too.
"Yes'm, that was in slavery times. Why, they passed a law in Raleigh, North Carolina for me never to hit a man with my fist. That was when I was sold at one thousand nine hundred dollars.
"Ever' time they'd make me mad I'd run off in the woods.
"But they sure was good to their darkies. Plenty to eat and plenty good clothes. Sam Davis was my owner. And he wouldn't have no rough overseer."
[TR: Additional topic moved from subsequent page.]
[TR: Personal information moved from bottom of first page.]
[TR: Some word pronunciation was marked in this interview. Letters
surrounded by [] represent long vowels.]
"I used to be a banjo picker in Civil War times. I could pick a church song just as good as I could a reel.
"Some of 'em I used to pick was 'Amazing Grace', 'Old Dan Tucker,' Used to pick one went like this
I used to pick
I could pick anything.
I used to talk that on my banjo just like I talked it there."
Superstitions
"Oh, yes ma'am, I believe in all the old signs.
"You can take a rabbit foot and a black cat's bone from the left fore shoulder, and you take your mouth and scrape all the meat offin that bone, and you take that bone and sew it up in a red flannel—I know what I'm talkin' 'bout now—and you tote that in your pocket night and day—sleep with it—and it brings you good luck. But the last one I had got burnt up when my house burnt down and I been goin' back ever since.
"And these here frizzly chicken are good luck. If you have a black frizzly chicken and anybody put any poison or anything down in your yard, they'll scratch it up."
"What's my name? I got a good name. Name's Jeff Davis. Miss Mary Vinson was some of my white folks.
"Oh Lord yes, I was here in slavery times—runnin' around like you are—ten years old. I'm eighty-five even.
"Soldiers used to give me dimes and quarters. Blue coats was what they called 'em. And the Rebs was Gray.
"Yankees had a gun as long as from here to there. Had cannon-balls weighed a hundred and forty-four pounds.
"I'm a musician—played the fife. Played it to a T. Had two kinds of drums. Had different kinds of brass horns too. I 'member one time they was a fellow thought he could beat the drum till I took it.
"Had plenty to eat. Old master fed us plenty.
"Oh, I used to do a heap of work in a day.
"I was 'bout ten when freedom come. Yes ma'am."
"I'se now seventy-eight year old an' gwine on seventy-nine. I was borned in de Tennessee Valley not far from Huntsville, Alabama. Right soon atter I was borned my white folks, de Welborns, dey left Alabama an' come right here to Phillips County, Arkansas, an' brung all the darkies with 'em, an' that's how come me here till dis very day. I is been here all de time since then an' been makin' crops er cotton an' corn every since I been old enough. I is seen good times an' hard times, Boss, all endurin' of those years followin' de War, but de worst times I is ever seen hab been de last several years since de panic struck.
"How-some-ever I is got 'long first rate I reckon 'cause you know I owns my own place here of erbout eighty acres an' has my own meat an' all such like. I really ain't suffered any for nothin'. Still they has been times when I ain't had nary a cent an' couldn't get my hands on a dime, but I is made it out somehow. Us old darkies what come up with de country, an' was de fust one here, us cleared up de land when there wasn't nothin' here much, an' built de log houses, an' had to git 'long on just what us could raise on de land an' so on. Couldn't mind a panic bad as de young folks what is growed up in de last ginnyration.
"You see, I was borned just three years before de darkies was sot free. An' course I can't riccolect nothin' 'bout de slavery days myself but my mammy, she used to tell us chillun 'bout dem times.
"Like I first said, us belonged to de Welborns an' dey was powerful loyal to de Souf an' er heap of de young ones fit in de army, an' dey sont corn an' cows an' hogs an' all sich like supplies to de army in Tennessee an' Georgia. Dat's what my mammy tole me an' I know dey done dem things, an' dey crazy 'bout Mr. Jefferson Davis, de fust an' only President of de Confedracy, an' dat's how come me got dis name I got. Yas suh, dat is how come me named 'Jeff Davis.' An' I always has been proud of my name, 'cause dat was a sure great one what I is named after.
"My pappy was a white man, dat's what my mammy allus told me. I knows he bound to been 'cause I is too bright to not have no white blood in me. My mammy, she named 'Mary Welborn'. She say dat my pappy was a white man name 'Bill Ward' what lived back in Alabama. Dat's all my mammy ever told me about my pappy. She never say iffen he work for de Welborns er no, er iffen he was an overseer er what. I don't know nothin' 'bout him scusin' dat he er white man an' he named 'Bill Ward'. My steppappy, he was name John Sanders, an' he married my mammy when I 'bout four year old, an' dat was atter de slaves taken outen dey bondage.
