The Nation's Ward.
The Nation's Ward.
The narration revealed traits of character, not unfrequentlyseen in the negro race, and it will not be out of place in this chapter, which is intended to give the position of a race at its lowest plane of life.
This wonderful woman lives in modern art. She is the original Libyan Sibyl, a statue by Mr. Story, which was more impressive than all others in the gallery of the World's Exhibition in London in 1862. Sojourner once called upon Mrs. Stowe, who has given us this account of the interview:[44]—
On her head she wore a bright Madras handkerchief, arranged as a turban, after the manner of her race. She seemed perfectly self-possessed and at her ease,—in fact, there was almost an unconscious superiority, not unmixed with a solemn twinkle of humor, in the odd, composed manner in which she looked down on me. Her whole air had at times a gloomy sort of drollery which impressed one strangely."So, this isyou," she said."Yes," I answered."Well, honey, de Lord bless ye! I jes' thought I'd like to come an' have a look at ye. You's heerd o' me, I reckon?" she added."Yes, I think I have. You go about lecturing, do you not?""Yes, honey, that's what I do. The Lord has made me a sign unto this nation, an' I go round a-testifyin', an' showin' on 'em their sins agin my people."So saying, she took a seat, and, stooping over and crossing her arms on her knees, she looked down on the floor, and appeared to fall into a sort of revery. Her great gloomy eyes and her dark face seemed to work with some undercurrent of feeling; she sighed deeply, and occasionally broke out,—"O Lord! O Lord! Oh, the tears, an' the groans, an' the moans! O Lord!"By this time I thought her manner so original that it might be worth while to call down my friends; and she seemed perfectly well pleased with the idea. An audience was what she wanted,—it mattered not whether high or low, learned or ignorant. She had things to say, and was ready to say them at all times, and to any one.I called down Dr. Beecher, Professor Allen, and two or three other clergymen, who, together with my husband and family, made a roomful. No princess could have received a drawing-room with more composeddignity than Sojourner her audience. She stood among them calm and erect as one of her own native palm-trees waving alone in the desert. I presented one after another to her, and at last said,—"Sojourner, this is Dr. Beecher. He is a very celebrated preacher.""Ishe?" she said, offering her hand in a condescending manner, and looking down on his white head. "Ye dear lamb, I'm glad to see ye! De Lord bless ye! I loves preachers. I'm a kind o' preacher myself.""You are?" said Dr. Beecher. "Do you preach from the Bible?""No, honey, can't preach from de Bible,—can't read a letter.""Why, Sojourner, what do you preach from, then?"Her answer was given with a solemn power of voice, peculiar to herself, that hushed every one in the room."When I preaches, I has jest one text to preach from, an' I always preaches from this one.Mytext is, 'When I found Jesus.'""Well, you couldn't have a better one," said one of the ministers.She paid no attention to him, but stood and seemed swelling with her own thoughts, and then began this narration:—"Well, now, I'll jest have to go back, an' tell ye all about it. Ye see, we was all brought over from Africa, father an' mother an' I, an' a lot more of us; an' we was sold up an' down, an' hither an' yon; an' I can 'member, when I was a little thing, not bigger than this 'ere," pointing to her grandson, "how my ole mammy would sit out o' doors in the evenin', an' look up at the stars an' groan. She'd groan an' groan, an' says I to her,—"'Mammy, what makes you groan so?'"An' she'd say,—"'Matter enough, chile! I'm groanin' to think o' my poor children: they don't know where I be, an' I don't know where they be: they looks up at the stars, an' I looks up at the stars, but I can't tell where they be."'Now,' she said, 'chile, when you're grown up, you may be sold way from your mother an' all your ole friends, an' have great troubles come on ye; an' when you has these troubles come on ye, ye jes' go to God, an' He'll help ye.'"An' says I to her,—"'Who is God, anyhow, mammy?'"An' says she,—"'Why, chile, you jes' look updar! It's Him that made alldem!'"Well, I didn't mind much 'bout God in them days. I grew up pretty lively an' strong, an' could row a boat, or ride a horse, or work round, an' do 'most anything."At last I got sold away to a real hard massa an' missis. Oh, I tell you, theywashard! 'Peared like I couldn't please 'em nohow. An' then I thought o' what my old mammy told me about God; an' I thought I'd got into trouble, sure enough, an' I wanted to find God, an' I heerd some one tell a story about a man that met God on a threshin'-floor, an' I thought, 'Well an' good, I'll have a threshin'-floor, too.' So I went down in the lot, an' I threshed down a place real hard, an' I used to go down there every day, an' pray an' cry with all my might, a-prayin' to the Lord to make my massa an' missis better, but it didn't seem to do no good; an' so says I, one day,—"'O God, I been a-askin' ye, an' askin' ye, an askin' ye, for all this long time, to make my massa an' missis better, an' you don't do it, an' whatcanbe the reason? Why, maybe youcan't. Well, I shouldn't wonder ef you couldn't. Well, now, I tell you, I'll make a bargain with you. Ef you'll help me git away from my massa an' missis, I'll agree to be good; but ef you don't help me, I really don't think I can be. Now,' says I,'I want to git away; but the trouble's jest here: ef I try to git away in the night, I can't see; an' ef I try to git away in the daytime, they'll see me, an' be after me.'"Then the Lord said to me, 'Get up two or three hours afore daylight, an' start off.'"An' says I, 'Thank'ee, Lord! that's a good thought.'"So up I got, about three o'clock in the mornin', an' I started an' travelled pretty fast, till, when the sun rose, I was clear away from our place an' our folks, an' out o' sight. An' then I begun to think I didn't know nothin' where to go. So I kneeled down, an' says I,—"'Well, Lord, you've started me out, an' now please to show me where to go.'"Then the Lord made a house appear to me, an' He said to me that I was to walk on till I saw that house, an' then go in an' ask the people to take me. An' I travelled all day, an' didn't come to the house till late at night; but when I saw it, sure enough, I went in, an' I told the folks the Lord sent me; an' they was Quakers, an' real kind they was to me. They jes' took me in, an' did for me as kind as ef I'd been one of 'em; an' after they'd giv me supper, they took me into a room where there was a great, tall, white bed; an' they told me to sleep there. Well, honey, I was kind o' skeered when they left me alone with that great white bed; 'cause I never had been in a bed in my life. It never came into my mind they could mean me to sleep in it An' so I jes' camped down under it, on the floor, an' then I slep' pretty well. In the mornin', when they came in, they asked me ef I hadn't been asleep; an' I said, 'Yes I never slep' better.' An' they said,'Why, you haven't been in the bed!' An' says I, 'Laws, you didn't think o' sech a thing as my sleepin' in dat 'ar'bed, did you? I never heerd o' sech a thing in my life.'"Well, ye see, honey, I stayed an' lived with 'em. An' now jes' look here: instead o' keepin' my promise an' bein' good, as I told the Lord I would, jest as soon as everything got a-goin' easy,I forgot all about God."Pretty well don't need no help; an' I gin' up prayin'. I lived there two or three years, an' then the slaves in New York were all set free, an' ole massa came to our house to make a visit, an' he asked me ef I didn't want to go back an' see the folks on the ole place. An' I told him I did. So he said, ef I'd jes' git into the wagon with him, he'd carry me over. Well, jest as I was goin' out to git into the wagon,I met God!an' says I, 'O God, I didn't know as you was so great!' An' I turned right round an' come into the house, an' set down in my room; for 't was God all around me. I could feel it burnin', burnin', burnin' all around me, an' goin' through me; an' I saw I was so wicked, it seemed as ef it would burn me up. An' I said, 'O somebody, somebody, stand between God an' me! for it burns me!' Then, honey, when I said so, I felt as it were somethin' like anamberill[umbrella] that came between me an' the light, an' I felt it wassomebody,—somebody that stood between me an' God; an' it felt cool, like a shade; an' says I, 'Who's this that stands between me an' God? Is it old Cato?' He was a pious old preacher; but then I seemed to see Cato in the light, an' he was all polluted an' vile, like me; an' I said, 'Is it old Sally?' an' then I saw her, an' she seemed jes' so. An' then says I, 'Whois this?' An' then, honey, for a while it was like the sun shinin' in a pail o' water, when it moves up an' down; for I begun to feel 't was somebody that loved me; an' I tried to know him. An' I said, 'I know you! I know you! I know you!'