Showing posts with label Sambo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sambo. Show all posts

Friday, April 3, 2020

Major-General William T. Sherman to Major-General Henry W. Halleck, January 12, 1865

HDQRS. MILITARY DIVISION OF THE MISSISSIPPI,                       
In the Field, Savannah, January 12, 1865.
Major-General HALLECK:

MY DEAR FRIEND: I received yours of January 1* about the “negro.” Since Mr. Stanton got here we have talked over all matters freely, and I deeply regret that I am threatened with that curse to all peace and comfort—popularity; but I trust to bad luck enough in the future to cure that, for I know enough of “the people” to feel that a single mistake made by some of my subordinates will tumble down my fame into infamy.

But the nigger? Why, in God's name, can't sensible men let him alone? When the people of the South tried to rule us through the negro, and became insolent, we cast them down, and on that question we are strong and unanimous. Neither cotton, the negro, nor any single interest or class should govern us.

But I fear, if you be right that that power behind the throne is growing, somebody must meet it or we are again involved in war with another class of fanatics. Mr. Lincoln has boldly and well met the one attack, now let him meet the other.

If it be insisted that I shall so conduct my operations that the negro alone is consulted, of course I will be defeated, and then where will be Sambo?

Don't military success imply the safety of Sambo and vice versa? Of course that cock-and-bull story of my turning back negroes that Wheeler might kill them is all humbug. I turned nobody back. Jeff. C. Davis did at Ebenezer Creek forbid certain plantation slaves—old men, women, and children—to follow his column; but they would come along and he took up his pontoon bridge, not because he wanted to leave them, but because he wanted his bridge.

He and Slocum both tell me that they don't believe Wheeler killed one of them. Slocum's column (30,000) reports 17,000 negroes. Now, with 1,200 wagons and the necessary impedimenta of an army, overloaded with two-thirds negroes, five-sixths of whom are helpless, and a large proportion of them babies and small children, had I encountered an enemy of respectable strength defeat would have been certain.

Tell the President that in such an event defeat would have cost him ten thousand times the effort to overcome that it now will to meet this new and growing pressure.

I know the fact that all natural emotions swing as the pendulum. These southrons pulled Sambo's pendulum so far over that the danger is it will on its return jump off its pivot. There are certain people who will find fault, and they can always get the pretext; but, thank God, I am not running for an office, and am not concerned because the rising generation will believe that I burned 500 niggers at one pop in Atlanta, or any such nonsense. I profess to be the best kind of a friend to Sambo, and think that on such a question Sambo should be consulted.

They gather round me in crowds, and I can't find out whether I am Moses or Aaron, or which of the prophets; but surely I am rated as one of the congregation, and it is hard to tell in what sense I am most appreciated by Sambo—in saving him from his master, or the new master that threatens him with a new species of slavery. I mean State recruiting agents. Poor negro—Lo, the poor Indian! Of course, sensible men understand such humbug, but some power must be invested in our Government to check these wild oscillations of public opinion.

The South deserves all she has got for her injustice to the negro, but that is no reason why we should go to the other extreme.

I do and will do the best I can for negroes, and feel sure that the problem is solving itself slowly and naturally. It needs nothing more than our fostering care. I thank you for the kind hint and will heed it so far as mere appearances go, but, not being dependent on votes, I can afford to act, as far as my influence goes, as a fly wheel instead of a mainspring.

With respect, &c., yours,
 W. T. SHERMAN.
_______________

* General Halleck’s copy is dated December 30, 1864; see Vol. XLIV, p. 836

SOURCE: The War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, Series I, Volume 47, Part 2 (Serial No. 99), p. 36-7

Major-General Henry W. Halleck to Major-General William T. Sherman, December 30, 1864

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.]
HEADQUARTERS OF THE ARMY,                     
Washington, D.C., December 30, 1864.*
Maj. Gen. W. T. SHERMAN,
Savannah:

MY DEAR GENERAL: I take the liberty of calling your attention, in this private and friendly way, to a matter which may possibly hereafter be of more importance to you than either of us may now anticipate. While almost every one is praising your great march through Georgia and the capture of Savannah, there is a certain class, having now great influence with the President, and very probably anticipating still more on a change of Cabinet, who are decidedly disposed to make a point against you—I mean in regard to “Inevitable Sambo.” They say that you have manifested an almost criminal dislike to the negro, and that you are not willing to carry out the wishes of the Government in regard to him, but repulse him with contempt. They say you might have brought with you to Savannah more than 50,000, thus stripping Georgia of that number of laborers and opening a road by which as many more could have escaped from their masters; but that instead of this you drove them from your ranks, prevented then, from following you by cutting the bridges in your rear, and thus caused the massacre of large numbers by Wheeler's cavalry.

