Among the Sea Islanders.
The most degraded slaves in the South, it has been commonly testified by
Southerners themselves, were to be found in South Carolina and on the
sugar plantations of the South-west. Of the South Carolina slaves, the
most ignorant and debased, beyond all question, were those on the sea
islands about Port Royal. Engaged in unhealthy work, to which none but
the coarsest of fiber were likely to be subjected, and steeped in the
normal ignorance of the rice swamp and the cotton field, they were
likewise isolated on their islands, and shut out from that mysterious
transmission of intelligence, concerning their own interests, which
seemed to permeate, like a magnetic current, all large communities of
negroes.
They were mostly of the pure Congo type; there was no mixture of white
blood; intelligent mechanics and “smart niggers” generally were too
valuable to be sent here; their masters were absent a great part of the
year, and they were left to the humanizing control of the overseers;
their provisions were, in many instances, grown elsewhere and sent to
them, so that there was not even this diversion of a different culture
from the never-ending monotony of the cotton and rice fields. They
received, once a week, a peck of corn, and, once a month, a quart of
salt, _and on this they lived_. When the hardest work was required, they
received a little molasses and salt meat in addition; and, for a part of
each year, a bushel of sweet-potatoes was allowed each week, _in place
of_ the corn. Whatever more than this they received, they owed to the
generosity of unusually kind masters. They herded together in cabins,
twelve by eighteen or twenty feet, sometimes floored, but oftener
floorless; they got enough of the coarse negro cloth to make, by close
cutting, two suits a year, and at Christmas they had three days to
themselves. The other three hundred and sixty-two were given to cotton
and rice. Marriage was unknown among them; breeding was enjoined as the
first of duties; purity, delicacy and education were alike impossible.
If any system of compulsory labor could make brutes out of intelligent
men, would not this do it? If any system could fail to make brutish men
more brutish, surely it would _not_ be this one!
When the “great confusion” (as they call the sudden flight of their
masters on Dupont’s arrival at Hilton Head) came, the house servants,
who, by contact with the whites, had necessarily gained some
intelligence, were all taken off to the interior. This utterly debased
cotton and rice-planting community of Congoes was left; and it is this
community, almost unmixed, which now cultivates the sea islands under
the supervision of General Saxton. There were some five thousand of them
here before the war. I am told that not five hundred of the old stock
are now missing from their accustomed places.
The moral of what I have written is plain. If the “negro-elevation”
effort of the Abolitionists is to fail anywhere, it would be likely to
fail here. If it succeed among these degraded people, it would be likely
to succeed anywhere. The experiment has been tried, amid constant
uncertainties and discouragements, for three years. The results,
whatever they may be, are of the first importance.
* * * * *
When Generals Gillmore and Saxton, therefore, proposed to take our party
through Lady’s and St. Helena Islands, without any previous notice to
the blacks; to show us the crops, the villages, the negroes at church
and on their plantations, I prepared myself for any disappointment. The
morning was a beautiful one; and, although the rays of the unclouded sun
were intense, a fresh breeze from the ocean made the trip by no means
uncomfortable. On steaming up to Beaufort we found carriages, in
waiting, on the opposite side, at the upper end of Lady’s Island. Some
little cabins, surrounded by unfenced fields of cotton, remarkably free
from weeds, stood near the landing; and a few picaninnies watched our
debarkation, while their fathers, cleanly clad and respectful, stood by
the carriages.
The sandy road led off among the cotton fields down the island. On
either side were old wire fences, constructed by the former proprietors,
sometimes running along fine avenues of trees, in the stems of which the
wires are deeply imbedded, and sometimes propped up on crazy posts. Here
and there could be seen frame houses, containing three or four rooms,
the old residences of the overseers, or, indeed, sometimes of the
planters themselves; for Southern “mansions” were generally inferior, in
every particular, save high-sounding titles, to Northern “cottages.”
Rude pine-log cabins, sometimes with the bark removed in a rough attempt
at hewing, dotted the fields. They were, occasionally, large enough for
two rooms, and were nearly always surrounded by a few growing garden
vegetables, separated in no way however, from the rows of cotton that
extended up to them.
Sometimes, for half a mile, the road passed through a splendid avenue of
live-oaks, the pendulous Spanish moss, from the limbs, sweeping across
our carriage tops, while the whistle from the mocking-bird came from the
upper branches. Then the avenue faded away into a thicket of dwarf
live-oaks, trespassing for several yards, each side of the road, upon
the cotton fields, and mingling presently with cotton-woods, bayonet
plants and other like species of the palmetto, yellow pines and a
clambering growth of grape-vines and honeysuckles. Through this
undergrowth could still be seen the long rows of cotton stretching along
on either hand out of sight.
