MINGO, THE DRILL MASTER
At the close of the war, thousands of disbanded negro troops, how many, only the Lord knows and the pension roll shows, swarmed over the Coast Counties comprising the South Carolina Black Belt. Swagger in their new-minted freedom, and resplendent in the light blue trousers and dark blue coats of the Federal uniform, with ridiculous little forage caps perched aslant upon the sides of their kinky heads, like chickens roosting on leaning poles, girdled with great brass-buckled U. S. Belts, and shouldering army muskets, full of insolence and of ribaldry, they took the highways and the by-ways for their own. Their former masters, however kindly they had been to them before and since freedom, were frequently spoken of behind their backs as “de rebel,” and the days of slavery were referred to as “rebel time” (times). Some of these soldiers had served for years, perhaps, others for months or weeks, few of them had smelt powder, all of them had smelt and fattened upon the bad—wickedly bad—bacon with which the loyal sutlers had supplied the invading army. (And, by the way, thousands of tierces of that same sutler’s bacon of the years ’64 and ’65 were still at large for full five years thereafter, supplied by the Charleston and Savannah factors to the low-country planters for their plantation commissaries.)
In addition to the disbanded troops, thousands of other negroes, who had never seen service, wore cheaply bought Federal uniforms and long, light blue overcoats, and sported caps and belts and condemned muskets,so that the whole countryside was black and blue, and they were constantly drilling, while the women, peahens that they were, worked for them and admired the strutting of their lordly peacocks. Often at night, from the quarters of a distant plantation, instead of the peaceful “tap, tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap,” of the sticks which the negroes beat on the floor to mark time for their dancing and “shouting,” there would come the rattle of a snaredrum, and one knew that an awkward squad was being put through awkward evolutions in the compound or “nigguhhouse yaa’d” for the edification of the quarters.
It was a psychological study to watch one of these squads or companies drilling or parading on the public highway, when a white man of a former slave-holding family approached. Neither stern disciplinary eye, nor sharp command, could keep the lines straight until after “de buckruh” had passed. There were sure to be some members of the squad whose hereditary respect—stronger far than the fear of the drill master—would impel them to scrape a foot or pull wool, till the alignment was as wabbly as a swimming moccasin.
One August day in the early ’70s, Prince Manigo, captain of the Adams Run Company, ordered his command out for drill, inspection and maneuvers. Sixty-five men reported; these were of all ages from 17 to 70. Some of them belonged around the village, but most of them came from about Toogoodoo, “down on de Salt,” as the inland negroes designate the sea coast and the contiguous lands lying along the salt rivers and creeks.
The place of assembly indicated by Captain Manigo was about a mile south of the village on the way to Toogoodoo. Once a member of Col Thomas WentworthHigginson’s negro regiment, the “First South Carolina Volunteers,” organized at Beaufort in 1862, he had known picket duty about Port Royal Ferry during the war, and wished to familiarize his dusky outfit with service in the field. The road ran along the edge of a deep swamp, or bay. The growth on the rich lowlands was heavy, and beautiful magnolias, close-limbed and tall, as is their habit of growth in thick places, rose to a height of sometimes a hundred feet, the sunlight flashing from the curved backs of their dark and glossy leaves. Under these great trees, sweet bay, red bay, beech and maple grew in a tangle, and below these, tall canes and great sword ferns, with riotous vines of bamboo and wild grape, thickened into an almost impenetrable chaparral. In these woods, dimmed to a twilight darkness, Captain Manigo established his picket posts. Fifteen or twenty men were selected for this dangerous duty, for, at this season, the swamp was full of rattlesnakes and some of those picked for outpost duty objected. “Man, I cyan’ go een da’ t’icket. Snake dey dey tummuch.”
“Snake cyan’ see fuh bite now,” said another. “Ent you know suh rattlesnake’ hab skin ’puntop ’e yeye een Augus’ munt’? ’E bline’. ’E cyan’ see fuh bite.”
“Uh dunkyuh ef ’e yiz bline’, ef uh ’tep ’puntop’um ’e gwine bite me.”