To those who know you as I do such accusations will pass as the idle winds, for we presume that you discouraged the negroes from following you simply because you had not the means of supporting them and feared they might seriously embarrass your march. But there are others, and among them some in high authority, who think, or pretend to think, otherwise, and they are decidedly disposed to make a point against you.

I do not write this to induce you to conciliate this class of men by doing anything which you do not think right and proper and for the interest of the Government and the country, but simply to call your attention to certain things which are viewed here somewhat differently than from your standpoint. I will explain as briefly as possible: Some here think that, in view of the scarcity of labor in the South, and the probability that a part, at least, of the able-bodied slaves will be called into the military service of the rebels, it is of the greatest importance to open outlets by which the slaves can escape into our lines, and, they say, that the route you have passed over should be made the route of escape and Savannah the great place of refuge. These I know are the views of some of the lending men in the administration, and they now express dissatisfaction that you did not carry them out in your great raid.

Now that you are in possession of Savannah, and there can be no further fears about supplies, would it not be possible for you to reopen these avenues of escape for the negroes without interfering with your military operations? Could not such escaped slaves find, at least, a partial supply of food in the rice fields about Savannah, and occupation in the rice and cotton plantations on the coast?

I merely throw out these suggestions; I know that such a course would be approved by the Government, and I believe that a manifestation on your part of a desire to bring the slaves within our lines will do much to silence your opponents.

You will appreciate my motives in writing this private letter.

Yours, truly,
H. W. HALLECK.
_______________

* General Sherman’s reply of January 12, 1865, refers to this letter as dated January 1st, but General Halleck’s copy is dated as here given.

SOURCE: The War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, Series I, Volume 44 (Serial No. 92), p. 836-7

Sunday, January 6, 2019

John Brown to John Q. Anderson,* November 29, 1859

Charlestown, Jefferson County Prison, Va., Nov. 29, 1859.
J. Q. Anderson, Esq.

My Dear Sir, — Your letter of the 23d instant is received; but notwithstanding it would afford me the utmost pleasure to answer it at length, it is not in my power to write you but a few words. Jeremiah G. Anderson was fighting bravely by my side at Harper's Ferry up to the moment when I fell wounded, and I took no further notice of what passed for a little time.1 I have since been told that he was mortally wounded at the same moment, and died in a short time afterwards. I believe this information is correct; but I have no means of knowing from any acquaintances, not being allowed intercourse with other prisoners, except one. The same is true as to the death of one of my own sons. I have no doubt but both are dead.

Your friend,
John Brown.
_______________

* Brother of Jeremiah G. Anderson.

1 At this point may be introduced the letter of an eye-witness of what happened during this “little time,” when the hero had swooned from loss of blood and pain, and was believed to be dead. Mr. Taylcure, a South Carolinian, wrote thus to John Brown, Jr., six years ago: —

864 Broadway, New York, June 15, 1879.

Dear Sir, — Duty took me to Harper's Ferry at the time of the mid in 1859 (I was then connected with the Baltimore Press), and by chance I was brought into close personal contact with both your father and your brother Watson. After the assault I assisted your father to rise, as he stumbled forward out of the historic engine-house; and was able to administer to your brother, just before he died, some physical comfort, which won me his thanks. Subsequent to the capture of the party, I accompanied Captain J. E. B. Stuart and the battalion he commanded to the Kennedy farm; and there, by another strange chance, I came into possession of a number of papers belonging to your father. These I afterwards delivered to Governor Wise, upon his requisition; but there yet remains in my possession an old manifold letter-writer which belonged to your father. In this are several letters, in his handwriting, entitled “Sambo's Mistakes,” written, apparently, for publication, and addressed “To the Editor of the “Ramshorn.” They contain a satirical summing up, related in the first person, of the mistakes and weaknesses common to the colored people. This book, together with a common carpet-bag, a red and white check blanket, a rifle, pistol, and pike, — all of which I found at the Kennedy house, — I kept, and yet have, I think, as mementos of that tragic affair. Two or three years ago I read in one of the magazines Owen Brown's relation of his escape from the Ferry, and was minded to supplement it with my narrative of the capture and its incidents, but the many demands upon my time prevented my doing so.