—an' then I said, 'I don't know you! I don't know you! I don't know you!' An' when I said, 'I know you, I know you,' the light came; an' when I said, 'I don't know you, I don't know you,' it went, jes' like the sun in a pail o' water. An' finally somethin' spoke out in me an' said, 'This is Jesus!' An' I spoke out with all my might, an' says I, 'This is Jesus!Glory be to God!' An' then the whole world grew bright, an' the trees they waved an' waved in glory, an' every little bit o' stone on the ground shone like glass; an' I shouted an' said, 'Praise, praise, praise to the Lord!' An' I begun to feel sech a love in my soul as I never felt before,—love to all creatures. An' then, all of a sudden, it stopped, an' I said, 'Dar's de white folks, that have abused you an' beat you an' abused your people,—think o' them!' But then there came anotherrush of love through my soul, an' I cried out loud,-'Lord, Lord, I can loveeven de white folks!'"Honey, I jes' walked round an' round in a dream. Jesus loved me! I knowed it,—I felt it. Jesus was my Jesus. Jesus would love me always. I didn't dare tell nobody; 'twas a great secret. Everything had been got away from me that I ever had; an' I thought that ef I let white folks know about this, maybe they'd getHimaway,—so I said, 'I'll keep this close. I won't let any one know.'""But, Sojourner, had you never been told about Jesus Christ?""No, honey. I hadn't heerd no preachin',—been to no meetin'. Nobody hadn't told me. I'd kind o' heerd of Jesus, but thought he was like Gineral Lafayette, or some o' them. But one night there was a Methodist meetin' somewhere in our parts, an' I went; an' they got up an' begun for to tell der 'speriences; an' de fust one begun to speak. I started, 'cause he told about Jesus. 'Why,' says I to myself, 'dat man's found him too!' An' another got up an' spoke, an' I said, 'He's found him, too!' An' finally I said, 'Why, they all know him!' I was so happy! An' then they sung this hymn": (Here Sojourner sang, in a strange, cracked voice, but evidently with all her soul and might, mispronouncing the English, but seeming to derive as much elevation and comfort from bad English as from good):—"There is a holy city,A world of light above,Above the stairs and regions,[45]Built by the God of love.""Well, den ye see, after a while I thought I'd go back an' see de folks on de ole place. Well, you know, de law had passed dat de culled folks was all free; an' my old missis, she had a daughter married about dis time who went to live in Alabama,—an' what did she do but give her my son, a boy about de age of dis yer, for her to take down to Alabama? When I got back to de ole place, they told me about it, an' I went right up to see ole missis, an' says I,—"'Missis, have you been an' sent my son away down to Alabama?'"'Yes, I have,' says she; 'he's gone to live with your young missis.'"'O Missis,' says I, 'how could you do it?'"'Poh!' says she, 'what a fuss you make about a little nigger. Got more of 'em now than you know what to do with.'"I tell you, I stretched up. I felt as tall as the world!"'Missis, says I, 'I'll have my son back agin!'"She laughed."'Youwill, you nigger? How you goin' to do it? You ha'n't got no money.'"'No, Missis,—butGodhas,—an' you'll see He'll help me!'—an' I turned round an' went out."O, but Iwasangry to have her speak to me so haughty an' so scornful, as ef my chile wasn't worth anything. I said to God, 'O Lord, render unto her double! It was a dreadful prayer, an' I didn't know how true it would come."Well, I didn't rightly know which way to turn; but I went to the Lord, an' I said to Him, 'O Lord, ef I was as rich as you be, an' you was as poor as I be, I'd help you,—youknowI would; and, oh, do help me!' An' I felt sure then that He would."Well, I talked with people, an' they said I must git the case before a grand jury. So I went into the town when they was holdin' a court, to see ef I could find any grand jury. An' I stood round the court-house, an' when they was a-comin' out, I walked right up to the grandest-lookin' one I could see, an' says I to him,—"'Sir, be you a grand jury?'"An' then he wanted to know why I asked, an' I told him all about it; an' he asked me all sorts of questions, an' finally he says to me,—"'I think, ef you pay me ten dollars, that I'd agree to get your son for you.' An' says he, pointin' to a house over the way, 'You go 'long an' tell your story to the folks in that house, an' I guess they'll give you the money.'"Well, I went, an' I told them, an' they gave me twenty dollars; an' then I thought to myself, 'Ef ten dollars will git him, twenty dollars will git himsartin.' So I carried it to the man all out, an' said,—"'Take it all,—only be sure an' git him.'"Well, finally they got the boy brought back; an' then they tried to frighten him, an' to make him say that I wasn't his mammy, an' that he didn't know me; but they couldn't make it out. They gave him to me, an' I took him an' carried him home; an' when I came to take off his clothes, there was his poor little back all covered with scars an' hard lumps, where they flogged him."Well, you see, honey, I told you how I prayed the Lord to render unto her double. Well, it came true; for I was up at ole missis' house not long after, an' I heerd 'em readin' a letter to her how her daughter's husband had murdered her,—how he'd thrown her down an' stamped the life out of her, when he was in liquor; an' my ole missis, she giv ascreech, an' fell flat on the floor. Then says I, 'O Lord, I didn't mean all that! You took me up too quick.'"Well, I went in an' tended that poor critter all night. She was out of her mind,—a-cryin', an' callin' for her daughter; an' I held her poor ole head on my arm, an' watched for her as ef she'd been my babby. An' I watched by her, an' took care on her all through her sickness after that, an' she died in my arms, poor thing!"
On her head she wore a bright Madras handkerchief, arranged as a turban, after the manner of her race. She seemed perfectly self-possessed and at her ease,—in fact, there was almost an unconscious superiority, not unmixed with a solemn twinkle of humor, in the odd, composed manner in which she looked down on me. Her whole air had at times a gloomy sort of drollery which impressed one strangely.
"So, this isyou," she said.
"Yes," I answered.
"Well, honey, de Lord bless ye! I jes' thought I'd like to come an' have a look at ye. You's heerd o' me, I reckon?" she added.
"Yes, I think I have. You go about lecturing, do you not?"
"Yes, honey, that's what I do. The Lord has made me a sign unto this nation, an' I go round a-testifyin', an' showin' on 'em their sins agin my people."
So saying, she took a seat, and, stooping over and crossing her arms on her knees, she looked down on the floor, and appeared to fall into a sort of revery. Her great gloomy eyes and her dark face seemed to work with some undercurrent of feeling; she sighed deeply, and occasionally broke out,—
"O Lord! O Lord! Oh, the tears, an' the groans, an' the moans! O Lord!"
By this time I thought her manner so original that it might be worth while to call down my friends; and she seemed perfectly well pleased with the idea. An audience was what she wanted,—it mattered not whether high or low, learned or ignorant. She had things to say, and was ready to say them at all times, and to any one.
I called down Dr. Beecher, Professor Allen, and two or three other clergymen, who, together with my husband and family, made a roomful. No princess could have received a drawing-room with more composeddignity than Sojourner her audience. She stood among them calm and erect as one of her own native palm-trees waving alone in the desert. I presented one after another to her, and at last said,—
"Sojourner, this is Dr. Beecher. He is a very celebrated preacher."