The fences by the roadside soon faded out, and for miles scarcely any
were to be seen. Little stakes, here and there, would mark the
boundaries of individual possessions; but besides these, there would be
no divisions in fields of two or three hundred acres of cotton. Then
would come a tract, equally as large, lying fallow, and covered with a
luxurious growth of dewberries that tempted more than one of our party
to delay the progress to church while we went “berrying.” In other
places great tracts were observed in which the furrows of cotton,
cultivated years ago, could still be plainly traced, although the ground
was now covered with a dense growth of pines. Since the flight of the
slaveholders, however, some of this has been reclaimed; and more land is
now under cultivation, both on Lady’s Island and on St. Helena, than
when they fell into our hands.
The cotton was still small, but the rich sandy loam seemed to suit it
well, and gentlemen familiar with the cotton culture, who accompanied
us, said it could not look better. The fields were beautifully clean—it
is rare that a Western corn field shows as careful culture—and the women
and old men, who now do most of the work on these islands, had carefully
hilled it up with the hoe, till, in places, it could hardly be
distinguished from the ridges heaped for the sweet-potato plants about
the cabins. We did not pass a field, in our twelve miles drive out and
as many back (partly by a different road), that would not bear a
favorable comparison with the average of Northern farming.[18] Since the
Government has been offering large bounties for volunteers, most of the
young men from these islands have gone into the army, filling up such
regiments as that of Colonel Howard, which we saw at Beaufort, and all
this work has, therefore, been done by the weaker and more infirm
classes of the population. General Saxton has not encouraged it, but the
negro women still work freely in the fields. The withdrawal of the young
men from the islands has been, in some respects, an advantage. They tell
of such sights as the uncles and aunts, gathered in to tie and whip some
young scapegrace who persisted in neglecting his crop, and whom they
feared, they would, therefore, have to support next winter. No whipping
is needed now; the crops are cultivated better than before, and when
young scapegrace comes back from the army, he will be found to possess a
manliness that will scarcely require the further stimulus of the lash.
A long, wooden bridge, spanning one of the little estuaries that cut up
these islands, led us across into St. Helena. By this time the roads
were alive with a gaily-dressed throng of blacks, of both sexes and all
ages, wending their way, on foot, on horseback, in carts and wagons, and
even, in a few cases, in Northern trotting buggies, to the Central
Church. Noticing their cheerful, contented air, their gay chat, their
cleanly appearance and _repartie_ among themselves, their respectful and
cordial greetings to the passing Generals, and the manifest tokens of
prosperity evinced in modes of locomotion, personal adornment and the
like, one could clearly believe General Saxton’s renewed declaration,
that, in all substantial respects, considering their peculiar
difficulties, they would contrast not discreditably with any peasantry
in the world.
As we turned off from the main road, which runs the whole length of the
island, and began to pass through the gates, which made a sort of
private way among the cotton fields to the church, the throng increased,
till the roads were alive with the church-going freedmen. Every little
group stopped as we came up; every old negress gave us a droll bob of
the head; the men touched their hats, soldier fashion, or lifted them
altogether from their heads, and the young women made, in many cases,
not ungraceful courtesies. “Dere’s General Saxby,” we could often hear
energetically whispered among the groups, and there was no mistaking the
pleased expression which the name summoned to every countenance. “Are
not negroes likely hereafter, as heretofore, to be controlled by their
old masters?” some one asks. “We’s know our frens, massa,” was the
emphatic answer of a coal-black plantation hand, the other day, when I
put some such question to him. Clearly, these people, on St. Helena,
“know their friends.”
* * * * *
Presently a group of negroes, with many a respectful scrape of the foot
and tug at the hat, threw open the last gate, and, under a refreshing
canopy of trees, we drove to the old country church, which, time out of
mind, has been the central worshipping place for both whites and blacks
of St. Helena. Overflowing all the church-yard, flooding the road,
through which our carriages could hardly be driven, and backing up
against the grave-yard, were the negroes, gay with holiday attire,
many-colored kerchiefs, and the best their earnings (and the sutler’s
extortions) would permit them to buy. The woods, back of the church,
were filled with carts and wagons; the horses were unharnessed, tied to
the trees and fed; their owners were gathered in groups about the carts,
discussing the condition of the cotton crop, or the price Sam had paid
for “dat new mar;” and how much “Aunt Sukie was gittin’ down to Bufor’
for dem dis year’s pullets.”