I am a South Carolinian, and at the time of the raid was very deeply imbued with the political prejudices of my State; but the serenity, calm courage, and devotion to duty which your father and his followers then manifested impressed me very profoundly. It is impossible not to feel respect for men who offer up their lives in support of their convictions; and the earnestness of my respect I put upon record in a Baltimore paper the day succeeding the event. I gave your brother a cup of water to quench his thirst (this was at about 7.30 on the morning of the capture), and improvised a couch for him out of a bench, with a pair of overalls for a pillow. I remember how he looked, — singularly handsome, even through the grime of his all-day struggles, and the intense suffering which he must have endured. He was very calm, and of a tone and look very gentle. The look with which he searched my very heart I can never forget. One sentence of our conversation will give you the key-note to the whole. I asked him, “What brought you here?” He replied, very patiently, “Duty, sir.” After a pause, I again asked: “Is it then your idea of duty to shoot men down upon their own hearthstones for defending their rights?” He answered: “I am dying; I cannot discuss the question; I did my duty, as I saw it.” This conversation occurred in the compartment of the engine-house adjoining that in which the defence had been made, and was listened to by young Coppoc with perfect equanimity, and by Shields Green with uncontrollable terror.

I met at Pittsburg, some years ago, Mr. Richard Realf (If that is the name; he was connected with the “Commercial” of that city); and on relating my experience, he not only expressed much interest in it, but said he thought the surviving members of John Brown's family would be gratified to hear what I had to tell. ’T is in remembrance of Colonel Realf that I obey the impulse to write you now. I do so with deep earnestness and with respect . The war, in which I took part on the Southern side, eradicated many errors of political opinion, and gave growth to many established truths not then recognized. I have, for my own part, no regrets for my humble share in the revolt; but I have now to say, that I firmly believe the war was ordained of God for the extermination of slavery; and that your father was an elected instrument for the commencement of that good work.

I am, sir, with respect,
Yours truly,
C. W. Tayleure.

SOURCES: Franklin B. Sanborn, The Life and Letters of John Brown, p. 611-2

Thursday, February 8, 2018

Major-General Henry W. Halleck to Major-General William T. Sherman, December 30, 1864

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.]
HEADQUARTERS OF THE ARMY,         
Washington, D.C., December 30, 1864.*
Maj. Gen. W. T. SHERMAN,
Savannah:

MY DEAR GENERAL: I take the liberty of calling your attention, in this private and friendly way, to a matter which may possibly hereafter be of more importance to you than either of us may now anticipate. While almost every one is praising your great march through Georgia and the capture of Savannah, there is a certain class, having now great influence with the President, and very probably anticipating still more on a change of Cabinet, who are decidedly disposed to make a point against you — I mean in regard to “Inevitable Sambo.” They say that you have manifested an almost criminal dislike to the negro, and that you are not willing to carry out the wishes of the Government in regard to him, but repulse him with contempt. They say you might have brought with you to Savannah more than 50,000, thus stripping Georgia of that number of laborers and opening a road by which as many more could have escaped from their masters; but that instead of this you drove them from your ranks, prevented then, from following you by cutting the bridges in your rear, and thus caused the massacre of large numbers by Wheeler's cavalry.

To those who know you as I do such accusations will pass as the idle winds, for we presume that you discouraged the negroes from following you simply because you had not the means of supporting them and feared they might seriously embarrass your march. But there are others, and among them some in high authority, who think, or pretend to think, otherwise, and they are decidedly disposed to make a point against you.

I do not write this to induce you to conciliate this class of men by doing anything which you do not think right and proper and for the interest of the Government and the country, but simply to call your attention to certain things which are viewed here somewhat differently than from your standpoint. I will explain as briefly as possible: Some here think that, in view of the scarcity of labor in the South, and the probability that a part, at least, of the able-bodied slaves will be called into the military service of the rebels, it is of the greatest importance to open outlets by which the slaves can escape into our lines, and, they say, that the route you have passed over should be made the route of escape and Savannah the great place of refuge. These I know are the views of some of the lending men in the administration, and they now express dissatisfaction that you did not carry them out in your great raid.