"Ishe?" she said, offering her hand in a condescending manner, and looking down on his white head. "Ye dear lamb, I'm glad to see ye! De Lord bless ye! I loves preachers. I'm a kind o' preacher myself."
"You are?" said Dr. Beecher. "Do you preach from the Bible?"
"No, honey, can't preach from de Bible,—can't read a letter."
"Why, Sojourner, what do you preach from, then?"
Her answer was given with a solemn power of voice, peculiar to herself, that hushed every one in the room.
"When I preaches, I has jest one text to preach from, an' I always preaches from this one.Mytext is, 'When I found Jesus.'"
"Well, you couldn't have a better one," said one of the ministers.
She paid no attention to him, but stood and seemed swelling with her own thoughts, and then began this narration:—
"Well, now, I'll jest have to go back, an' tell ye all about it. Ye see, we was all brought over from Africa, father an' mother an' I, an' a lot more of us; an' we was sold up an' down, an' hither an' yon; an' I can 'member, when I was a little thing, not bigger than this 'ere," pointing to her grandson, "how my ole mammy would sit out o' doors in the evenin', an' look up at the stars an' groan. She'd groan an' groan, an' says I to her,—
"'Mammy, what makes you groan so?'
"An' she'd say,—
"'Matter enough, chile! I'm groanin' to think o' my poor children: they don't know where I be, an' I don't know where they be: they looks up at the stars, an' I looks up at the stars, but I can't tell where they be.
"'Now,' she said, 'chile, when you're grown up, you may be sold way from your mother an' all your ole friends, an' have great troubles come on ye; an' when you has these troubles come on ye, ye jes' go to God, an' He'll help ye.'
"An' says I to her,—
"'Who is God, anyhow, mammy?'
"An' says she,—
"'Why, chile, you jes' look updar! It's Him that made alldem!'
"Well, I didn't mind much 'bout God in them days. I grew up pretty lively an' strong, an' could row a boat, or ride a horse, or work round, an' do 'most anything.
"At last I got sold away to a real hard massa an' missis. Oh, I tell you, theywashard! 'Peared like I couldn't please 'em nohow. An' then I thought o' what my old mammy told me about God; an' I thought I'd got into trouble, sure enough, an' I wanted to find God, an' I heerd some one tell a story about a man that met God on a threshin'-floor, an' I thought, 'Well an' good, I'll have a threshin'-floor, too.' So I went down in the lot, an' I threshed down a place real hard, an' I used to go down there every day, an' pray an' cry with all my might, a-prayin' to the Lord to make my massa an' missis better, but it didn't seem to do no good; an' so says I, one day,—
"'O God, I been a-askin' ye, an' askin' ye, an askin' ye, for all this long time, to make my massa an' missis better, an' you don't do it, an' whatcanbe the reason? Why, maybe youcan't. Well, I shouldn't wonder ef you couldn't. Well, now, I tell you, I'll make a bargain with you. Ef you'll help me git away from my massa an' missis, I'll agree to be good; but ef you don't help me, I really don't think I can be. Now,' says I,'I want to git away; but the trouble's jest here: ef I try to git away in the night, I can't see; an' ef I try to git away in the daytime, they'll see me, an' be after me.'
"Then the Lord said to me, 'Get up two or three hours afore daylight, an' start off.'
"An' says I, 'Thank'ee, Lord! that's a good thought.'
"So up I got, about three o'clock in the mornin', an' I started an' travelled pretty fast, till, when the sun rose, I was clear away from our place an' our folks, an' out o' sight. An' then I begun to think I didn't know nothin' where to go. So I kneeled down, an' says I,—
"'Well, Lord, you've started me out, an' now please to show me where to go.'
"Then the Lord made a house appear to me, an' He said to me that I was to walk on till I saw that house, an' then go in an' ask the people to take me. An' I travelled all day, an' didn't come to the house till late at night; but when I saw it, sure enough, I went in, an' I told the folks the Lord sent me; an' they was Quakers, an' real kind they was to me. They jes' took me in, an' did for me as kind as ef I'd been one of 'em; an' after they'd giv me supper, they took me into a room where there was a great, tall, white bed; an' they told me to sleep there. Well, honey, I was kind o' skeered when they left me alone with that great white bed; 'cause I never had been in a bed in my life. It never came into my mind they could mean me to sleep in it An' so I jes' camped down under it, on the floor, an' then I slep' pretty well. In the mornin', when they came in, they asked me ef I hadn't been asleep; an' I said, 'Yes I never slep' better.' An' they said,'Why, you haven't been in the bed!' An' says I, 'Laws, you didn't think o' sech a thing as my sleepin' in dat 'ar'bed, did you? I never heerd o' sech a thing in my life.'
"Well, ye see, honey, I stayed an' lived with 'em. An' now jes' look here: instead o' keepin' my promise an' bein' good, as I told the Lord I would, jest as soon as everything got a-goin' easy,I forgot all about God.
"Pretty well don't need no help; an' I gin' up prayin'. I lived there two or three years, an' then the slaves in New York were all set free, an' ole massa came to our house to make a visit, an' he asked me ef I didn't want to go back an' see the folks on the ole place. An' I told him I did. So he said, ef I'd jes' git into the wagon with him, he'd carry me over. Well, jest as I was goin' out to git into the wagon,I met God!an' says I, 'O God, I didn't know as you was so great!' An' I turned right round an' come into the house, an' set down in my room; for 't was God all around me. I could feel it burnin', burnin', burnin' all around me, an' goin' through me; an' I saw I was so wicked, it seemed as ef it would burn me up. An' I said, 'O somebody, somebody, stand between God an' me! for it burns me!' Then, honey, when I said so, I felt as it were somethin' like anamberill[umbrella] that came between me an' the light, an' I felt it wassomebody,—somebody that stood between me an' God; an' it felt cool, like a shade; an' says I, 'Who's this that stands between me an' God? Is it old Cato?' He was a pious old preacher; but then I seemed to see Cato in the light, an' he was all polluted an' vile, like me; an' I said, 'Is it old Sally?' an' then I saw her, an' she seemed jes' so. An' then says I, 'Whois this?' An' then, honey, for a while it was like the sun shinin' in a pail o' water, when it moves up an' down; for I begun to feel 't was somebody that loved me; an' I tried to know him. An' I said, 'I know you! I know you! I know you!'—an' then I said, 'I don't know you! I don't know you! I don't know you!' An' when I said, 'I know you, I know you,' the light came; an' when I said, 'I don't know you, I don't know you,' it went, jes' like the sun in a pail o' water. An' finally somethin' spoke out in me an' said, 'This is Jesus!' An' I spoke out with all my might, an' says I, 'This is Jesus!Glory be to God!' An' then the whole world grew bright, an' the trees they waved an' waved in glory, an' every little bit o' stone on the ground shone like glass; an' I shouted an' said, 'Praise, praise, praise to the Lord!' An' I begun to feel sech a love in my soul as I never felt before,—love to all creatures. An' then, all of a sudden, it stopped, an' I said, 'Dar's de white folks, that have abused you an' beat you an' abused your people,—think o' them!' But then there came anotherrush of love through my soul, an' I cried out loud,-'Lord, Lord, I can loveeven de white folks!'
"Honey, I jes' walked round an' round in a dream. Jesus loved me! I knowed it,—I felt it. Jesus was my Jesus. Jesus would love me always. I didn't dare tell nobody; 'twas a great secret. Everything had been got away from me that I ever had; an' I thought that ef I let white folks know about this, maybe they'd getHimaway,—so I said, 'I'll keep this close. I won't let any one know.'"
"But, Sojourner, had you never been told about Jesus Christ?"