"My steppappy, he was a fine carpenter an' could do most anything dat he want to do with an axe or any kind of a tool dat you work in wood with. I riccolect dat he made a heap of de culberts for de railroad what was built through Marvell from Helena to Clarendon. He made dem culberts outen logs what would be split half in two. Then he would hew out de two halves what he done split open like dey used to make a dug-out boat. Dey would put dem two halves together like a big pipe under de tracks for de water to run through.
"There was several white mens dat I knowed in dis part of de county what raised nigger famblys, but there wasn't so many at dat. I will say this for them mens though. Whilst it wasn't right for dem to do like dat, dem what did have 'em a nigger woman what dey had chillun by sure took care of de whole gang. I riccolect one white man in particular, an' I knows you is heered of him too. How-some-ever, I won't call no names. He lived down on de ribber on de island. Dis white man, he was a overseer for a widder woman what lived in Helena an' what owned de big place dat dis man oberseer was on. Dis white man, he hab him dis nigger woman for de longest. She have five chillun by him, three boys an' two gals.
"After a while dis man, he got him a place up close to Marvell where he moved to. He brought his nigger fambly with him. He built dem a good house on his farm where he kept them. He give dat woman an' dem chillun dey livin' till de chillun done grown an' de woman she dead. Then he married him a nice white woman after he moved close to Marvell. He built him a house in town where his white wife live an' she de mammy of a heap of chillun too by dis same man. So dis man, he had a white fambly an' a half nigger fambly before. De most of de chillun of dis man is livin' in this county right now.
"Yas suh, Boss, I is sure 'nough growed up with dis here county. In my young days most all de west end of this county was in de woods. There wasn't no ditches or no improvements at all. De houses an' barns was most all made of logs, but I is gwine to tell you one thing, de niggers an' de white folks, dey get erlong more better together then dan dey does at dis time. De white folks then an' de darkies, dey just had more confidence in each other seems like in dem days. I don't know how 'twas in de other states after de War, but right here in Phillips County de white folks, dey encouraged de darkies to buy 'em a home. Dey helped dem to git it. Dey sure done dat. Mr. Marve Carruth, dat was really a good white man. He helped me to get dis very place here dat I is owned for fifty years. An' then I tell you dis too, Boss, when I was coming up, de folks, dey just worked harder dan dey do these days. A good hand then naturally did just about three er four times as much work in a day as dey do now. Seems like dis young bunch awful no 'count er bustin' up and down de road day and night in de cars, er burnin' de gasoline when dey orter be studyin' 'bout makin' er livin' an' gettin' demselves er home.
"Yas suh, I riccolect all 'bout de time dat de niggers holdin' de jobs in de courthouse in Helena, but I is never took no part in that votin' business an' I allus kept out of dem arguments. I left it up to de white folks to 'tend to de 'lectin' of officers.
"De darkies what was in de courthouse dat I riccolect was: Bill Gray, he was one of de clerks; Hense Robinson, Dave Ellison, an' some more dat I don't remember. Bill Gray, he was a eddycated man, but de res', dey was just plain old ex-slave darkies an' didn't know nothing. Bill Gray, he used to be de slave of a captain on a steamboat on de ribber. He was sorter servant to he mars on de boat where he stayed all the time. The captain used to let him git some eddycation. Darkies, dey never last long in de courthouse. Dey soon git 'em out.
"I gwine tell you somepin else dat is done changed er lot since I was comin' up. Dat is, de signs what de folks used to believe in dey don't believe in no more. Yet de same signs is still here, an' I sure does believe in 'em 'cause I done seen 'em work for all dese years. De Lawd give de peoples a sign for all things. De moon an' de stars, dey is a sign for all them what can read 'em an' tells you when to plant de cotton an' de taters an' all your crops. De screech owls, dey give er warnin' dat some one gwine to die. About de best sign dat some person gwine die 'round close is for a cow to git to lowin' an' a lowin' constant in de middle of de night. Dat is a sign I hardly is ever seen fail an' I seen it work out just a few weeks ago when old Aunt Dinah died up de road. I heered dat cow a lowin' an' a lowin' an' a walkin' back an' forth down de road for 'bout four nights in a row, right past Aunt Dinah's cabin. I say to my old woman dat somepin is sure gwine to take place, an' dat some pusson gwine die soon cause dat cow, she givin' de sign just right. Dere wasn't nobody 'round sick a tall an' Aunt Dinah, she plumb well at de time. About er week from then Aunt Dinah, she took down an' start to sinkin' right off an' in less than a week she died. I knowed some pusson gwine die all right, yet an' still I didn't know who it was to be. I tell you, Boss, I is gittin' uneasy an' troubled de last day or two, 'cause I is done heered another cow a lowin' an' a lowin' in de middle of de night. She keeps a walkin' back an' forth past my house out there in de road. I is really troubled 'cause me an' de old woman both is gittin' old. We is both way up in years an' whilst both of us is in real good health, Aunt Dinah was too. Dat cow a lowin' like she do is a bad sign dat I done noticed mighty nigh allus comes true."