The interior of the plain, low brick church was deserted, the deacons
having decided that there was not room for the throng in attendance—an
event, as we afterward learned, of almost weekly occurrence. Three times
in the week these people had filled the “praise meetings” on their
respective plantations, and already there had been another such meeting
on Sunday before they started to church; yet, here was a great throng,
which the church could not contain, and still the roads, for miles in
each direction, swarmed with those yet coming. We have been told that
emancipated slaves would be disorderly vagrants, and, doubtless, there
is ground for some apprehension, but this Sabbath scene does not tend to
increase it.
Within the church were traces of the slaveholding era, as one finds in
the Silurian stratification fossils that tell the story of a past age.
The doors were on each side, near the middle of the building, and
connected by a broad aisle. Above this, toward the pulpit, were the
square, high-backed pews for the planters of the island—when they chose
to occupy them. Back of the aisle were rude benches, which the poor
whites, or, in their absence, the negroes, were privileged to take; and
in the long galleries on either side (approached by stairs that were
built for the steps of giants), were benches exclusively devoted to the
negro population. The pews still stand with open doors, nearest the
pulpit; but the men that filled them come no more. Some are North, many
fill unknown graves, or trenches on battle-fields, the rest are in that
unexplored region, whence come no sounds but those of sorrow, “the
interior.” And to the right of the pulpit, in a shady little inclosure,
still carefully preserved, are the moss-grown marble monuments, which no
filial hands come now to garnish or adorn. The graves of their fathers
have passed under the guardianship of the alien race.
While our party stood looking about this scene of the past, a
white-wooled deacon came, with the politeness, if not the grace, of an
old-world master of ceremonies, to summon us to one of the present. “De
people is gathered, sah, and was ready for de suvvices to begin.” There
was a not unnatural sensation as the Major-Generals, the Chief Justice
and the ladies of the party, were led through the crowd to a little
platform under the live-oaks; but it was when Rev. Dr. Fuller—“ole massa
Richard”—made his appearance, that the wondering stare brightened and
eyes grew moist, and ancient negresses could be heard vehemently
whispering “Bress de Lod, bress de Lod!” “Hebenly Marster!” “Gra-a-ate
King!” No word had been sent of our coming, and it was but within the
last half hour that the old slaves of Dr. Fuller had heard that he was
to address them. There was no way of estimating the number of these
“Fuller slaves” in attendance—he had owned between two and three
hundred, but probably half of them were now at Beaufort. Every adult
negro in the assemblage, however, seemed to know him.
[Illustration: _The Talk at Dr. Fuller’s Plantation.—Page 102._]
The scene was a striking one. In front of us was the old church; behind,
the new school-house. Half a dozen superb live-oaks spread their gnarled
branches over us, the silvery, pendulous streamers of Spanish moss
floating down and flecking with the sunlight the upturned faces of the
great congregation of negroes, while the breezes made mournful music
among the leaves, and the mocking-birds sent back a livelier refrain.
The little valley between the platform and the church was densely packed
with negroes, all standing, and, as the Deacon told us, “eagah fur de
Wud.” They clustered, too, about the platform, leaned over the railing,
behind, and at the sides, and spread away in all directions, among the
carts and wagons, that formed a sort of outer line of works, shutting in
the scene. The coats were of every color, and cut, and age. There were a
few straw hats on the heads of the younger females, and cotton gloves,
gaudy calico dresses and crinolines were abundant; but the older ones
clung to the many-colored handkerchiefs, wound turban-wise about the
head, and affected gowns that clung closely to their _not_ graceful
figures. Altogether they were dressed as well as the average of
day-laborers’ families at the North would be, but in a taste that even
such Northern families would pronounce barbarous.
A quaint old African, clad in cotton checks, and bowed with many years
of cotton hoeing, stepped out on the platform, when all the party had
been seated. Leaning, like a patriarch, on his cane, and gently swaying
his body to and fro over it, as if to keep time, he struck up, in a
shrill, cracked voice, a curiously monotonous melody, in which, in a
moment, the whole congregation were energetically joining. For the first
time I observed, what had often been told me (though I had never before
realized it), that the language of these sea islanders (and I am told
that, to some extent, the same is true of the majority of plantation
hands in South Carolina), is an almost unintelligible _patois_.
Listening carefully to the swaying old leader, I found it impossible,
for a time, to make out his meaning; and the vocal contortions to which
the simplest words seemed to subject him, was a study that would have
amazed a phonetic lecturer. The words were those of an old song, which
our soldiers found them singing shortly after the fall of Bay Point:
“Ma-a-a-assa Fullah a sittin’ on de tree ob life;
Ma-a-a-assa Fullah a sittin’ on de tree ob life,
Roll, Jordan, roll.