"No, honey. I hadn't heerd no preachin',—been to no meetin'. Nobody hadn't told me. I'd kind o' heerd of Jesus, but thought he was like Gineral Lafayette, or some o' them. But one night there was a Methodist meetin' somewhere in our parts, an' I went; an' they got up an' begun for to tell der 'speriences; an' de fust one begun to speak. I started, 'cause he told about Jesus. 'Why,' says I to myself, 'dat man's found him too!' An' another got up an' spoke, an' I said, 'He's found him, too!' An' finally I said, 'Why, they all know him!' I was so happy! An' then they sung this hymn": (Here Sojourner sang, in a strange, cracked voice, but evidently with all her soul and might, mispronouncing the English, but seeming to derive as much elevation and comfort from bad English as from good):—
"There is a holy city,A world of light above,Above the stairs and regions,[45]Built by the God of love."
"Well, den ye see, after a while I thought I'd go back an' see de folks on de ole place. Well, you know, de law had passed dat de culled folks was all free; an' my old missis, she had a daughter married about dis time who went to live in Alabama,—an' what did she do but give her my son, a boy about de age of dis yer, for her to take down to Alabama? When I got back to de ole place, they told me about it, an' I went right up to see ole missis, an' says I,—
"'Missis, have you been an' sent my son away down to Alabama?'
"'Yes, I have,' says she; 'he's gone to live with your young missis.'
"'O Missis,' says I, 'how could you do it?'
"'Poh!' says she, 'what a fuss you make about a little nigger. Got more of 'em now than you know what to do with.'
"I tell you, I stretched up. I felt as tall as the world!
"'Missis, says I, 'I'll have my son back agin!'
"She laughed.
"'Youwill, you nigger? How you goin' to do it? You ha'n't got no money.'
"'No, Missis,—butGodhas,—an' you'll see He'll help me!'—an' I turned round an' went out.
"O, but Iwasangry to have her speak to me so haughty an' so scornful, as ef my chile wasn't worth anything. I said to God, 'O Lord, render unto her double! It was a dreadful prayer, an' I didn't know how true it would come.
"Well, I didn't rightly know which way to turn; but I went to the Lord, an' I said to Him, 'O Lord, ef I was as rich as you be, an' you was as poor as I be, I'd help you,—youknowI would; and, oh, do help me!' An' I felt sure then that He would.
"Well, I talked with people, an' they said I must git the case before a grand jury. So I went into the town when they was holdin' a court, to see ef I could find any grand jury. An' I stood round the court-house, an' when they was a-comin' out, I walked right up to the grandest-lookin' one I could see, an' says I to him,—
"'Sir, be you a grand jury?'
"An' then he wanted to know why I asked, an' I told him all about it; an' he asked me all sorts of questions, an' finally he says to me,—
"'I think, ef you pay me ten dollars, that I'd agree to get your son for you.' An' says he, pointin' to a house over the way, 'You go 'long an' tell your story to the folks in that house, an' I guess they'll give you the money.'
"Well, I went, an' I told them, an' they gave me twenty dollars; an' then I thought to myself, 'Ef ten dollars will git him, twenty dollars will git himsartin.' So I carried it to the man all out, an' said,—
"'Take it all,—only be sure an' git him.'
"Well, finally they got the boy brought back; an' then they tried to frighten him, an' to make him say that I wasn't his mammy, an' that he didn't know me; but they couldn't make it out. They gave him to me, an' I took him an' carried him home; an' when I came to take off his clothes, there was his poor little back all covered with scars an' hard lumps, where they flogged him.
"Well, you see, honey, I told you how I prayed the Lord to render unto her double. Well, it came true; for I was up at ole missis' house not long after, an' I heerd 'em readin' a letter to her how her daughter's husband had murdered her,—how he'd thrown her down an' stamped the life out of her, when he was in liquor; an' my ole missis, she giv ascreech, an' fell flat on the floor. Then says I, 'O Lord, I didn't mean all that! You took me up too quick.'
"Well, I went in an' tended that poor critter all night. She was out of her mind,—a-cryin', an' callin' for her daughter; an' I held her poor ole head on my arm, an' watched for her as ef she'd been my babby. An' I watched by her, an' took care on her all through her sickness after that, an' she died in my arms, poor thing!"
In the spring of 1851, a Woman's Rights Convention was held in Akron, Ohio. The newspapers had ridiculed such conventions, and they were looked upon as legitimate subjects for ridicule. They had been vilified and caricatured, but there was a desire through that section of the country to hear what the women would have to say for themselves, and the church in which the meeting was held was consequently crowded. Sojourner Truth was there. Mrs. Gage was president of the meeting. She said:—
"The leaders of the movement, tremblingly alive to every appearance of evil that might spring up in their midst, were many of them almost thrown into panics on the first day of the meeting, by seeing a tall, gaunt black woman, in a gray dress and uncouth sun-bonnet, march deliberately into the church and up the aisle with an air of a queen, and take her seat on the pulpit steps. A buzz of disapprobation was heard all over the house, and such words as these fell upon listening ears: 'An Abolition affair! Woman's Rights and Niggers!' 'We told you so!' 'Go it, old darkey!'"The second day the work waxed warm. Methodist, Baptist, Episcopal, and Presbyterian, and Universalist ministers came in to hear and discuss the resolutions brought forth. One claimed superior rights and privileges for man because of superior intellect; another, because of the manhood of Christ. If God had desired the equality of woman, he would have given some token of his will through the birth, life, and death of the Saviour. Another gave a theological view of the sin of our first mother. There were few women in those days who dared to speak in meeting'; and the august teachers of the people, with long-winded bombast, were seeming to get the better of us, while the boys in the galleries and sneerers among the pews were enjoying hugely the discomfiture, as they supposed, of the strong-minded. Some of the tender-skinned friends were growing indignant and on the point of losing dignity, and the atmosphere of the Convention betokened a storm."Slowly from her seat in the corner rose Sojourner Truth, who till now had hardly lifted her head."'Don't let her speak!' gasped a half-dozen in my ear. She moved slowly and solemnly to the front, laid her old bonnet at her feet, and turned her great piercing eyes upon me. There was a hissing sound of disapprobation above and below. I rose and announced 'Sojourner Truth,' and begged the audience to keep silence a few moments. The tumult subsided at once, and every eye was fixed on this almost Amazon form, which stood nearly six feet high, head erect, and eye piercing the upper air like one in a dream. At her first word there was a profound hush. She spoke in deep tones, which, though not loud, reached every ear in the house, and away through the throng at the doors and windows."'Well, chillen, whar dar's so much racket dar must be som'ing out o' kilter. I tink dat 'twixt de niggas of de Souf and de women of de Norf, all a talking about de rights, de white men will be in a fix pretty soon."'But what's all dis here talking 'bout? Dat man ober dar say dat woman needs to be helped into carriages, and lifted ober ditches, and to hab de best place eberywhar. Nobody eber helps me into carriages, or ober ditches or ober mud-puddles, or gives me any best place.' Raising herself to her full height, and her voice to a pitch like rolling thunder, she asked, 'And arn't I a woman? Look at me. Look at my arm,' and she laid bare her right arm to her shoulder, showing its tremendous muscular power. 'I have ploughed, and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me; and arn't I a woman? I have borne thirteen chillen, and seen most of 'em sold off into slavery, and when I cried out with a mother's grief, none but Jesus heard; and arn't I a woman? Den dey talks about dis ting in de head. What dis dey call it?' 'Intellect,' whispered some one near her. 'Dat's it, honey. What's dat got to do wid woman's rights or niggers' rights? If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn't you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?'"She pointed her significant finger and sent a keen glance at the minister who had made the argument. The cheering was long and loud."'Den dat little man in black, dar, he say woman can't have as much right as man, 'cause Christ wasn't a woman.Whar did your Christ come from?'"Rolling thunder could not have stilled that crowd as did those deep and wonderful tones, as she stood there with outstretched arm and eye of fire. Raising her voice she repeated, 'Whar did your Christ comefrom? From God and a woman. Man had nothing to do with him.'"O what a rebuke she gave the little man! Turning again to another objector, she took up the defence of Mother Eve. It was pointed, and witty, and solemn, and eliciting at almost every sentence deafening applause; and she ended by asserting that 'if de fust woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down, all herself alone, all dese togeder,' and she glanced her eye over us, 'ought to be able to turn it back again and git it right side up again; and now dey is asking to, the men better let 'em. Bleeged to you for hearin' me, and now old Sojourner ha'n't got notin' more to say.'"Amid roars of applause she turned to her corner, leaving more than one of us with streaming eyes and hearts beating with gratitude. She had taken us up in her great strong arms and carried us over the slough of difficulty, turning the whole tide in our favor. I have never in my life seen anything like the magical influence that subdued the mobbish spirit of the day and turned the jibes and sneers of an excited crowd into notes of respect and admiration. Hundreds rushed up to shake hands with the glorious old mother and bid her God speed."