“Go ’way, man, snake ent gwine bite you w’en you hab muskick een you han’ wid dat shaa’p bay’net en t’ing ’puntop’um.”
So all objections were overruled, and the posts established at intervals of a few hundred yards, the password “raccoon” was given to the corporals, and the captain and his inspectors, dismissing the remainingmembers of the company for a rest period, prepared to test the line of outposts. Making a wide detour they sneaked through the woods almost noiselessly. The dead leaves, fallen during the preceding winter, had softened long ago and were rapidly settling into the thick mold that covered the damp earth. Sneaking up on the farthest sentinel from the rear, Prince was almost upon him before the startled negro challenged “Halt! Weh oonuh gwine? Gimme de passwu’d!”
“Raccoon,” Prince responded.
“Oonuh cyan’ go t’ru ’puntop dat wu’d.”
Prince expostulated. “Raccoon” was the password he had given the corporals to pass on to their men, and having been selected as a word of singular appeal to the negroes, should have been one of the easiest to remember, so he repeated petulantly “Raccoon, raccoon, raccoon.”
“’E yent wut,” insisted the sentinel, as the long bayonet projected threateningly through the gum bushes. “Dat passwu’d cyan’ specify. Da’ longmout’ nigguh f’um Slann’ Ilun’, name Mingo, him dull de cawprul en’ him done tell me de wu’d two time, en’ ’scusin’ oonuh hab dat wu’d, oonuh yent fuh pass.”
As the corporal was several hundred yards away, Prince retired grumbling, and attempted the line at another point. He approached a wary old picket, a noted ’coon hunter, whose experienced ear detected even the soft footfalls of the inspectors, and he hailed them at a distance of 50 yards, in most unmilitary language. “Haw, buck! Oonuh try fuh sneak ’puntop me, enty? Uh binnuh hunt rokkoon en’ dem todduh waa’ment en’ t’ing ’fo’ you bawn! Come out, bubbuh! Uh yeddy you’ foot en’ uh see bush duh shake alltwo.Come out de t’icket. Exwance en’ gimme de passwu’d!”
But they couldn’t give it; not at least intelligibly to the ear of old Cæsar. Prince spoke with only a slight taint of Gullah, and when he had given “raccoon” to his Toogoodoo corporals, who understood him only after several repetitions, he didn’t realize that they would pass it on as “rokkoon” and that as “rokkoon” the “open sesame” of the countersign must be given. Again, therefore, with his own password correctly pronounced, the Captain had reached an impasse, and as Cæsar truculently stuck out both his mouth and his bayonet, the Corporal of the guard was demanded.
“Cawprul uh de gyaa’d! Pos’ number t’ree!” he bellowed. “Mek’ace en’ come’yuh! T’ree mans dey yuh duh try fuh git t’ru bedout no passwu’d. Ef dem got’um dem cyan’ call ’e name. Uh dunkyuh ef one is de cap’n, oonuh done tell me ’sponsubble suh ’e yent fuh pass bedout ’e got de wu’d.”
The thick-lipped corporal came.
“’Smattuh, Unk’ Cæsar? Yuh fuh call me?”
“Yaas, uh fuh call you fuh true. Mek dese’yuh man fuh gi’ we de sign.”
“Raccoon!” bellowed Prince.
“You shum, enty! Enty uh tell you ’e yent hab’um!”
“Yaas, man, da’ duh him! ’Rokkoon’ duh de passwu’d wuh Buh Prince gi’ we, but him ent call ’e name lukkuh we call’um, ’cause him bin Beefu’t rebel time ’long dem Nyankee en’ t’ing, en’ duh so dem call’um.”
“Uh dunkyuh how dem eegnunt Nyankee call rokkoon’ name, demself cyan’ pass dis t’icket ’scusin’ dem call’um lukkuh we call’um ’puntop Toogoodoo. En’ ’cause dis nigguh bin Beefu’t, him fuh ’spute ’long me en’ tell me how fuh call rokkoon’ name w’en uh binnuhketch rokkoon befo’ ’e daddy hab ’e maamy! Ef ’e cyan’ call rokkoon’ name, uh keep’um yuh ’tell t’unduh roll!”