Ma-a-a-assa Fullah a sittin’ on de tree ob life,
Roll, Jordan, roll.
Ma-a-a-assa Fullah a sittin’ on de tree ob life,
Ro-o-oll, Jordan, roll,
Ro-o-oll, Jordan, roll,
Ro-o-oll, Jordan, roll.”
And so on, with repetitions that promised to be endless. The grateful
negroes had cherished the memory of Dr. Fuller, who had abandoned his
lucrative legal practice to preach to them; and, long after his
departure to the North, had still kept his name green among them, by
thus associating it with their ideas of heaven. But, as freedom came,
and no Dr. Fuller with it, they gradually forgot the old benefactor, and
substituted the name of the new one. To them, General Saxton was law,
and order, and right; he secured their plantations; he got them rations
till they were able to support themselves; he decided disputes, defended
privileges, maintained quiet, and was the embodiment of justice; and so
it gradually came to pass that “General Saxby,” as, with a ludicrous
persistence, they still call him, took the place of “Ma-a-a-assa Fullah”
in the song. The presence of the good Doctor recalled their old love,
and they gave him the first place; but they could not depose their later
favorite and greater benefactor; and so, after interminable repetitions,
we came to the second stanza:
“Gen-e-ul Sa-a-axby a sittin’ on de tree ob life,
Gen-e-ul Sa-a-axby a sittin’ on de tree ob life;
Roll, Jordan, roll.
Gen-e-ul Sa-a-axby a sitiin’ on de tree ob life;
Roll, Jordan, roll;
Gen-e-ul Sa-a-axby a sittin’ on de tree ob life;
Ro-o-oll, Jordan, roll,
Ro-o-oll, Jordan, roll,
Ro-o-oll, Jordan, ro-o-oll!”
The patriarchal old African, swaying on his cane before the
congregation, threw the whole power of his lungs into the harsh tones
with which the concluding “ro-o-o-oll” was given, and then followed the
great feat of the African reception to the visitors. Wherever we had
been, the negroes seemed to know something of Mr. Chase. Their ideas
were very vague, but they thought that, in some way, he was a great,
large friend of theirs, who had done something or another for them,
what, they scarcely knew, and was to be held beside “Linkum” in their
esteem. So now, with a droll look of intelligence toward the crowd, and
particularly toward a group of open-faced, enthusiastic young fellows,
who seemed to be the main dependence for promptly supplying the volume
of sound, the antique leader struck out in harsher tones, and more
indescribably bewildering difficulties of pronunciation than ever:
“Me-is-ta-ah Che-a-ase a sittin’ on de tree ob life,
Me-is-ta-ah Che-a-ase a sittin’ on de tree ob life,
Roll, Jordan, roll;
Me-is-ta-ah Che-a-ase a sittin’ on de tree ob life,
Roll, Jordan, roll.
Me-is-ta-ah Che-a-ase a sittin’ on de tree ob life,
Roll, Jordan, roll,
Roll, Jordan, roll,
Ro-o-oll, Jordan, ro-o-oll.”
The chorus was sung with a vehemence that pierced the ears, and swayed
the leaflets of the live-oaks above our heads; while picaninnies crowed,
and their mothers smiled, and there was a general bustle in the crowd,
and all fixed beaming eyes—who has not admired the deep, liquid ox-eye
of the Southern negro?—upon the embarrassed Chief Justice, whom they
were establishing, in all his avoirdupois, on the identical limb where
Doctor Fuller and General “Saxby” were already perched. And then a
plain, bald-headed, middle-aged, black preacher, who had, doubtless, a
few years back, been at least “a twelve-hundred-dollar nigger,” came
reverently forward and commenced a prayer. The congregation devoutly
bowed their heads, a few interrupted with an occasional “Amen,” or
“Glory,” but the most kept respectful silence. The prayer was simple,
full of repetitions, abounding in Scripture language, not always
appropriately used; and, on the whole, I was in doubt whether either
speaker or congregation understood all of it. There was no mistaking the
sincerity of the devotion; but it seemed to be mainly emotional, rather
than intellectual, and might, therefore, well give rise to inquiries as
to what effect this abounding religion had on the matter of stealing
sweet-potatoes, or taking care of their wives and children, during the
week.[19]
When Doctor Fuller came to speak to them, there was less cause for doubt
on this subject. They evidently understood him, and undoubtedly meant to
obey his instructions. When, for example, he told them that at the North
their enemies were declaring that they would be idle and dissolute, and
asked if they were going thus to bring shame upon those who had
befriended them, there was an emphasis of response, and an earnestness
in the looks men and women gave each other, that spoke both for their
understanding and their intentions. “I know that new machinery will work
a little roughly,” said the Doctor, “I am not surprised that, at first,
there were some blunders and faults; but it is time you had got over
that. If a man who has been shut up for a long time, in a dark room, is
suddenly brought into the light, it dazzles his eyes, and he is apt to
stumble. Well, then, what will you do? Put him back in the dark again?”
