George W. Arnold was born on April 7, 1861, in Bedford County, Tennessee. He was held by Oliver R Arnold, owner of a large plantation in Bedford County. His mother was a native of Rome, Georgia. When she was twelve, Oliver Arnold bought her, her three brothers, and an uncle at auction. The four of them, along with other slaves, were taken from Georgia to Tennessee to work on the Arnold plantation, where George was born. As a child, he was allowed to live in a cabin with his relatives.
George said that Evansville, a steamboat port, was a very nice place in the early days when he worked as a roustabout on a sternwheeler, so in 1880 he decided to make his home there. He said that food was always plentiful when he worked on the boats. Passengers and freight were crowded together on the decks. At night they sang, danced, and played fiddle music. On May 10, 1880, he got a job as porter in a wholesale feed store, John Hubbard and Company; he worked for this firm for thirty-seven years. George married an Evansville woman.
George remembered when “The courthouse was located at Third and Main Streets [in Evansville]. Streetcars were mule drawn, and people thought it great fun to ride them.” He also recalled that when the new courthouse was being built, two men finishing the slate roof fell to their deaths in the courthouse yard. His memory of Civil War days, though, was limited to a few events.
George offered the interviewer the following advice: “Never do anything to hurt any other person; the hurt always comes back to you. Beware of strong drink; it causes trouble.” Here is George’s story:
Mother, my young brother, my sister, and I were walking along one day. I dont remember where we had started, but we passed under the fort at Wartrace. A battle was in progress, and a large cannon was fired above us, and we watched the huge ball sail through the air and saw the smoke of the cannon pass over our heads. We poor children were almost scared to death, but our mother held us close to her and tried to comfort us. The next morning, after we were safely at home, we were proud we had seen that much of the great battle, and our mother told us the war was to give us freedom.
I cannot say that they [members of his family] were happy [when they were set free], as it broke up a lot of real friendships and scattered many families. Mother had a great many pretty quilts and a lot of bedding. After the slaves were set free, Marse Arnold told us we could all go and make ourselves homes, so we started out, each of the grown persons loaded with great bundles of bedding, clothing, and personal belongings. We walked all the way to Wartrace to try to find a home and some way to make a living.
Long lines of tired men passed through Guys Gap on their way to Murfreesboro. Older people said that they were sent out to pick up the dead from the battlefields after the bloody battle of Stones River that had lately been fought at Murfreesboro. They took their comrades to bury them at the Union Cemetery near the town of Murfreesboro.
Wartrace was a very nice place to make our home. It was located on the Nashville and Chattanooga and St. Louis Railroad, just fifty-one miles from Nashville, not many miles from our old home. Mother found work, and we got along very well, but as soon as we children were old enough to work, she went back to her old home in Georgia, where a few years later she died. I believe she lived to be seventy-five or seventy-six years of age, but I never saw her after she went back to Georgia.
My first work was done on a farm. There are many fine farms in Tennessee. Although farm labor was not very profitable, we were always fed wherever we worked and got some wages. Then I got a job on the railroad. Our car got sidetracked at a place called Silver Springs, and right at that place came trouble that took the happiness out of my life forever. It was like this: Three of us boys worked together. We were like three brothers, always sharing our fortunes with each other. We should never have done it, but we had made a habit of sending to Nashville after each payday and having a keg of Holland rum sent in by freight. This liquor was handed out among our friends, and sometimes we drank too much and were unfit for work for a day or two. Our boss was a big, strong Irishman, red-haired and friendly. He always got drunk with us, and all of us would become sober enough to soon return to our tasks.
The time I’m telling you about, we had all been invited to a candy pulling in town and could hardly wait till time to go, as all the young people of the valley would be there to pull candy, talk, play games, and eat the goodies served to us. The keg of Holland rum had been brought in that morning, and my chum, John Sims, had been drinking too much. About that time our boss came up and said, “John, it’s time for you to get the supper ready!” John was our cook, and our meals were served on the caboose, where we lived whenever we were sidetracked.
