_The Siege of Washington, N.C.--Big Bob, the Negro Scout.--The
Perilous Adventure.--The Fight.--Return.--Night Expedition.--The Fatal
Sandbar.--The Enemy’s Shells.--“Somebody’s got to die to get us out of
this, and it may as well be me.”--Death of Bob.--Safety of the Boat._
The siege of Washington, N.C., had carried consternation among the
planters of the surrounding country, and contrabands were flocking in by
hundreds, when, just at day-break one morning, a band of seventeen came
to the shore, and hailed the nearest gunboat. The blacks were soon taken
on board, when it was ascertained that they had travelled fifty miles
the previous night, guided by their leader, a negro whom they called
“Big Bob.” This man was without a drop of Anglo-Saxon blood in his
veins, if color was a true index. It was also soon known that he was a
preacher, or had been, among his fellow-slaves. These men all expressed
a desire to be put to work, and, if allowed, to fight for “de ole flag.”
“Big Bob” sported a suit of rebel gray, which his fellow-slaves could
not; and the way in which he obtained it was rather amusing. In the
region from which they escaped, the blacks were being enrolled in the
rebel army; and Bob and his companions were taken, and put under guard,
preparatory to their being removed to the nearest military post. Bob,
however, resolved that he would not fight for the rebel cause, and
induced his comrades to join in the plan of seizing the guard, and
bringing him away with them; which they did, Bob claiming the rebel
soldier’s clothes, when that individual was dismissed, after a march
of thirty miles from their home. Bob made an amusing appearance, being
above six feet in height, and dressed in a suit, the legs of the pants
of which were five or six inches too short, and the arms of the coat
proportionally short.
A few days after the arrival of the contrabands, their services were
needed in an important expedition in the interior. These negroes, upon
being told what was wanted of them, although knowing that the enterprise
would be attended with the greatest danger, and would require the utmost
skill, volunteered their services, and, upon being furnished with arms
and implements, immediately started upon the expedition. Being landed
upon a point some little distance from Washington, they succeeded in
penetrating the enemy’s country, arresting three very important rebels,
and conveying them to the fleet. In the return march, the rebels
complained at their being made to walk so far and so fast; but Bob, the
captain of the company, would occasionally be heard urging them along
after this style: “March along dar, massa; no straggling to de rear:
come, close up dar, close up dar! we’re boss dis time.” On the arrival
of the party, the blacks were highly complimented by the commander.
A week had scarcely passed, and the slaves rested, before they were sent
upon a more difficult and dangerous expedition; yet these men, with Bob
to lead them, were ready for any enterprise, provided they could have
arms and ammunition. Once more landed on shore, they started with a
determination to accomplish the object for which they had been sent.
They had not gone far before they were attacked by a scouting-party
from the rebel camp, and four of the whites and one of the blacks were
killed: one also of the latter was wounded. However, the rebels were put
to flight, and the negroes made good their escape. Still bent on obeying
the orders of the commander, they took a somewhat different route, and
proceeded on their journey. Having finished their mission, which was the
destroying of two very large salt-works, breaking up fifty salt-kettles,
a large tannery, and liberating twenty-three slaves, some of whom they
armed with guns taken in their fight with the rebels, Bob commenced
retracing his steps. The return was not so easily accomplished, for the
enemy were well distributed on the line between them and the gunboats.
After getting within four miles of the fleet, and near Point Rodman, a
fight took place between the colored men and the rebels, which lasted
nearly an hour. The blacks numbered less than forty; while the whites
were more than one hundred. The negroes were called upon to surrender;
but Bob answered, “No, I never surrenders.” And then he cried out,
“Come on, boys! ef we’s captud, we’s got to hang; and dat’s a fack.”
And nobly did they fight, whipping their assailants, and reaching the
gunboats with but the loss of three men killed and ten wounded. Bob and
his companions were greatly praised when once more on the fleet.
But Bob’s days were numbered; for the next day a flat full of soldiers,
with four blacks, including Bob, attempted to land at Rodman’s Point,
but were repulsed by a terrible fire of rebel bullets, all tumbling into
the boat, and lying flat to escape being shot. Meanwhile the boat stuck
fast on the sand-bar, while the balls were still whizzing over and
around the flat. Seeing that something must be done at once, or all
would be lost, Big Bob exclaimed, “Somebody’s got to die to get us out
of this, and it may as well be me!” He then deliberately got out, and
pushed the boat of, and fell into it, pierced by five bullets.
“The surf with ricochetting balls
Was churned and splashed around us:
I heard my comrades’ hurried calls,
“The rebel guns have found us.’
Our vessel shivered! Far beneath
The treacherous sand had caught her.
What man will leap to instant death
To shove her into water?
Strange light shone in our hero’s eye;
His voice was strong and steady:
‘My brothers, one of us must die;
And I, thank God! am ready.’
A shell flew toward us, hissing hate,
Then screaming like a demon:
He calmly faced the awful fate,
Resolved to die a freeman.
He fell, his heart cut through with shot:
The true blood of that martyr
Out from his body spurted hot
To flee the shame of barter.
We lifted up the brave man’s corse;
We thought him fair aud saintly:
The rebel bullets round us hoarse
We heard, but dull and faintly.
‘ Tis ever so: a great deed wrought,
The doer falls that moment,
As if to save the God-like thought
From any human comment.
Heroes are dead men by that fact;
Fame haunts our grave-yards, sighing,
‘Alas! that man’s divinest act
Should be the act of dying.’”