"I was a boy in the house when the war started and I heard the mistress say the abolitionists was about to take the South. Yes ma'm. That was in Natchez, Mississippi. I was about nine or ten.
"Mistress' name was Eliza A. Hart and master's name was Dave A. Hart.
"I guess they was good to me. I lived right there in the house with then. Mistress used to send me to Sunday School and she'd say 'Now, Jordan, you come right on back to the house, don't you go playin' with them nigger chillun on the streets.'
"My daddy belonged to a man named Davis way down the river in the country and after the war he came and got me. Sure did. Carried me to Davis Bend. I was a good-sized boy about twelve or fifteen. He took me to Mrs. Leas Hamer and you know I was a good-sized boy when she put me in the kitchen and taught me how to cook. Yes'm, I sure can cook. She kept me right in the house with her children. I did her cooking and cleaned up the house. I never got any money for it, or if I did I done forgot all about it. She kept me in clothes, she sure did. I didn't need any money. I stayed five or six years with her, sure did. I thought a lot of her and her children—she was so kind to me.
"Yes ma'm, I went to school one or two years in Mississippi.
"When I come here to Arkansas on the steamboat and got off right here in Pine Bluff, there was a white man standin' there named Burks. He kept lookin' at me and directly he said 'Can you cook?' I was married then and had all my household goods with me, so he got a dray and carried me out to his house. His wife kept a first-class boarding house. Just first-class white folks stayed there. After the madam found out I had a good idea 'bout cookin' she put me in the dining room and turned things over to me.
"Miss, it's been so long, I don't study 'bout that votin' business. I have never bothered 'bout no Republican or votin' business—I never cared about it. I know one thing, the white people are the only ones ever did me any good.
"Mrs. J.B. Talbot has been very good to me. My wife used to work for her and so did I. She sure has been a friend to me. Mrs. J.B. Talbot has certainly stuck to me.
"Oh I think the colored folks ought to be free but I know some of 'em had a mighty tight time of it after the war and now too.
"Ain't nothin' to this here younger generation. I see 'em goin' down the street singin' and dancin' and half naked—ain't nothin' to 'em.
"My wife's been dead five or six years and I live here alone. Yes ma'm! I don't want nobody here with me."
"Oh, it was so mournful. And let me tell you what they'd do. They'd all march one behind the other and somebody would carry the baby's casket on their shoulder and sing that song. That's the first song I remember. I was three years old and now I'm seventy-three and crippled up with rheumatism.
"My mother had a garden and they went 'round that way to the graveyard and I thought they was buryin' it in the garden. That was in Georgia.
"In the old days when people died they used to sit up and pray all night, but they don't do that now.
"I was married young. I don't love to tell how old but I was fifteen and when I was seventeen I was a widow. I tried and tried to get another husband as good as my first one but I couldn't. I didn't marry then till I was thirty some.
"My parents brought me from Georgia when I was five years old and now I ain't got no blood kin in Pine Bluff.
"Do I believe in signs? Well, let me tell you what I do know. Before my house burned in 1937, I was sittin' on my porch, and my mother and sister come up to my house. They come a distance to the steps and went around the house. They was both dead but I could see 'em just as plain. And do you know in about two or three weeks my house burned. I think that vision was a sign of bad luck.
"And another time when I was havin' water put in my house, I dreamed that my sister who was dead told a friend of mine to tell me not to sign a contract and I didn't know there was a contract. And that next day a man come out for me to sign a contract and I said, 'No.' He wanted to know why and finally I told him, and he said, 'You're just like my mother.' It was two days 'fore I'd sign. The men had quit work waitin' for me to sign. But let me tell you when they put the water in and when they'd flush the pipes my tub overflowed. The ground was too low and I never could use the commode. Now don't you think that dream was a warning?
"Just before I had this spell of sickness I dreamed my baby—he's dead—come and knocked and said. 'Mama.' And I said, 'Yes, darlin', God bless your heart, you done been here three times and this time mama's comin'. I really thought I was goin' to die. I got up and looked in the glass. You know you can see death in the eyes, but I didn't see any sign of death and I haven't gone yet.
"Last Saturday I was prayin' to God not to let me get out of the heart of the people. You see, I have no kin people and I wanted people to come to my rescue. The next day was Sunday and more people come to see me and brought me more things.
"I been in the church fifty-seven years. I'm the oldest member in St. John's. I joined in May 1881.
"I went to school some. I went as far as the fourth grade."