Now that you are in possession of Savannah, and there can be no further fears about supplies, would it not be possible for you to reopen these avenues of escape for the negroes without interfering with your military operations? Could not such escaped slaves find, at least, a partial supply of food in the rice fields about Savannah, and occupation in the rice and cotton plantations on the coast?

I merely throw out these suggestions; I know that such a course would be approved by the Government, and I believe that a manifestation on your part of a desire to bring the slaves within our lines will do much to silence your opponents.

You will appreciate my motives in writing this private letter.

Yours, truly,
 H. W. HALLECK.
_______________

* General Sherman’s reply of January 12, 1865, refers to this letter as dated January 1st, but General Halleck’s copy is dated as here given.

SOURCE: The War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, Series I, Volume 44, p. 836-7

Major-General William T. Sherman to Major-General Henry W. Halleck, January 12, 1865

HDQRS. MILITARY DIVISION OF THE MISSISSIPPI,
In the Field, Savannah, January 12, 1865.
Major-General HALLECK:

MY DEAR FRIEND: I received yours of January 1* about the "negro." Since Mr. Stanton got here we have talked over all matters freely, and I deeply regret that I am threatened with that curse to all peace and comfort — popularity; but I trust to bad luck enough in the future to cure that, for I know enough of “the people” to feel that a single mistake made by some of my subordinates will tumble down my fame into infamy.

But the nigger? Why, in God's name, can't sensible men let him alone? When the people of the South tried to rule us through the negro, and became insolent, we cast them down, and on that question we are strong and unanimous. Neither cotton, the negro, nor any single interest or class should govern us.

But I fear, if you be right that that power behind the throne is growing, somebody must meet it or we are again involved in war with another class of fanatics. Mr. Lincoln has boldly and well met the one attack, now let him meet the other.

If it be insisted that I shall so conduct my operations that the negro alone is consulted, of course I will be defeated, and then where will be Sambo?

Don't military success imply the safety of Sambo and vice versa? Of course that cock-and-bull story of my turning back negroes that Wheeler might kill them is all humbug. I turned nobody back. Jeff. C. Davis did at Ebenezer Creek forbid certain plantation slaves — old men, women, and children — to follow his column; but they would come along and he took up his pontoon bridge, not because he wanted to leave them, but because he wanted his bridge.

He and Slocum both tell me that they don't believe Wheeler killed one of them. Slocum's column (30,000) reports 17,000 negroes. Now, with 1,200 wagons and the necessary impedimenta of an army, overloaded with two-thirds negroes, five-sixths of whom are helpless, and a large proportion of them babies and small children, had I encountered an enemy of respectable strength defeat would have been certain.

Tell the President that in such an event defeat would have cost him ten thousand times the effort to overcome that it now will to meet this new and growing pressure.

I know the fact that all natural emotions swing as the pendulum. These southrons pulled Sambo's pendulum so far over that the danger is it will on its return jump off its pivot. There are certain people who will find fault, and they can always get the pretext; but, thank God, I am not running for an office, and am not concerned because the rising generation will believe that I burned 500 niggers at one pop in Atlanta, or any such nonsense. I profess to be the best kind of a friend to Sambo, and think that on such a question Sambo should be consulted.

They gather round me in crowds, and I can't find out whether I am Moses or Aaron, or which of the prophets; but surely I am rated as one of the congregation, and it is hard to tell in what sense I am most appreciated by Sambo — in saving him from his master, or the new master that threatens him with a new species of slavery. I mean State recruiting agents. Poor negro — Lo, the poor Indian! Of course, sensible men understand such humbug, but some power must be invested in our Government to check these wild oscillations of public opinion.

The South deserves all she has got for her injustice to the negro, but that is no reason why we should go to the other extreme.

I do and will do the best I can for negroes, and feel sure that the problem is solving itself slowly and naturally. It needs nothing more than our fostering care. I thank you for the kind hint and will heed it so far as mere appearances go, but, not being dependent on votes, I can afford to act, as far as my influence goes, as a fly wheel instead of a mainspring.

With respect, &c., yours,
 W. T. SHERMAN.
_______________

* General Halleck's copy is dated December 30, 1864; see Vol. XLIV, p. 836.

