The streets of
Charleston present some such aspect as those of Paris in the last revolution.
Crowds of armed men singing and promenading the streets. The battle-blood
running through their veins — that hot oxygen which is called “the flush of
victory” on the cheek; restaurants full, revelling in bar-rooms, club-rooms
crowded, orgies and earousings in tavern or private house, in tap-room, from
cabaret — down narrow alleys, in the broad highway. Sumter has set them
distraught; never was such a victory; never such brave lads; never such a
fight. There are pamphlets already full of the incident. It is a bloodless
Waterloo or Solferino.
After breakfast I
went down to the quay, with a party of the General's staff, to visit
Fort Sumter. The senators and governors turned soldiers wore blue military
caps, with “palmetto” trees embroidered thereon; blue frock-coats, with upright
collars, and shoulder-straps edged with lace, and marked with two silver bars,
to designate their rank of captain; gilt buttons, with the palmetto in relief;
blue trousers, with a gold-lace cord, and brass spurs — no straps. The day was
sweltering, but a strong breeze blew in the harbor, and puffed the dust of
Charleston, coating our clothes, and filling our eyes with powder. The streets
were crowded with lanky lads, clanking spurs, and sabres, with awkward squads
marching to and fro, with drummers beating calls, and ruffles, and points of
war; around them groups of grinning negroes delighted with the glare and
glitter, a holiday, and a new idea for them — Secession flags waving out of all
the windows — little Irish boys shouting out, “Battle of Fort Sumter! New
edishun!” — As we walked down towards the quay, where the steamer was lying,
numerous traces of the unsettled state of men's minds broke out in the hurried
conversations of the various friends who stopped to speak for a few moments. “Well,
governor, the old Union is gone at last!” “Have you heard what Abe is going to
do?” “I don't think Beauregard will have much more fighting for it. What do you
think?” And so on. Our little Creole friend, by the by, is popular beyond
description. There are all kinds of doggerel rhymes in his honor — one with a
refrain —“With cannon and musket, with shell and petard, We salute the North
with our Beau-regard” — is much in favor. We passed through the market, where
the stalls are kept by fat negresses and old “unkeys.” There is a sort of
vulture or buzzard here, much encouraged as scavengers, and — but all the world
has heard of the Charleston vultures — so we will leave them to their garbage.
Near the quay, where the steamer was lying, there is a very fine building in
white marble, which attracted our notice. It was unfinished, and immense blocks
of the glistening stone destined for its completion, lay on the ground. “What
is that?” I inquired, “Why, it's a custom-house Uncle Sam was building for our
benefit, but I don't think he'll ever raise a cent for his treasury out of it.”
“Will you complete it?” “I should think not. We'll lay on few duties; and what
we want is free-trade, and no duties at all, except for public purposes. The
Yankees have plundered us with their custom-houses and duties long enough.” An old
gentleman here stopped us. “You will do me the greatest favor,” he said to one
of our party who knew him, “if you will get me something to do for our glorious
cause. Old as I am, I can carry a musket — not far, to be sure, but I can kill
a Yankee if he comes near.” When he had gone, my friend told me the speaker was
a man of fortune, two of whose sons were in camp at Morris' Island, but that he
was suspected of Union sentiments, as he had a Northern wife, and hence his
extreme vehemence and devotion.
SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and
South, p. 98-100
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