Early next morning [the 16th], soon after dawn, I crossed
the Cape Fear River, on which Wilmington is situated, by a steam ferry-boat. On
the quay lay quantities of shot and shell. “How came these here?” I inquired. “They're
anti-abolition pills,” said my neighbor; “they've been waiting here for two
months back, but now that Sumter's taken, I guess they won't be wanted.” To my
mind, the conclusion was by no means legitimate. From the small glance I had of
Wilmington, with its fleet of schooners and brigs crowding the broad and rapid
river, I should think it was a thriving place. Confederate flags waved over the
public buildings, and I was informed that the forts had been seized without
opposition or difficulty. I can see no sign here of the “affection to the
Union,” which, according to Mr. Seward, underlies all “secession proclivities.”
As we traversed the flat and uninteresting country, through
which the rail passes, Confederate flags and sentiments greeted us everywhere;
men and women repeated the national cry; at every station militia-men and
volunteers were waiting for the train, and the everlasting word “Sumter” ran
through all the conversation in the cars.
The Carolinians are capable of turning out a fair force of
cavalry. At each stopping-place I observed saddle-horses tethered under the
trees, and light driving vehicles, drawn by wiry muscular animals, not
remarkable for size, but strong-looking and active. Some farmers in blue jackets,
and yellow braid and facings, handed round their swords to be admired by the
company. A few blades had flashed in obscure Mexican skirmishes — one, however,
had been borne against “the Britishers.” I inquired of a fine, tall,
fair-haired young fellow whom they expected to fight. “That's more than I can
tell,” quoth he. “The Yankees ain't such cussed fools as to think they can come
here and whip us, let alone the British.” “Why, what have the British got to do
with it?” “They are bound to take our part: if they don't, we'll just give them
a hint about cotton, and that will set matters right.” This was said very much
with the air of a man who knows what he is talking about, and who was quite
satisfied “he had you there.” I found it was still displeasing to most people,
particularly one or two of the fair sex, that more Yankees were not killed at
Sumter. All the people who addressed me prefixed my name, which they soon found
out, by “Major” or “Colonel” — “Captain” is very low, almost indicative of
contempt. The conductor who took our tickets was called “Captain.”
At the Pedee River the rail is carried over marsh and stream
on trestle work for two miles. “This is the kind of country we'll catch the
Yankees in, if they come to invade us. They'll have some pretty tall swimming,
and get knocked on the head, if ever they gets to land. I wish there was ten
thousand of the cusses in it this minute.” At Nichol's station on the frontiers
of South Carolina, our baggage was regularly examined at the Custom House, but
I did not see any one pay duties. As the train approached the level and marshy
land near Charleston, the square block of Fort Sumter was seen rising above the
water with the “stars and bars” flying over it, and the spectacle created great
enthusiasm among the passengers. The smoke was still rising from an angle of
the walls. Outside the village-like suburbs of the city a regiment was marching
for old Virginny amid the cheers of the people — cavalry were picketed in the
fields and gardens — tents and men were visible in the by-ways.
It was nearly dark when we reached the station. I was
recommended to go to the Mills House, and on arriving there found Mr. Ward,
whom I had already met in New York and Washington, and who gave me an account
of the bombardment and surrender of the fort. The hotel was full of
notabilities. I was introduced to ex-Governor Manning, Senator Chestnut, Hon.
Porcher Miles, on the staff of General Beauregard, and to Colonel Lucas,
aide-de-camp to Governor Pickens. I was taken after dinner and introduced to
General Beauregard, who was engaged, late as it was, in his room at the
Head-Quarters writing despatches. The General is a small, compact man, about
thirty-six years of age, with a quick, and intelligent eye and action, and a
good deal of the Frenchman in his manner and look. He received me in the most
cordial manner, and introduced me to his engineer officer, Major Whiting, whom
he assigned to lead me over the works next day.
After some general conversation I took my leave; but before
I went, the General said, “You shall go everywhere and see everything; we rely
on your discretion, and knowledge of what is fair in dealing with what you see.
Of course you don't expect to find regular soldiers in our camps or very
scientific works.” I answered the General, that he might rely on my making no
improper use of what I saw in this country, but, “unless you tell me to the
contrary, I shall write an account of all I see to the other side of the water,
and if, when it comes back, there are things you would rather not have known,
you must not blame me.” He smiled, and said, “I dare say we'll have great
changes by that time.”
That night I sat in the Charleston Club with John Manning.
Who that has ever met him can be indifferent to the charms of manner and of
personal appearance, which render the ex-Governor of the State so attractive?
There were others present, senators or congressmen, like Mr. Chestnut and Mr.
Porcher Miles. We talked long, and at last angrily, as might be between
friends, of political affairs.
I own it was a little irritating to me to hear men indulge
in extravagant broad menace and rodomontade, such as came from their lips. “They
would welcome the world in arms with hospitable hands to bloody graves.” “They
never could be conquered.” “Creation could not do it,” and so on. I was obliged
to handle the question quietly at first — to ask them “if they admitted the
French were a brave and warlike people!” “Yes, certainly.” “Do you think you
could better defend yourselves against invasion than the people of France?” “Well,
no; but we'd make it pretty hard business for the Yankees.” “Suppose the
Yankees, as you call them, come with such preponderance of men and materiel,
that they are three to your one, will you not be forced to submit?” “Never.”
“Then either you are braver, better disciplined, more warlike than the people
and soldiers of France, or you alone, of all the nations in the world, possess
the means of resisting physical laws which prevail in war, as in other affairs
of life.” “No. The Yankees are cowardly rascals. We have proved it by kicking
and cuffing them till we are tired of it; besides, we know John Bull very well.
He will make a great fuss about non-interference at first, but when he begins
to want cotton he'll come off his perch.” I found this was the fixed idea
everywhere. The doctrine of “cotton is king,” — to us who have not much
considered the question a grievous delusion or an unmeaning babble — to them is
a lively all-powerful faith without distracting heresies or schisms. They have
in it enunciated their full belief, and indeed there is some truth in it, in so
far as we year after year by the stimulants of coal, capital, and machinery
have been working up a manufacture on which four or five millions of our
population depend for bread and life, which cannot be carried on without the
assistance of a nation, that may at any time refuse us an adequate supply, or
be cut off from giving it by war.
Political economy, we are well aware, is a fine science, but
its followers are capable of tremendous absurdities in practice. The dependence
of such a large proportion of the English people on this sole article of
American cotton is fraught with the utmost danger to our honor and to our
prosperity. Here were these Southern gentlemen exulting in their power to
control the policy of Great Britain, and it was small consolation to me to
assure them they were mistaken; in case we did not act as they anticipated, it
could not be denied Great Britain would plunge an immense proportion of her
people — a nation of manufacturers — into pauperism, which must leave them
dependent on the national funds, or more properly on the property and accumulated
capital of the district.
About 8:30, P. M., a deep bell began to toll. “What is that?”
"It's for all the colored people to clear out of the streets and go home.
The guards will arrest any who are found out without passes in half an hour.”
There was much noise in the streets, drums beating, men cheering, and marching,
and the hotel is crammed full with soldiers.
SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and
South, p. 95-8
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