"My father was sold in Richmond, Virginia when he was eighteen years old to the nigger traders. They had nigger traders and cloth peddlers and horse traders all over the country coming by every few weeks. Papa said he traveled to Tennessee. His job was to wash their faces and hands and fix their hair—comb and cut and braid their hair and dress them to be auctioned off. They sold a lot of children from Virginia all along the way and he was put up in Tennessee and auctioned off. He was sold to the highest bidder. Bill Thomas at Brownsville, Tennessee was the one bought him. Papa was a large strong man.
"He run off and went to war. He had learned to cook and he was one-eyed and couldn't fight. All the endurin' time he cooked at the camps. Then he run off from war when he got a chance before he was mustered out and he never got a pension because of that. He said he come home pretty often and mama was expecting a baby. He thought he was needed at home worse. He was so tired of war. He didn't know it would be valuable to him in his old days. He was sorry he didn't stay till they got him mustered out. He said it was harder in the war than in slavery. They was putting up tents and moving all the time and he be scared purt nigh to death all the time. Never did know when they would be shot and killed.
"Mama said the way they bought grandma was at a well. A drove of folks come by. It was the nigger traders. She had pulled up her two or three buckets. She carried one bucket on her head and one in each hand. They said, 'Draw me up some water to drink.' She was so smart they bragged on her. They said, 'She such a smart little thing.' They went to see her owner and bought her on the spot. They took her away from her people and she never heard tell of none of them no more. She said there was a big family of them. They brought her to Brownsville, Tennessee and Johnny Williams bought her. That was my grandma.
"Mother was born there on Johnny Williams' place and she was heired by his daughter. His daughter married Bill Thomas, the one what done bought my papa. Her young mistress was named Sallie Ann Thomas. Mama got married when she was about grown. She said after she married she'd have a baby about the same time her young mistress had one. Mama had twelve children and raised eleven to be grown. Four of us are living yet. My sister was married when I was born. White folks married young and encouraged their slaves to so they have time to raise big families. Mama died when I was a year old but papa lived on with Johnny Williams where he was when she died. I lived with my married sister. I was the baby and she took me and raised me with her children.
"The Ku Klux wanted to whoop my papa. They all called him Dan. They said he was mean. His white folks protected him. They said he worked well. They wouldn't let him be whooped by them Ku Kluxes.
"Miss Sallie Ann was visiting and she had mama along to see after the children and to help the cook where she visited. They was there a right smart while from the way papa said. The pattyrollers whooped somebody on that farm while she was over there. They wasn't many slaves on her place and they was good to them. That whooping was right smart a curiosity to mama the way papa told us about it.
"When mama and papa married, Johnny Williams had a white preacher to read out of a book to them. They didn't jump over no broom he said.
"They was the biggest kind of Methodist folks and when mama was five years old Johnny Williams had all his slaves baptized into that church by his own white preacher. Papa said some of them didn't believe niggers had no soul but Johnny Williams said they did. (The Negroes must have been christened—ed.)
"Papa said folks coming through the country would tell them about freedom. Mama was working for Miss Sallie Ann and done something wrong. Miss Sallie Ann says, 'I'm a good mind to whoop you. You ain't paying 'tention to a thing you is doing the last week.' Mama says, 'Miss Sallie Ann, we is free; you ain't never got no right to whoop me no more care what I do.' When Bill come home he say, 'How come you to sass my wife? She so good to you.' Mama say, 'Master Bill, them soldiers say I'm free.' He slapped her. That the first time he laid hands on her in his life. In a few days he said, 'We going to town and see is you free. You leave the baby with Sallie Ann.' It was the courthouse. They questioned her and him both. Seemed like he couldn't understand how freedom was to be and mama didn't neither. Then papa took mama on Johnny Williams' place. He come out to Arkansas and picked cotton after freedom and then he moved his children all out here.
"Uncle Albert and grandpa take nights about going out. Uncle Albert was courting.
"They put potatoes on fire to cook when next morning they would be warm ready to eat. The fire popped out on mama. She was in a light blaze. Not a bit of water in the house. Her sisters and brothers peed (urinated) on her to put out the fire. Her stomach was burned and scarred. They was all disappointed because they thought she would be a good breeder. Miss Sallie Ann took her and cured her and when Miss Sallie Ann was going to marry, her folks didn't want to give her Minerva. She tended (contended) out and got her and Agnes both. Agnes died at about emancipation.
"I'm named for my mother. I'm her youngest child.
"I recollect my grandmother and what she told, and papa's mind went back to olden times the older he got to be. When folks would run down slavery he would say it wasn't so bad with them—him and mama. He never seen times bad as times is got to be now. Then he sure would wanted slavery back some more. He was a strong hard laboring man. He was a provider for his family till he got so no 'count.
"Times is changing up fast. Folks is worse about cutting up and carousing than they was thirty years ago to my own knowledge. I ain't old so speaking."