SOURCE: The War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, Series I Volume 47, Part 2 (Serial No. 99), p. 36-7

Sunday, June 28, 2015

Diary of William Howard Russell: Sunday, April 14, 1861

A night of disturbed sleep, owing to the ponderous thumping of the walking beam close to my head, the whizzing of steam, and the roaring of the steam-trumpet to warn vessels out of the way — mosquitoes, too, had a good deal to say to me in spite of my dirty gauze curtains. Soon after dawn the vessel ran alongside the jetty at Fortress Monroe, and I saw indistinctly the waterface of the work which is in some danger of being attacked, it is said, by the Virginians. There was no flag on the staff above the walls, and the place looked dreary and desolate. It has a fine bastioned profile, with moat and armed lunettes — the casemates were bricked up or occupied by glass windows, and all the guns I could make out were on the parapets. A few soldiers were lounging on the jetty, and after we had discharged a tipsy old officer, a few negroes, and some parcels, the steam-pipe brayed —it does not whistle— again, and we proceeded across the mouth of the channel and James River towards Elizabeth River, on which stand Portsmouth and Gosport.

Just as I was dressing, the door opened, and a tall, neatly dressed negress came in and asked me for my ticket. She told me she was ticket-collector for the boat, and that she was a slave. The latter intelligence was given without any reluctance or hesitation. On my way to the upper deck I observed the bar was crowded by gentlemen engaged in consuming, or waiting for, cocktails or mint-juleps. The latter, however, could not be had just now in such perfection as usual, owing to the inferior condition of the mint. In the matter of drinks, how hospitable the Americans are! I was asked to take as many as would have rendered me incapable of drinking again; my excuse on the plea of inability to grapple with cocktails and the like before breakfast, was heard with surprise, and I was urgently entreated to abandon so bad a habit.

A clear, fine sun rose from the waters of the bay up into the purest of pure blue skies. On our right lay a low coast fringed with trees, and wooded densely with stunted forest, through which creeks could be seen glinting far through the foliage. Anxious looking little wooden lighthouses, hard set to preserve their equilibrium in the muddy waters, and bent at various angles, marked the narrow channels to the towns and hamlets on the banks, the principal trade and occupation of which are oyster selling and oyster eating. We are sailing over wondrous deposits and submarine crops of the much-loved bivalve. Wooden houses painted white appear on the shores, and one large building with wings and a central portico surmounted by a belvedere, destined for the reception of the United States sailors in sickness, is a striking object in the landscape.

The steamer in a few minutes came along-side a dirty, broken-down, wooden quay, lined with open booths, on which a small crowd, mostly of negroes, had gathered. Behind the shed there rose tiled and shingled roofs of mean dingy houses, and we could catch glimpses of the line of poor streets, narrow, crooked, ill-paved, surmounted by a few church-steeples, and the large sprawling advertisement-boards of the tobacco-stores and oyster-sellers, which was all we could see of Portsmouth or Gosport. Our vessel was in a narrow creek; at one side was the town — in the centre of the stream the old “Pennsylvania,” intended to be of 120 guns, but never commissioned, and used as receiving ship, was anchored — alongside the wall of the Navy Yard below us, lay the “Merrimac,” apparently in ordinary. The only man-of-war fit for sea was a curiosity — a stumpy bluff-bowed, Dutch-built looking sloop, called the "Cumberland." Two or three smaller vessels, dismasted, were below the “Merrimac,” and we could just see the building-sheds in which were one or two others, I believe, on the stocks. A fleet of oyster-boats anchored, or in sailless observance of the Sunday, dotted the waters. There was an ancient and fishlike smell about the town worthy of its appearance and of its functions as a seaport. As the vessel came close along-side, there was the usual greeting between friends, and many a cry, “Well, you've heard the news? The Yankees out of Sumter! Isn't it fine!” There were few who did not participate in that sentiment, but there were some who looked black as night and said nothing.