“No, no,” energetically exclaimed the crowd, with many an earnest shake
of the head. “What then?” “Tell him what to do,” suggested some. “Lead
him a little while,” whispered others. “GIVE HIM MORE LIGHT!” at last
exclaimed the Doctor; and it was curious to watch the pleased noddings
of the woolly heads, the shaking of the turbans, the sensation, exchange
of smiles, and other indications that the Doctor’s solution of the
difficulty was thoroughly understood, in its application to their own
condition.
Mr. Chase followed, in a few words of calm advice, as to the necessity
of industry, economy, study and the like. When he added that, for his
own part, he believed, too, that the best way to teach them to swim in
the ocean of suffrage, was to throw them in and let them take care of
themselves, the emphatic nods and smiles, and cries of “yes,” “yees,”
showed that the figure was not thrown away upon them.
More singing followed, in which they were led by a white teacher, from
one of the schools, and the ordinary hymns of the church were used. The
great volumes of sound rang like organ peals through the arches of the
oaks. Once the teacher asked to have the children gathered in front of
the platform, that they might sing “My country, ’tis of thee, sweet land
of liberty,” etc. Mothers passed up their little four-year olds, decked
in all the cheap finery they could command; fathers pressed forward and
made room for sons and daughters, whom they followed with eyes of
paternal pride; and there was a general smiling, and bustling, and
eagerness to show off the shiny-faced, large-eyed little creatures. When
they were once collected, it was just about as difficult to keep them
still as it would be to silence so many parrots.
Presently one of the Northern ministers, who have devoted themselves to
working among these freedmen, made them such a sermonizing talk as seems
to be the common mode of instruction. There was something too much,
perhaps, of glorification over the fact that at last the slaves were
free from the clutches of the wicked and tyrannical slaveholders; but,
in the main, the address was judicious, and seemed to be in a vein to
which the negroes were accustomed. At the request of different members
of the party, he asked several questions, such as:
“You all seem to be better dressed than when your masters ran away. Now
tell us if you are able to afford these clothes, and how you get them?”
“Yes,” “Bought ’em wid our own money,” “Bought ’em down to Hilton Head,”
“Got ’em at Bufor,” and a further medley of confused answers came back
from the open-eyed, open-mouthed crowd.
“You bought them? Well now, you know at the North people think you are
starving beggars, dependent on the Government? Is it true? How many of
you support yourselves without any help from the Government? All that
do, hold up their right hands.”
In an instant every adult in the crowd held up a hand, and not a few of
the boys and girls, supposing it to be some new play, held up their
hands, too!
“Now, before your masters ran away, you all say that your wives were not
as attentive as they should be to the wants of the household; that they
required a great deal of beating to make them do their work; that they
didn’t mend your clothes and cook your meals. Perhaps freedom has made
them worse. All who say it has, hold up your right hands.”
There was a deal of sly chuckling among the men; the women too, affected
to make light of it, though some bridled up their turbaned heads and
stared defiance across at the men. Not a hand, however, was raised; and
as the preacher announced the result, the women laughed their oily
gobble of a laugh.
“Well, now, I’d like to have the women tell me about the men. Are they
as good husbands as when they were slaves? Do you live as well in your
houses? Do they work as well, and make you as comfortable?”
There was a great giggling now; the ivories that were displayed would
have driven a dentist to distraction, and many a stalwart black fellow,
who had no notion of being a dentist, did seem to be distracted. But
every woman’s hand was raised, and the good preacher proceeded to
announce the result and moralize thereon.
“Then,” he said, “I am asked, by our distinguished guest, to put a
question that I’m afraid you’ll laugh at. You know your old masters
always said you were much happier in a state of slavery than you would
be in freedom, and a good many people at the North don’t know but it may
be true. You’ve tried supporting yourselves now for some time, and a
good many of you have found it pretty hard work sometimes. Now, I want
as many of you as are tired of it, and would rather go back and have
your old masters take care of you, to hold up your right hands.”