"The leaders of the movement, tremblingly alive to every appearance of evil that might spring up in their midst, were many of them almost thrown into panics on the first day of the meeting, by seeing a tall, gaunt black woman, in a gray dress and uncouth sun-bonnet, march deliberately into the church and up the aisle with an air of a queen, and take her seat on the pulpit steps. A buzz of disapprobation was heard all over the house, and such words as these fell upon listening ears: 'An Abolition affair! Woman's Rights and Niggers!' 'We told you so!' 'Go it, old darkey!'
"The second day the work waxed warm. Methodist, Baptist, Episcopal, and Presbyterian, and Universalist ministers came in to hear and discuss the resolutions brought forth. One claimed superior rights and privileges for man because of superior intellect; another, because of the manhood of Christ. If God had desired the equality of woman, he would have given some token of his will through the birth, life, and death of the Saviour. Another gave a theological view of the sin of our first mother. There were few women in those days who dared to speak in meeting'; and the august teachers of the people, with long-winded bombast, were seeming to get the better of us, while the boys in the galleries and sneerers among the pews were enjoying hugely the discomfiture, as they supposed, of the strong-minded. Some of the tender-skinned friends were growing indignant and on the point of losing dignity, and the atmosphere of the Convention betokened a storm.
"Slowly from her seat in the corner rose Sojourner Truth, who till now had hardly lifted her head.
"'Don't let her speak!' gasped a half-dozen in my ear. She moved slowly and solemnly to the front, laid her old bonnet at her feet, and turned her great piercing eyes upon me. There was a hissing sound of disapprobation above and below. I rose and announced 'Sojourner Truth,' and begged the audience to keep silence a few moments. The tumult subsided at once, and every eye was fixed on this almost Amazon form, which stood nearly six feet high, head erect, and eye piercing the upper air like one in a dream. At her first word there was a profound hush. She spoke in deep tones, which, though not loud, reached every ear in the house, and away through the throng at the doors and windows.
"'Well, chillen, whar dar's so much racket dar must be som'ing out o' kilter. I tink dat 'twixt de niggas of de Souf and de women of de Norf, all a talking about de rights, de white men will be in a fix pretty soon.
"'But what's all dis here talking 'bout? Dat man ober dar say dat woman needs to be helped into carriages, and lifted ober ditches, and to hab de best place eberywhar. Nobody eber helps me into carriages, or ober ditches or ober mud-puddles, or gives me any best place.' Raising herself to her full height, and her voice to a pitch like rolling thunder, she asked, 'And arn't I a woman? Look at me. Look at my arm,' and she laid bare her right arm to her shoulder, showing its tremendous muscular power. 'I have ploughed, and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me; and arn't I a woman? I have borne thirteen chillen, and seen most of 'em sold off into slavery, and when I cried out with a mother's grief, none but Jesus heard; and arn't I a woman? Den dey talks about dis ting in de head. What dis dey call it?' 'Intellect,' whispered some one near her. 'Dat's it, honey. What's dat got to do wid woman's rights or niggers' rights? If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn't you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?'
"She pointed her significant finger and sent a keen glance at the minister who had made the argument. The cheering was long and loud.
"'Den dat little man in black, dar, he say woman can't have as much right as man, 'cause Christ wasn't a woman.Whar did your Christ come from?'
"Rolling thunder could not have stilled that crowd as did those deep and wonderful tones, as she stood there with outstretched arm and eye of fire. Raising her voice she repeated, 'Whar did your Christ comefrom? From God and a woman. Man had nothing to do with him.'
"O what a rebuke she gave the little man! Turning again to another objector, she took up the defence of Mother Eve. It was pointed, and witty, and solemn, and eliciting at almost every sentence deafening applause; and she ended by asserting that 'if de fust woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down, all herself alone, all dese togeder,' and she glanced her eye over us, 'ought to be able to turn it back again and git it right side up again; and now dey is asking to, the men better let 'em. Bleeged to you for hearin' me, and now old Sojourner ha'n't got notin' more to say.'
"Amid roars of applause she turned to her corner, leaving more than one of us with streaming eyes and hearts beating with gratitude. She had taken us up in her great strong arms and carried us over the slough of difficulty, turning the whole tide in our favor. I have never in my life seen anything like the magical influence that subdued the mobbish spirit of the day and turned the jibes and sneers of an excited crowd into notes of respect and admiration. Hundreds rushed up to shake hands with the glorious old mother and bid her God speed."
The enlistment of negro troops began at Port Royal in the fall of 1862, and by midwinter the First South Carolina, commanded by Colonel Higginson, had its ranks nearly full. There was strong prejudice in the army against employing negroes. The New Jersey troops in the department of the South were bitterly hostile. Colonel Stevenson, of Massachusetts, a gallant officer, having imprudently given utterance to his feelings upon the subject, was arrested by General Hunter, which caused a great deal of excitement in the army, and which attracted the attention of the country to the whole subject.
The day after the arrest of Colonel Stevenson, a scene occurred in the cabin of the steamer Wyoming, plying between Beaufort and Hilton Head, which is given as a historical note. The party consisted of several ladies, one or two chaplains, fifteen or twenty officers, four newspaper correspondents, and several civilians.
A young captain in the Tenth New Jersey opened the conversation.
"I wish," said he, "that every negro was compelled to take off his hat to a white man. I consider him an inferior being."
"You differ from General Washington, who took off his hat and saluted a negro," said one of the correspondents.
"General Washington could afford to do it," said the captain, a little staggered.
"Are we to understand that in this age a captain cannot afford to equal a negro in politeness?" was the provoking question of the correspondent.
"Do you want to be buried with a nigger, and have your bones touch his in the grave?"
"As to that I have no feeling whatever. I do not suppose that it will make much difference to the bones of either party."
"Well, when I die I want twenty niggers packed all around me," shouted the captain, excitedly, turning to the crowd to see the effect of his sarcasm.
"I presume, sir, you can be accommodated if you can get the consent of the twenty negroes."
The captain saw that he was losing his argument by losing his temper, and in calmer tones said: "I want to see the negro kept in his proper place. I am perfectly willing he should use the shovel, but it is an outrage upon the white man,—an insult to have him carry a musket."
"I would just as soon see a negro shot as to get shot myself. I am perfectly willing that all the negroes should help put down the Rebellion," said the correspondent.
"I am not willing to have them act as soldiers. Put them in the ditches, where they belong. They are an inferior race."