Whilst we were waiting for the steam ferry-boat, which plies to Norfolk at the other side of the creek, to take us over, a man-of-war boat pulled along-side, and the coxswain, a handsome, fine-looking sailor, came on deck, and, as I happened to be next him, asked me if Captain Blank had come down with us? I replied, that I did not know, but that the captain could tell him no doubt. “He?” said the sailor, pointing with great disgust to the skipper of the steamer. “Why he knows nothin’ of his passengers, except how many dollars they come to,” and started off to prosecute his inquiries among the other passengers. The boat along-side was clean, and was manned by six as stout fellows as ever handled an oar. Two I made sure of were Englishmen, and when the coxswain was retiring from his fruitless search, I asked him where he hailed from. “The Cove of Cork. I was in the navy nine years, but when I got on the West Ingy Station, I heerd how Uncle Sam treated his fellows, and so I joined him.” “Cut and run, I suppose?” “Well, not exactly. I got away, sir. Emigrated, you know!” “Are there any other Irishmen or Englishmen on board?” “I should think there was. That man in the bow there is a mate of mine, from the sweet Cove of Cork; Driscoll by name, and there's a Belfast man pulls number two; and the stroke, and the chap that pulls next to him is Englishmen, and fine sailors they are, Bates and Rookey. They were in men-of-war too.” “What! five out of seven, British subjects!” “Oh, ay, that is — we onst was — most of us now are 'Mericans, I think. There's plenty more of us aboard the ship.”

The steam ferry was a rickety affair, and combined with the tumble-down sheds and quays to give a poor idea of Norfolk. The infliction of tobacco-juice on board was remarkable. Although it was but seven o'clock every one had his quid in working order, and the air was filled with yellowish-brown rainbows and liquid parabolas, which tumbled in spray or in little flocks of the weed on the foul decks. As it was Sunday, some of the numerous flagstaff's which adorn the houses in both cities displayed the United States bunting; but nothing could relieve the decayed air of Norfolk. The omnibus which was waiting to receive us must have been the earliest specimen of carriage building in that style on the continent; and as it lunged and flopped over the prodigious bad pavement, the severe nature of which was aggravated by a street railway, it opened the seams as if it were going to fall into firewood. The shops were all closed, of course; but the houses, wooden and brick, were covered with signs and placards indicative of large trade in tobacco and oysters.

Poor G. P. R. James, who spent many years here, could have scarce caught a novel from such a place, spite of great oysters, famous wild fowl, and the lauded poultry and vegetables which are produced in the surrounding districts. There is not a hill for the traveller to ascend towards the close of a summer's day, nor a moated castle for a thousand miles around. An execrable, tooth-cracking drive ended at last in front of the Atlantic Hotel, where I was doomed to take up my quarters. It is a dilapidated, uncleanly place, with tobacco-stained floor, full of flies and strong odors. The waiters were all slaves: untidy, slipshod, and careless creatures. I was shut up in a small room, with the usual notice on the door, that the proprietor would not be responsible for anything, and that you were to lock your doors for fear of robbers, and that you must take your meals at certain hours, and other matters of the kind. My umbra went over to Gosport to take some sketches, he said; and after a poor meal, in a long room filled with “citizens,” all of them discussing Sumter, I went out into the street.

The people, I observe, are of a new and marked type, — very tall, loosely yet powerfully made, with dark complexions, strongly-marked features, prominent noses, large angular mouths in square jaws, deep-seated bright eyes, low, narrow foreheads, — and are all of them much given to ruminate tobacco. The bells of the churches were tolling, and I turned into one; but the heat, great enough outside, soon became nearly intolerable; nor was it rendered more bearable by my proximity to some blacks, who were, I presume, servants or slaves of the great people in the forward pews. The clergyman or minister had got to the Psalms, when a bustle arose near the door which attracted his attention, and caused all to turn round. Several persons were standing up and whispering, whilst others were stealing on tiptoe out of the church. The influence extended itself gradually and all the men near the door were leaving rapidly. The minister, obviously interested, continued to read, raising his eyes towards the door. At last the persons near him rose up and walked boldly forth, and I at length followed the example, and getting into the street, saw men running towards the hotel. “What is it?” exclaimed I to one. “Come along, the telegraph's in at the ‘Day Book.’ The Yankees are whipped!” and so continued. I came at last to a crowd of men, struggling, with their faces toward the wall of a shabby house, increased by fresh arrivals, and diminished by those who, having satisfied their curiosity, came elbowing forth in a state of much excitement, exultation, and perspiration. “It's all right enough!” “Didn't I tell you so?” “Bully for Beauregard and the Palmetto State!” I shoved on, and read at last the programme of the cannonade and bombardment, and of the effects upon the fort, on a dirty piece of yellowish paper on the wall. It was a terrible writing. At all the street corners men were discussing the news with every symptom of joy and gratification. Now I confess I could not share in the excitement at all. The act seemed to me the prelude to certain war.