All the time Johnny was preparing the food, he was drinking the rum. When we went in, he had many drinks inside of him and a quart bottle filled to take to the candy pull. “Hurry up, boys, and let’s finish up and go,” he said impatiently. “Don’t take him,” said the other boy. “Don’t you see he’s drunk?” So I put my arms about his shoulders and tried to tell him he had better sleep awhile before we started. The poor boy was a breed. His mother was almost white, and his father was a thoroughbred Indian, and the son had a most aggravating temper. He made me no answer, but ramming his hand into his pocket, he drew out his knife and with one thrust cut a deep gash in my neck. A terrible fight followed. I remember being knocked over and my head striking something. I reached out my hand and discovered it was the ax. With this awful weapon I struck my friend, my more than brother. The thud of the ax brought me to my senses as our blood mingled. We were both almost mortally wounded. The boss came in and tried to do something for our relief, but John said, “Oh, George, what an awful thing we have done. We have never said a cross word to each other, and now look at us both.”
I watched poor John walk away. Darkness was falling, but early in the morning my boss and I followed a trail of blood down by the side of the tracks. From there he had turned into the woods. We could follow him no farther. We went to all the nearby towns and villages, but we found no person who had ever seen him. We supposed he had died in the woods and watched for the buzzards, thinking they would lead us to his body, but he was never seen again.
For two years I never sat down to look inside a book or to eat my food that John Sims was not beside me. He haunted my pillow and went beside me night and day. His blood was on my hands; his presence haunted me beyond endurance. What could I do? How could I escape this awful presence? An old friend told me to put water between myself and the place where the awful scene occurred. So I quit working on the railroad and started working on the river. People believed at that time that the ghost of a person you had wronged would not cross water to haunt you.
My first job on the river was as a roustabout on the Rolliver H. Cook sternwheel packet, which carried freight and passengers from Nashville, Tennessee, to Evansville, Indiana. I worked a round trip on her, then went from Nashville to Cairo, Illinois, on the B. S. Rhea. I soon decided to go to Cairo and take a place on the Eldorado, a St. Louis and Cincinnati packet, which cruised from Cairo to Cincinnati. On that boat I worked as a roustabout for nearly three years.
The roustabout is no better than the mate that rules him. If the mate is kindly disposed, the roustabout has an easy enough life. The Negroes had only a few years of freedom and resented cruelty. If the mate became too mean, a regular fight would follow, and perhaps several roustabouts would be hurt before it was finished. We roustabouts would get together and shoot craps, dance, or play cards until the call came to shuffle freight. Then we would all get busy, and the mate’s voice giving orders could be heard for a long distance.
In spite of these few pleasures, the life of a roustabout is the life of a dog. I do not recall any unkindnesses of slavery days. I was too young to realize what it was all about, but it could never have equaled the cruelty shown the laborers on the riverboats by cruel mates and overseers.
When I was a roustabout on the Gold Dust, we were sailing out from New Orleans, and as soon as we got well out on the broad stream, the rats commenced jumping overboard. “See these rats,” said an old river man. “This boat will never make a return trip!” At every port some of our crew left the boat, but the mate and the captain said they were all fools and begged us to stay. So a few of us stayed to do the necessary work, but the rats kept leaving as fast as they could.
When the boat was nearing Hickman, Kentucky, we smelled fire, and by the time we were in the hopper, passengers were being held to keep them from jumping overboard. Then the captain told us hoys to jump into the water and save ourselves. Two of us launched a hale of cotton overboard and jumped onto it. As we paddled away we had to often go under to put out the fires, as our clothing would blaze up under the flying brands that fell upon our bodies.
The burning boat was docked at Hickman. The passengers were put ashore, but none of the freight was saved; and from a nearby willow thicket my mate and I watched the Gold Dust burn to the water’s edge. Always heed the warnings of nature. If you see rats leaving a ship or a house, prepare for afire.