A second correspondent broke in. "Who are you, sir?" said he; "you who condemn the government? You forget that you as a soldier have nothing to say about the orders of the President or the laws of Congress. You say that the negro is an inferior being; what do you say of Frederick Douglass, who has raised himself from slavery to a high position? Your straps were placed on your shoulders, not because you had done anything to merit them, but because you had friends to intercede for you,—using their political influence,—or because you had money, and could purchase your commission. You hate the negro, and you want to keep him in slavery, and you allow your prejudice to carry you to the verge of disloyalty to the government which pays you for unworthily wearing your shoulder-straps."
The captain and the entire company listened in silence while another correspondent took up the question.
"Gentleman, you denounce the negro; you say that he is an inferior being. You forget that we white men claim to stand on the highest plane of civilization,—that we are of a race which for a thousand years has been in the front rank,—that the negro has been bruised, crushed, trodden down,—denied all knowledge, all right, everything; that we have compelled him to labor for us, and we have eaten the fruit of his labors. Can we expect him to be our equal in acquisition of knowledge? Where is your sense of fair play? Are you afraid that the negro will push you from your position? Are you afraid that if you allow him to aid in putting down the Rebellion, that he too will become a free man, and have aspirations like your own, and in time express toward you the samechivalricsentiments which you express toward him? How much do you love your country if you thus make conditions of loyalty?"
The captain made no reply. The whole company was silent. There were smiles from the ladies. The captain went out upon the deck, evidently regretting that the conversation had fallen upon so exciting a topic.
The First South Carolina Regiment of loyal blacks was in camp on Smith's plantation, four miles out from Beaufort. We rode over a sandy plain, through old cotton-fields, pine-barrens, and jungles, past a dozen negro-huts, where the long tresses of moss waved mournfully in the breeze. The men had gathered a boat-load of oysters, and were having a feast,—old and young, gray-headed men, and curly-haired children, were huddled round the pans, steaming and smoking over the pitch-knot fires.
Smith's plantation is historic ground,—the place where the Huguenots built a fort long before the Mayflower cast anchor in Cape Cod harbor. The plantation was well known to the colored people before the war as a place to be dreaded,—a place for hard work, unmerciful whippings, with very little to eat. The house and the negro quarters were in a delightful grove of live-oaks, whose evergreen leaves, wide-spreading branches, thick foliage, and gnarled trunks, gave coolingshade. In front of the house, leading down to the fort, is a magnolia walk. Behind the house, in a circular basin,—a depression often found on sandy plains,—was the garden, surrounded by a thick-set, fantastic palmetto hedge. The great oak between the house and the garden, was the whipping-post. One of the branches was smooth, as if a swing had been slung there, and the bark had been worn by the rope swaying to the merry chattering and light-hearted laughter of children. Not that, however. There the offender of plantation law,—of a master's caprice,—had paid the penalty of disobedience; there men, women, and children, suspended by the thumbs, stripped of their clothing, received the lash. Their moans, groans, cries, and prayers fell unheeding on overseer, master, and mistress,—but heard and heeded they were in heaven, and kept in remembrance. And the hour of retribution had come, the time of deliverance was near.
What a choice spot for the punishment of the criminal! close to the house,—where the master, the mistress, their sons and daughters, the infant at the nurse's breast, could see the blood fly.
The plantation jail was in the loft of the granary, beneath a pitch-pine roof, which, under the heat of a midsummer sun, was like an oven. There was one little window in the gable for the admission of air. There were iron rings and bolts in the beams and rafters, where the slaves were chained.
The owner of the plantation was not unmindful of the religious wants of his fellow-Christians. West of the house was the plantation chapel, a whitewashed building of rough boards, twenty feet by thirty, with a rude belfry, where hung the plantation bell, which on week-days was rung at daybreak. Charmingly its music floated over the blue waters of Beaufort Bay, mingling with the morning winds, swaying the magnolia branches, calling the hands—men, women, and children—to their unrequited tasks in the cotton-field. On Sunday it called them, with silvery lips and melting sounds, to come and worship: not to study God's Word, not to bow down with him who—by the "divine missionary institution," as the Southern doctors of divinity called it, was their master, ordained of God—could separate husband and wife, or toss in a babyto boot, in a bargain; not to bow down with him, for he worshipped in Beaufort, in the ancient church;—he was a chivalric son of South Carolina, riding up in his coach, and leaving his four hundred fellow-disciples to grope their way to heaven, directed by a pious bondman, as best they might.
If one wish for a flood of reflections, he will be overwhelmed on such a spot.
The First South Carolina was at drill beneath the oak, drilling as skirmishers, advancing, retiring, rallying, deploying, loading and firing, with precision. They had already been under fire in an expedition up one of the Georgia rivers.
I had breakfasted with the captain of the steamer Darlington, which was used as a transport on the occasion, who showed me the numerous bullet-marks on the steamer.
"How did the negroes stand fire?" I asked. "They fought splendidly, sir."
It was no longer an experiment whether they would make good soldiers. They had demonstrated it by their courage and patriotism. The antipathy which at the beginning was rampant quickly toned down. The deportment of the colored soldiers under insult, their bravery in battle, compelled respect from all who had doubted their heroism or fidelity.
In the attack upon Jacksonville, which occurred on the 12th of March, an old patriarch—too old to do any fighting—harangued the troops, and told them that every one who should be killed in a cause so holy would be pretty sure of stepping directly into heaven; but that if they hung back and showed that they were cowards, there wasn't much hope of eternal life for such! He was greatly venerated by the soldiers, for he had been a preacher.
A bird's-nest Bank.
A bird's-nest Bank.
April, 1863.
After vexatious delays, the ironclad fleet was ready for action. It was deemed desirable to test their armor, before attacking Sumter, by making a reconnoissance of Fort McAllister, on the Ogeechee.
It was late on the afternoon of March 1st, when the steamer George Washington left Hilton Head for a trip to Ossabow Sound. The Passaic, Montauk, Nahant, and Patapsco, ironclads of the Monitor pattern, were already there. The Washington took the "inside" route up Wilmington River and through the Rumley marshes. The gunboat Marblehead was guarding the entrance to the river. It was past sunset, and the tide was ebbing.
"You had better lie here till morning; there are indications that we shall hear from those fellows up there," said the commander of the Marblehead. Looking westward into the golden light of the departing day, we could see the spires of Savannah, also nearer the Rebel gunboats moving up and down the river.
The anchor dropped, the chain rattled through the hawsehole, the lights were extinguished, the guns put in trim; the lookout took his position; the sentinels passed to and fro, peering into the darkness; a buoy was attached to the cable, that it might be slipped in an instant; all ears listened to catch the sound of muffled oars or plashing paddle-wheels, but there was no sound save the piping of the curlew in the marshes and the surging of the tide along the reedy shores. At three o'clock in the morning we were away from our anchorage, steaming up Wilmington River. The moonlight lay in a golden flood along the waters, revealing the distant outline of the Rebel earthworks. How charming the trip! exhilarating, and sufficiently exciting, under the expectation of falling in with a hostile gunboat, to bring every nerve into action. It was sunrise when the Washington emerged from the marshes and came to anchoramong the ironclads. The Montauk had just completed a glorious work,—the destruction of the Nashville. We had heard the roar of her guns, and the quick, ineffectual firing from Fort McAllister.
The Nashville, which began her piratical depredations by burning the ship Harvey Birch, ran into Savannah, where she had been cooped up several months. She had been waiting many weeks for an opportunity to run out to sea again. On Saturday morning, the last day of February, a dense fog hung over the marshes, the islands, and inlets of Ossabow. The Montauk lay at the junction of the Great and Little Ogeechee Rivers, when the fog lifted and the Nashville was discovered aground above the fort.