“Rokkoon!” conceded the chapfallen captain, and he passed, somewhat chagrined at the outcome of his picketing experiment.
The outposts were recalled, the other negroes aroused from among the roadside bushes where they had been resting, and the full company assembled for drill. The outfit was heavily officered, and the captain allowed them to take turns at putting the men through their paces. At last they were turned over to Mingo Brown, a pompous corporal, so puffed up with “a little brief authority” that most of the negroes grinned in his face, and some openly guffawed, “eh, eh, Buh Mingo swonguh fuh sowl!” The men, a ragged line, were ranged on one side of the road, and, facing them on the other, Mingo drew a great cavalry sabre and began to cut such anthropoidal antics before high heaven, that three gentlemen, returning from a successful hunt, reined in their horses a few yards away and paused to see the fun.
“’Tenshun! ’Tan’up ’traight, oonuh man! Oonuh stan’ crookety sukkuh wurrum fench w’en dem staa’t fuh t’row off ’e riduh fuh tayre’um down fuh moobe cowpen!
“Shoulduh,aam!Pit oonuh muskick ’puntop oonuh shoulduh en’ hol’um ’traight. You mus’be t’ink dem duh hoe, enty? Fo’ man fuh stan’ side en’ side fuh mek one t’ickness. Faw-wud,maa’ch! ’Top!Weh de debble oonuh gwine? Uh done tu’n oonuh head fuh face Toogoodoo Bridge, en’, please Gawd, oonuh w’eel sukkuh mule hab cucklebuhr een ’e yez, ’en fuh goneAdam’ Run billage!” Sure enough, as the execution of the command would have taken them over hunters and pack, they had reversed the order and started in the opposite direction.
“Fuh true, bubbuh, enty you see Mas’ Rafe en’ Mas’ Tom en’ dem duh paat’? Nigguh fuh maa’ch obuh buckruh, enty?”
“Buckruh, de debble! Enty de Freedmun Bruro mek we fuh free? Uh free tell uh fool! Prizzunt,aam!”
Some were shouldered, others ordered, a few “presented” with the butt of the piece against the waist and the bayonet sticking out at right angles to the body. “’Tenshun! Da’ man f’um Slann’ Ilun’ wuh duh ’tan’up close da’ ’tump fuh hol’ ’e gun een alltwo ’e han’. Him mus’be t’ink suh gun duh oshtuh rake! Groun’,aam!” And the whole perspiring line squatted and laid their pieces on the ground, rising just as the hunters gathered up their reins and rode along the line, while the hounds, with lofty tails, trotted after them, sniffing scornfully at the warriors’ legs as they passed.
“Huddy, Mas’ Rafe. How ole Missis en’ dem?”
“Mas’ Tom, you look nyung mo’nuh Mas’ Rafe.”
“Yaas, suh. Phyllis him well, suh, tengk Gawd.”
“Mas’ Dick, you sho’ hab uh hebby buck,” as the great velveted horns of a fine buck tied behind the hunter’s saddle brushed against him. And all down the line, their hands being free, men touched their little monkey caps or tugged at their kinky forelocks and scraped their feet, in token of the kindly respect in which, spite of freedom and franchise, muskets and uniforms, and the poisonous propaganda of the Freedman’s Bureau, they yet held those known throughoutthe countryside as having been kindly masters to their slaves, and just and liberal employers of the freedmen.
“Mas’ Rafe, please suh, gimme some tubackuh,” and the outstretched hand received a generous share of the contents of the donor’s pouch.
“Da’ duh my maussuh,” said the recipient proudly, filling his pipe as the hunters rode away.
“Cump’ny fawm two t’ickness’ een de rank,” shouted Mingo savagely. “Don’ look at de buckruh, look at yo’ officer!” and, turning to the smoker, he added: “Me yent hab no maussuh.Uh free ez uh buzzut!”
“Yaas, bubbuh. Buzzut free en’ buzzut black, but buzzut ent free ’nuf fuh light ’puntop nutt’n’ ’cep’n’ ’e dead, en’ nigguh ent free ’nuf fuh mek buckruh fuh bex!”