May Day, — Not unworthy of the best effort of English
fine weather before the change in the calendar robbed the poets of twelve days,
but still a little warm for choice. The young American artist Moses, who was to
have called our party to meet the officers who were going to Fort Pulaski, for
some reason known to himself remained on board the Camilla, and when at last we
got down to the river side I found Commodore Tatnall and Brigadier Lawton in
full uniform waiting for me.
The river is about the width of the Thames below Gravesend,
very muddy, with a strong current, and rather fetid. That effect might have
been produced from the rice-swamps at the other side of it, where the land is
quite low, and stretches away as far as the sea in one level green, smooth as a
billiard-cloth. The bank at the city side is higher, so that the houses stand
on a little eminence over the stream, affording convenient wharfage and slips
for merchant vessels.
Of these there were few indeed visible—nearly all had
cleared out for fear of the blockade; some coasting vessels were lying idle at
the quay side, and in the middle of the stream near a floating dock the Camilla
was moored, with her club ensign flying. These are the times for bold ventures,
and if Uncle Sam is not very quick with his blockades, there will be plenty of
privateers and the like under C. S. A. colors, looking out for his fat merchantmen
all over the world.
I have been trying to persuade my friends here they will
find very few Englishmen willing to take letters of marque and reprisal.
The steamer which was waiting to receive us had the
Confederate flag flying, and Commodore Tatnall, pointing to a young officer in
a naval uniform, told me he had just “come over from the other side,” and that
he had pressed hard to be allowed to hoist a Commodore or flag-officer's ensign
in honor of the visit and of the occasion. I was much interested in the fine
white-headed, blue-eyed, ruddy-cheeked old man — who suddenly found himself
blown into the air by a great political explosion, and in doubt and wonderment
was floating to shore, under a strange flag in unknown waters. He was full of
anecdote too, as to strange flags in distant waters and well-known names. The
gentry of Savannah had a sort of Celtic feeling towards him in regard of his
old name, and seemed determined to support him.
He has served the Stars and Stripes for three fourths of a
long life — his friends are in the North, his wife's kindred are there, and so
are all his best associations — but his State has gone out. How could he fight
against the country that gave yhim birth! The United States is no country, in
the sense we understand the words. It is a corporation or a body corporate for
certain purposes, and a man might as well call himself a native of the common
council of the city of London, or a native of the Swiss Diet, in the estimation
of our Americans, as say he is a citizen of the United States; though it
answers very well to say so when he is abroad, or for purposes of a legal
character.
Of Fort Pulaski itself I wrote on my return a long account
to the “Times.”
When I was venturing to point out to General Lawton the
weakness of Fort Pulaski, placed as it is in low land, accessible to boats, and
quite open enough for approaches from the city side, he said, “Oh, that is true
enough. All our seacoast works are liable to that remark, but the Commodore
will take care of the Yankees at sea, and we shall manage them on land.” These
people all make a mistake in referring to the events of the old war. “We beat
off the British fleet at Charleston by the militia — ergo, we'll sink the
Yankees now.” They do not understand the nature of the new shell and heavy
vertical fire, or the effect of projectiles from great distances falling into
works. The Commodore afterwards, smiling, remarked, “I have no fleet. Long
before the Southern Confederacy has a fleet that can cope with the Stars and
Stripes, my bones will be white in the grave.”
We got back by eight o'clock, P. M., after a pleasant day. What
I saw did not satisfy me that Pulaski was strong, or Savannah very safe. At
Bonaventure, yesterday, I saw a poor fort, called “Thunderbolt,” on an inlet
from which the city was quite accessible. It could be easily menaced from that
point, while attempts at landing were made elsewhere, as soon as Pulaski is
reduced. At dinner met a very strong and very well-informed Southerner — there
are some who are neither — or either — whose name was spelled Gourdin, and
pronounced Go-dine — just as Huger is called Hugee—and Tagliaferro, Telfer, in
these parts.
SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and
South, p. 155-7