The eyes of Captain Worden sparkled as he gave the command to prepare for action. He had not forgotten his encounter with the Merrimack. The Montauk moved up stream, came within range of the fort, which opened from all its guns, but to which Captain Worden gave no heed. Taking a position about three quarters of a mile from the Nashville and half a mile from the fort, he opened with both guns upon the grounded steamer, to which the Nashville replied with her hundred-pounder. The third shell from the Montauk exploded inside the steamer, setting her cotton on fire. The flames spread with great rapidity. Her crew fled to the marshes, the magazine soon exploded, and the career of the Nashville was ended.
At high tide on the morning of the 3d of March the Passaic, Patapsco, and Nahant moved up the Ogeechee, and opened fire on the fort, to test the working of their machinery. The fire was furious from the fort, but slow and deliberate from the ironclads. Several mortar-schooners threw shells in the direction of the fort. The monitors were obliged to retire with the tide. They were struck repeatedly, but the balls fell harmlessly against the iron plating. It was evident that at the distance of three fourths of a mile, or a half-mile even, the ironclads could withstand the heaviest guns, while on the other hand the fire of the monitors must necessarily be very slow. The attack was made, not with the expectation of reducing the fort, but to test the monitors before the grand attack upon Fort Sumter.
The first attack on Sumter occurred on the 7th of April. The fort stood out in bold relief, the bright noon-sun shining full upon its southern face, fronting the shallow water towards Morris Island, leaving in shadow its eastern wall toward Moultrie. The air was clear, and we who were on shipboard just beyond the reach of the Rebel guns, looking inland with our glasses, could see the city, the spires, the roofs of the houses thronged with people. A three-masted ship lay at the wharves, the Rebel rams were fired up, sail-boats were scudding across the harbor, running down toward Sumter, looking seaward, then hastening back again like little children, expectant and restless on great occasions, eager for something to be done.
The attacking fleet was in the main ship-channel,—eight little black specks but little larger than the buoys which tossed beside them, and one black, oblong block, the New Ironsides, the flag-ship of the fleet. It was difficult to comprehend that beneath the surface of the sea there were men as secure from the waves as bugs in a bottle. It was as strange and romantic as the stories which charmed the Arabian chieftains in the days of Haroun Al Raschid.
The ironclads were about one third of a mile apart, in the following order:—
The Keokuk was built by a gentleman who had full faith in her invulnerability. She was to be tested under fire from the Rebel batteries before accepted by the government. She had sloping sides, two turrets, and was built for a ram. The opinions generally entertained were that she would prove a failure.
General Hunter courteously assigned the steamer Nantucket to the gentlemen connected with the press, giving them complete control of the steamer, to go where they pleased, knowing that there was an intense desire not only in the North, but throughout the world, to know the result of the first contest between ironclads and fortifications. The Nantucket was a small side-wheel steamer of light draft, and we were able to run in and out over the bar at will. Just before the signal was given for the advance we ran alongside the flag-ship. Thecrew were hard at work hoisting shot and shells from the hold to the deck. The upper deck was bedded with sand-bags, the pilot-house wrapped with cable. All the light hamper was taken down and stowed away. The iron plating was slushed with grease. Rebel soldiers were marching across Morris Island, within easy range. A shell would have sent them in haste behind the sand-hills; but heavier work was at hand, and they were harmless just then.
It was past one o'clock when the signal for sailing was displayed from the flag-ship, and the Weehawken, with a raft at her prow, intended to remove torpedoes, answered the signal, raised her anchor, and went steadily in with the tide, followed by the others, which maintained their respective positions, distant from each other about one third or a half-mile. In this battle of ironclads there are no clouds of canvas, no beautiful models of marine architecture, none of the stateliness and majesty which have marked hundreds of great naval engagements. There are no human beings in sight,—no propelling power is visible. There are simply eight black specks and one oblong block gliding along the water, like so many bugs.
But Sumter has discovered them, and discharges in quick succession nine signal guns, to announce to all Rebeldom that the attack is to be made. Morris Island is mysteriously silent as the Weehawken advances, although she is within range. Past Fort Wagner, straight on toward Moultrie the Weehawken moves. The silence is prolonged. It is almost painful,—the calm before the storm, the hushed stillness before the burst of the tornado!
There comes a single puff of smoke from Moultrie,—one deep reverberation. The silence is broken,—the long months of waiting are over. The shot flies across the water, skipping from wave to wave, tossing up fountains, hopping over the deck of the Weehawken, and rolling along the surface with a diminishing ricochet, sinking at last close upon the Morris Island beach. Fort Wagner continues the story, sending a shot at the Weehawken, which also trips lightly over the deck, and tosses up a water-spout far toward Moultrie. The Weehawken, unmindful of this play, opens its ports, and sendsa fifteen-inch solid shot toward Sumter, which, like those that have been hurled toward her, takes a half-dozen steps, making for a moment its footprints on the water, and crashes against the southwest face of the fort, followed a moment later by its eleven-inch companion. The vessel is for a moment enveloped in the smoke of its guns. Bravely done! There comes an answer. Moultrie, with the tremendous batteries on either side by the hotel and east of it, and toward the inner harbor, bursts in an instant into sheets of flame and clouds of sulphurous smoke. There is one long roll of thunder, peal on peal; deep, heavy reverberations and sharp concussions, rattling the windows of our steamers, and striking us at the heart like hammer strokes.
The ocean boils! Columns of spray are tossed high in air, as if a hundred submarine fountains were let instantly on, or a school of whales were trying which could spout highest. There is a screaming in the air, a buzzing and humming never before so loud.
At five minutes before three Moultrie began the fire. Ten minutes have passed. The thunder has rolled incessantly from Sullivan's Island. Thus far Sumter has been silent, but now it is enveloped with a cloud. A moment it is hid from view—first a line of light along its parapet, and thick folds of smoke unrolling like fleeces of wool. Other flashes burst from the casemates, and the clouds creep down the wall to the water, then slowly float away to mingle with that rising from the furnaces in the sand along the shore of Sullivan's Island. Then comes a calm,—a momentary cessation. The Rebel gunners wait for the breeze to clear away the cloud, that they may obtain a view of the monitor, to see if it have not been punched into a sieve, and if it be not already disappearing beneath the waves. But the Weehawken is there, moving straight on up the channel, turning now toward Moultrie. To her it has been only a handful of peas or pebbles. Some have rattled against her turret, some upon her deck, some against her sides. Instead of going to the bottom, she revolves her turret, and fire two shots at Moultrie, moving on the while to gain the south eastern wall of Sumter.
Again the forts and batteries begin, joined now by Cummings Point and long ranges from Fort Johnson. All aroundthe Weehawken the shot flash, plunge, hop, skip, falling like the rain-drops of a summer shower. Unharmed, undaunted, she moves straight on, feeling her way, moving slowly, with grappling-irons dragging from the raft in front to catch up torpedoes. It is for the Weehawken to clear the channel, and make smooth sailing for the remainder of the fleet.
To get the position of the Weehawken at this moment, draw a line from Cummings Point to Moultrie, and stick a pin on the line a little nearer to Moultrie than to Morris Island. It is about one half a mile from Moultrie, about one third of a mile from Sumter.
There she is,—the target of probably two hundred and fifty or three hundred guns, of the heaviest calibre, at close range, rifled cannon throwing forged bolts and steel-pointed shot, turned and polished to a hair in the lathes of English workshops,—advancing still, undergoing her first ordeal, a trial unparalleled in history!
For fifteen minutes she meets the ordeal alone, but the channel found to be clear, the Passaic, the Montauk, and Patapsco follow, closing up the line, each coming in range and delivering their fire upon Sumter. At twenty minutes past three the four monitors composing the right wing of the fleet are all engaged, each pressing on to reach the northeastern face of the fort, where the wall is weakest, each receiving as they arrive at particular points a terrible fire, seemingly from all points of the compass,—points selected by trial and practice indicated by buoys. They pass the destructive latitudes unharmed. Seventy guns a minute are counted, followed by moments of calm and scattering shots, but only to break out again in a prolonged roar of thunder. They press on, making nearer and nearer to Sumter, narrowing the distance to one thousand yards, eight hundred, six, five, four hundred yards, and send their fifteen-inch shot crashing against the fort, with deliberate, effective fire.