It was fine to notice the start and frightened look, and then the sudden
change that came over their faces. The preacher had warned them not to
laugh, but they did not look as if they wanted to laugh. They were more
disposed to get angry; and the “no, noes” were sufficiently emphatic to
satisfy the most devoted adherents of the old system, who used to be
constantly declaring that “the slaves were the happiest people on the
face of the earth.”
* * * * *
But there remained a scene that showed how, if not anxious to return to
their old masters, they were still sometimes glad to have their old
masters return to them. Dr. Fuller rose to pronounce the benediction,
and all reverently bowed their heads—the proud mothers and their hopeful
children, likely plantation hands, gray-headed and gray-bearded
patriarchs, like one who stood at my elbow, and, black though he was,
looked so like the busts we have of Homer, that I could hardly realize
him to be merely a “worn-out nigger”—bowed all together before God, the
freedmen and the Major-Generals, the turbaned young women from the
plantations, and the flower of Northern schools and society, the
woolly-headed urchins, who could just remember that they once “b’longed
to” somebody, and the Chief Justice of the United States.
The few words of blessing were soon said; and then came a rush to the
stand, “to speak to Massa Richard.” Men and women pressed forward
indiscriminately; the good Doctor, in a moment, found both his hands
busy, and stood, like a patriarchal shepherd, amid his flock. They
pushed up against him, kissed his hands, passed their fingers over his
hair, crowded about, eager to get a word of recognition. “Sure, you
’member me, Massa Rich’d; I’m Tom.” “Laws, Massa Rich’d, I mind ye when
ye’s a little ’un.” “Don’t ye mind, Massa Rich’d, when I used to gwine
out gunnin’ wid ye?” “How’s ye been dis long time?” “’Pears like we’s
never gwine to see ’ou any more; but, bress de Lord, you’m cum.” “Oh,
we’s gittin’ on cumf’able like; but ain’t ’ou gwine to cum back and
preach to us sometimes?” So the string of interrogatories and
salutations stretched out. “I haven’t liked him much,” said an officer
of our cutter, standing near, whose rough-and-ready oaths had sometimes
provoked the rebuke of the Dominie, “but I take back every harsh
thought. I’d give all I’m worth, or ever hope to be worth, in the world,
to be loved by as many people as love him.”
* * * * *
Leaving the crowd still thronging about the Doctor, we drove out beyond
the church half a mile, to a village of cabins, which the negroes have
christened “Saxtonville.” It contains a single street, but that is a
mile and a-half long. Each house is surrounded by its little plat of
potatoes and corn. Back of the house, stretching off to the timber in
the distance, is the narrow little parallelogram of land, called the
plantation, averaging from thirty to forty acres, planted in cotton,
and, in nearly every case, in the highest possible state of cultivation.
Poultry swarmed about the cabins, but no swine were to be seen, and no
fences were needed to divide one plantation from another.
Returning, we found the roads alive again with the gaily-dressed groups
of freedmen, going home from the “meetin’,” and full of animated talk
about the great things they had seen and heard. There was constantly the
most deferential courtesy. The old women seemed delighted if they could
secure a recognition, and not a man of the hundreds on the road passed
without lifting, or, at least, touching, his hat. Whenever we approached
a gate some negro near us would run ahead to open it; but there was no
servility in the air with which he did it. He seemed rather, in bearing
and attitude, to say, “I’m a man, and just as good before the law as you
are; but I respect you, because you are all friends of ours, and because
you know more than I do.” These people can never be made slaves again.
They have tasted too long of freedom to submit to be driven. But,
perhaps, their danger is in a not very dissimilar direction. They are
grateful and confiding; and they _may_ prove easily led.
An old negress, whom we passed after we had crossed back to Lady’s
Island, followed us wearily, on foot, through the broiling sun, many
miles, down to the landing. “I want to see Massa Richard—I used to
b’long to him,” was her only explanation. The dumb expression of grief
on her rude features, when she found him gone, and realized that she had
probably missed her last chance of seeing him, haunts me yet.
* * * * *
Returning from St. Helena, Doctor Fuller was asked what he thought of
the experiment of free labor, as exhibited among his former slaves, and
how it contrasted with the old order of things. “I never saw St. Helena
look so well,” was his instant reply. “I never saw as much land there
under cultivation—never saw the same general evidences of prosperity,
and never saw the negroes themselves appearing so well or so contented.”
What has been said, from time, about the improved condition of the
emancipated Sea Islanders, has been said by Northern men, with limited
opportunities for previous observation; but this, it must be noted, is
the testimony of an old planter, re-visiting the slaves emancipation has
taken from him, whose interests and prejudices would alike make him a
critic hard to please.