I walked up the main street, and turned up some of the alleys to have a look at the town, coming out on patches of water and bridges over the creeks, or sandy lanes shaded by trees, and lined here and there by pretty wooden villas, painted in bright colors. Everywhere negroes, male and female, gaudily dressed or in rags; the door-steps of the narrow lanes swarming with infant niggerdom — big-stomached, curve-legged, rugged-headed, and happy — tumbling about dim-eyed toothless hags, or thick-lipped mothers. Not a word were they talking about Sumter. “Any news to-day?” said I to a respectable-looking negro in a blue coat and brass buttons, wonderful hat, and vest of amber silk, check trousers, and very broken-down shoes. “Well, sare, I tink nothin' much occur. Der hem afire at Squire Nichol's house last night; leastway so I hear, sare.” Squire, let me say parenthetically, is used to designate justices of the peace. Was it a very stupid poco-curante, or a very cunning, subtle Sambo?

In my walk I arrived at a small pier, covered with oyster shells, which projected into the sea. Around it, on both sides, were hosts of schooners and pungys, smaller half-decked boats, waiting for their load of the much-loved fish for Washington, Baltimore, and Richmond. Some brigs and large vessels lay along-side the wharves and large warehouses higher up the creek. Observing a small group at the end of the pier, I walked on, and found that they consisted of fifteen or twenty well-dressed mechanical kind of men, busily engaged in “chaffing,” as Cockneys would call it, the crew of the man-of-war boat I had seen in the morning. The sailors were stretched on the thwarts, some rather amused, others sullen at the ordeal. “You better just pull down that cussed old rag of yours, and bring your old ship over to the Southern Confederacy. I guess we can take your ‘Cumberland’ whenever we like! Why don't you go, and touch off your guns at Charleston?” Presently the coxswain came down with a parcel under his arm, and stepped into the boat. “Give way, my lads;” and the oars dipped in the water. When the boat had gone a few yards from the shore, the crowd cried out: “Down with the Yankees! Hurrah for the Southern Confederacy!” and some among them threw oyster shells at the boat, one of which struck the coxswain on the head. “Backwater! Back water all. Hard!” he shouted; and as the boat's stern neared the land, he stood up and made a leap in among the crowd like a tiger. “You cowardly d----d set. Who threw the shells?” No one answered at first, but a little wizened man at last squeaked out: “I guess you'll have shells of another kind if you remain here much longer.” The sailor howled with rage: “Why, you poor devils, I'd whip any half-dozen of you, — teeth, knives, and all — in five minutes; and my boys there in the boat would clear your whole town. What do you mean by barking at the Stars and Stripes? Do you see that ship?” he shouted, pointing towards the “Cumberland.” “Why the lads aboard of her would knock every darned seceder in your State into a cocked hat in a brace of shakes! And now who's coming on?” The invitation was not accepted, and the sailor withdrew, with his angry eyes fixed on the people, who gave him a kind of groan; but there were no oyster shells this time. “In spite of his blowing, I tell yer,” said one of them, “there's some good men from old Virginny abo'rd o' that ship that will never fire a shot agin us.” “Oh, we'll fix her right enough,” remarked another, “when the time comes.” I returned to my room, sat down, and wrote for some hours. The dinner in the Atlantic Hotel was of a description to make one wish the desire for food had never been invented. My neighbor said he was not “quite content about this Sumter business. There's nary one killed nor wownded.”

Sunday is a very dull day in Norfolk, — no mails, no post, no steamers; and, at the best, Norfolk must be dull exceedingly. The superintendent of the Seaboard and Roanoke Railway, having heard that I was about proceeding to Charleston, called upon me to offer every facility in his power. Sent Moses with letters to post-office. At night the mosquitoes were very aggressive and successful. This is the first place in which the bedrooms are unprovided with gas. A mutton dip almost made me regret the fact.

SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and South, p. 80-6

Sunday, November 15, 2009

“Sambo, what you tink ob de future state.”

“I tink him very long one!” “But I mean do you tink de wicked will be condigned to eberlastin’ misery?” “I don’t tink no such ting. I tink Gabriel ‘minister de oaf and let em go?”

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, April 26, 1862, p. 2