At first the fort and the batteries and Moultrie seem to redouble their efforts in increasing the fire, but after an hour there is a perceptible diminution of the discharges from the fort. After each shot from the ironclads, clouds of dust can be discerned rising above the fort and mingling with the smoke.Steadying my glass in the lulls of the strife, watching where the southwest breeze whiffs away the smoke, I can see increasing pock-marks and discolorations upon the walls, as if there had been a sudden breaking out of cutaneous disease.
The flag-ship, drawing seventeen feet of water, was obliged to move cautiously, feeling her way up the channel. Just as she came within range of Moultrie her keel touched bottom on the east side of the channel; fearing that she would run aground the anchor was let go. Finding the vessel was clear, the Admiral again moved on, signalling the left wing to press forward to the aid of the four already engaged. The Ironsides kept the main channel, which brought her within about one thousand yards of Moultrie and Sumter. She fired four guns at Moultrie, and received in return a heavy fire. Again she touched bottom, and then turned her bow across the channel toward Sumter, firing two guns at Cummings Point. After this weak and ineffectual effort, the tide rapidly ebbing the while, she again got clear, but gave up the attempt to advance. The Catskill, Nantucket, Nahant, and Keokuk pressed up with all possible speed to aid the four which were receiving a tremendous hammering.
See them sweep past the convergent points and radial lines! See the bubbling of the water,—the straight columns thrown up in the sunlight,—the flashes, the furrows along the waves, as if a plough driven with lightning speed were turning up the water! They are all close up to Sumter, within four or five hundred yards. Behind them are Moultrie and Fort Ripley, and Fort Beauregard, flashing, smoking, bellowing; in front is Sumter, and in the background are Fort Wagner and Cummings Point. Across the shallow waters is Fort Johnson; still farther off to the right is Castle Pinckney, too far away to do damage. From all sides the balls fall around the fleet. Calmly and deliberately the fire is returned,—with a deliberation which must have commanded the admiration of the enemy.
The Keokuk presented a fair mark with her sloping sides and double turrets. Her commander, Captain Rhind, although not having entire confidence in her invulnerability, was determined to come to close quarters. She was not to be outdone by the ironclads who had led the advance. Swifter than they, drawing lesswater, she made haste to get up with the Weehawken. The guns which had been trained upon the others were brought to bear upon her. Where she sailed the fire was fiercest. Her plating was but pine wood to the steel projectiles, flying with almost the swiftness of a minnie bullet. Shot which glanced harmlessly from the others penetrated her angled sides. Her after turret was pierced in a twinkling, and a two-hundred pound projectile dropped inside. A heavy shot crashed into the surgeon's dispensary, and mixed emetics, cathartics, pills and powders not according to prescriptions. The enemy noticed the effect of his shot and increased his fire. Captain Rhind was not easily daunted. He opened his forward turret and gave three shots in return for the three or four hundred rained around him. The sea with every passing wave swept through the shot-holes, and he was forced to retire or go to the bottom with all on board.
The tide was ebbing fast, and the signal for retiring was displayed by the flag-ship. It was raised, seemingly, at an inopportune moment, for the fire of the fort had sensibly diminished, while that from the ironclads was steady and true. It was past five o'clock, almost sunset, when the fleet came back. Never had there been such a hammering of iron and smashing of masonry as during two and a half hours of that afternoon. The gunboat Bibb, the Ben Deford, and the Nantasket had taken position in the North Channel at a respectful distance off Sullivan's Island. A mile or two east of Moultrie is Beach Inlet, where a powerful battery had been erected. While intently gazing on the contest, the correspondents and all hands on the other steamers were startled by hearing the whiff and whiz of a rifle projectile, which came diagonally across the Nantasket, across the bow of the Ben Deford, falling into the sea about one hundred yards ahead. There was a laughable cuddling down and scampering for the coal-bunkers, the engine-room, and between decks. There was an immediate hauling in of cables and motion of paddle-wheels. A second shot in admirable line fell short. We being at anchor and within range, the Rebel gunner had made nice calculations. He had already fired a half-dozen shots, which had fallen far ahead unnoticed. Cummings Point also tried to reach us withshells, but failed. One of the correspondents claimed that the press completely silenced a battery—by getting out of the way!
Steaming into the retiring fleet we ran alongside the Keokuk. A glance at her sides showed how terrible the fire had been. Her smoke-stack, turrets, sides,—all were scarred, gashed, pierced through and through. An inspection revealed ninety-four short-marks. There were none below the water-line, but each wave swept through the holes on the sides. Her pumps were going and she was kept free. Only three of her officers and crew were wounded, although she had been so badly perforated.
"All right, nobody hurt, ready for them again," was the hearty response of Captain George Rodgers, of the Catskill, as I stepped upon the slushed deck of that vessel and grasped the hand of her wide-awake commander. The Catskill had received about thirty shots. One two-hundred-pounder, thrown evidently from a barbette gun, had fallen with tremendous force upon the deck, bending, but not breaking or penetrating the iron. On the sides, on the turret, and on the pilot-house were indentations like saucers, but there was no sign of serious damage.
The Nahant came down to her anchorage with a gashed smoke-stack. Going on board, we found that eleven of her officers and crew had received contusions from the flying of bolt-heads in the turret. One shot had jammed the lower ridge of her turret, interfering with its revolution. She had been struck forty times, but—aside from the loss of a few bolt-heads, a diminished draft to her chimney, and the slight jam upon the turret—her armor was intact.
The other monitors had each a few bolts started. Four gun-carriages needed repairs,—injured not by the enemy's shot, but by their own recoil. One shot had ripped up the plating of the Patapsco and pierced the wood-work beneath. This was the only shot, out of the twenty-five hundred or three thousand supposed to have been fired from the forts which penetrated the monitors!
The Weehawken had received three heavy shot upon her side, the indentations close together. The plates were badly bent, but the shot had fallen as harmlessly as pebbles upon the side of a barn.
The Ironsides had received thirty balls, all of which had been turned by her armor.
One hundred and fifty-three shots were fired by the fleet, against twenty-five hundred or three thousand by the Rebels. The monitors were struck in the aggregate about three hundred and fifty times.
About six thousand pounds of iron were hurled at Fort Sumter during the short time the fleet was engaged, and probably five or six times that amount of metal, or thirty thousand pounds, was thrown at the fleet. The casualties on board the fleet were,—none killed; one mortally, one seriously, and thirteen slightly wounded.
Captain Ammen, commanding the Patapsco, was confident that the last shots which he fired passed through the wall of the fort. He and other commanders obeyed the signal for retiring with great reluctance. They saw that the fire of the fort was growing weaker,—that the wall was crumbling. It is now known that the Rebel commander, General Ripley, was on the point of evacuating the fort when the signal was made for the fleet to withdraw. The wall was badly shattered, and a few more shots would have made it a complete ruin.
The lower casemates were soon after filled with sand-bags, the guns having been removed. The walls were buttressed with palmetto logs, and the fort lost nearly all of its original features, but was made stronger than ever.
The Keokuk sunk in the morning on the bar. The sea was rough, and the water poured through the shot-holes with every wave, so that it was found impossible to keep her afloat.
Admiral Dupont decided not to renew the attack, which caused a good deal of murmuring among the soldiers in the fleet. The ironclads returned to Hilton Head for repairs, the expedition was abandoned, and Sumter was left to float its flag in defiance of Federal authority.