But, it should be added, that the islands about Beaufort are in a better
condition than those nearer the encampments of our soldiers. Wherever
poultry could be profitably peddled in the camps, cotton has not been
grown, nor have the negroes crystalized, so readily, into industrious
and orderly communities. What has been done on the more secluded of
these sea islands, may be taken as a fair evidence of what may be
expected (when not more than the average discouragements are
encountered) of the most ignorant and degraded of the Southern slaves.
With such negroes as we saw at Charleston, the progress would be
incomparably more rapid.
The question about the slaves being self-supporting, is a question no
longer. On St. Helena, and wherever else they have had the opportunity,
the negroes have bought the titles to their little farms—or
“plantations,” as they still ambitiously style them. They have erected
their own cabins, secured whatever cheap furniture they contain, and
clothed, themselves far better than their masters ever clothed them. All
who have been established more than a year, have paid back to the
Government the rations drawn in their first destitution. They have
stocked their plantations, paying the highest prices, and often bidding
against white men, at the auction sales of condemned Government
property. I saw one man who had paid three hundred dollars in cash for a
condemned Government horse, and plenty who had paid prices ranging from
a hundred and fifty to two hundred dollars. A single horse only, is
needed to cultivate one of their little places; and the instances have
been rare in which, after a year or two of work, the negro was not able
to command enough money to secure it. Their purchases at the trade
stores have been so liberal that the military authorities have
occasionally been compelled to interfere, to prevent what they thought
extravagance. Cloth they sometimes buy, in their new-born thrift, by the
piece, to secure a lower price; flour they are able to get by the
barrel, as an industrious Northern mechanic does. In the houses, chairs
have made their appearance; dishes and knives and forks are no longer
the rarities they were when our troops arrived. And, for whatever they
have thus bought, be sure they have paid twice or thrice the New York
price.
To some extent this prosperity is delusive; as for the matter of that,
the prosperity of the whole country, during the same period, has been
delusive. The soldiers paid them three or four prices for their
vegetables, eggs and poultry; and when their cotton was ready for market
it brought, in some cases, nearly ten times the old price. Naturally
they are prosperous. It is more important to observe that they exhibit
the industry which deserves prosperity, and, in most cases, the thrift
which insures its continuance. Their money has been spent for articles
they needed for stocking their farms, clothing their families, or, in
some way, bettering their condition. It has not always been spent
economically, but they may learn to make better bargains with the Yankee
traders, by-and-by; and, for the present, it is sufficient to know that
they have enough left to establish a National Bank with their savings,
and that in this Bank _one hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth of
United States bonds have been bought by the freedmen_! This last
statement seemed to me utterly incredible; but General Saxton vouches
for it, and explains that when the young negroes from the islands
volunteered to enter the military service, they each received (precisely
like other volunteers) three hundred dollars bounty, of which, in nearly
all cases, at least two hundred were, of their own motion, given to
their families, used in stocking the farms, or invested in Government
bonds.
Withal, they work less, and have more time for self-improvement, or for
society, than when slaves. It is the common testimony, on those islands
where white men have bought the plantations, and employed the negroes as
laborers, that the old task, which the slave worked at from sunrise to
sunset, is now readily performed by the freedman in six or seven hours.
Still, the exports from the sea islands will not be as great as during
the existence of slavery. Then, they were mere machines, run with as
little consumption as possible, to the single end of making money for
their masters. Now, as it was in the West Indies, emancipation has
enlarged the negro’s wants, and, instead of producing solely to export,
he now produces also to consume. Then he ate with his fingers from the
hominy pot, in the fire-place; now he must have plates, knives and
forks, with a table on which to spread them. Then he wore the scant
summer and winter suits of negro cloth; now he must have working suits
and Sunday suits, and each must be cut with some vague reference to
prevailing fashions, and made up by hands that, under the old _regime_,
would have been busy beside his own in the cotton field.
These are undeniable evidences of progress in physical well-being. When
it comes to mental culture, less can be said. Of the crowd at the St.
Helena church, not one in twenty of the adults can read, though they
have had three years of partial and interrupted opportunities. But, on
the other hand, not one in twenty of the boys and girls was unable to
read. They do not seem so anxious themselves to get “white folks’
larnin” as at Charleston and other points to the northward; but every
parent is painfully desirous that his children should learn; and many of
them are known to take private lessons at home from their children. The
latter learn rapidly; they tell the same story everywhere here, just as
it has been told down the whole coast from Fortress Monroe. Experienced
teachers say they can see no difference in the facility with which these
and ordinary white children at the North learn to read. But this is
comparatively valueless as a test of negro intellectual capacity.
Reading, writing, memorizing, whatever is imitative, or may be learned
by rote, will be rapidly acquired; and no schools have yet advanced far
enough to show what the average negro mind will do when it grapples with
higher branches that require original thought.
Nearly thirty thousand negroes have been settled by General Saxton, (as
he informed us over his hospitable dinner table, on our return from St.
Helena,) on these islands and adjacent plantations of the main land. Of
these, seventeen thousand are now self-supporting. Between twelve and
thirteen thousand of those who have come in latest from the interior
still draw rations, but all do it with the distinct understanding that
they and their farms will be held responsible for the re-payment; and
the experience of the Government with the others shows that this debt
may be reckoned a safe and short one. None have been forced to come, and
the locations upon the plantations have all been made to the
satisfaction of the negroes themselves.
General Saxton found a charming wife among the bright Yankee teachers
sent down to these schools, and he has established himself in the house
of a runaway slaveholder, condemned by the Government authorities, and
legally sold to the highest bidder. Two thousand dollars thus gave the
General a home among these people, and put him in possession of a fine,
airy, large-windowed, many-porched Southern residence, stripped of
furniture (which has been sold by the Treasury Agent as abandoned
property), and, like the lands on which the negroes are located, with
still a worrying doubt about the security of the title. Rebels, who have
abandoned their houses, may, some of these days, return, get pardon, and
propose to take possession. Barnwell Rhett’s house, for example, is next
door; suppose he should profess repentance, for the sake of getting back
his property, precisely what is there to prevent this fervently-loyal
Major-General from having the prince of all fire eaters for a neighbor?
In Beaufort, as at Hilton Head, there are wonderful efforts to create a
flame of speculation; but capital is timid, and looks sharply to the
guarantees of title deeds.
* * * * *
In the evening, there was another immense meeting of negroes in the
outskirts of Beaufort. It was again found that no church would hold
them, and so God’s first temples—it must have been live-oak groves
Bryant thought of, when he wrote the well-known lines—were again sought.
Crowding through the throng that obstructed all the approaches, and
ascending the platform, one was struck with the impressiveness of a
scene as peculiar as that in the morning on St. Helena, and yet widely
differing from it. Great live-oaks again reared their stately pillars of
gray, and spread their glorious canopy of green, beside and above the
platform; negroes, old and young, again spread out in a sea of black
humanity before us; but for the rows of carts, and the old
meeting-house, and the moss-grown gravestones that shut in the view on
St. Helena, we had here the serried ranks of two full regiments of
negroes. Black urchins clambered up into the live-oak boughs, above our
heads; black girls adjusted their scarfs, and fidgeted about the front
of the platform; white-wooled, but black-faced, old men leaned against
the railing; the mass of the congregation in front were women, and, as
for the young men, they were clad in blue, and they stood in ranks
outside the rest.
The faces seemed somewhat more intelligent than those on St. Helena.
There were more house-servants, and all had been brightened by the
contact with business in the town. A keen-eyed lady on the platform
called my attention to the owner of a particularly showy turban, and lo!
beneath its dazzling colors looked forth, in befitting black, the very
face of Mrs. Gummidge, the “lone, lorn creetur’” of David Copperfield’s
early acquaintance. To the very whimper of the mouth, and watery
expression of the eyes, and last particular of desolate and disconsolate
appearance, it was Mrs. Gummidge’s self, as Dickens has made her
immortal. But this was not a common expression. Chubby-faced,
glittering-eyed youngsters, of the Topsy type, and comfortable,
good-natured Aunties, at peace with themselves and the world, were the
prevailing characters. Beaufort was more stylish than St. Helena, and
many a ludicrous effort was made in willow crinoline, tawdry calico and
cotton gloves, to ape the high-born mulattoes whom the traveled ones had
seen in Charleston, and occasionally at Hilton Head.
The sermonizing, singing and speech-making, need hardly be described.
Given the occasion and the circumstances, and what weary reader of the
papers can not tell, to the very turn of the climax and the polish of
the peroration, the nature of the speeches? But it was worthy of note
that the orators found the audience to their liking; and, on the point
of intelligence, your popular orator is exacting. “I have been in the
habit of addressing all sorts of people,” said Doctor Fuller, “but never
felt so intensely the inspiration of a deeply-sympathizing audience.”
Two or three humorous little sallies were caught with a quickness and
zest that showed how understandingly they were following the speaker;
and, at times, the great audience—greater than Cooper Institute could
hold—was swaying to and fro, now weeping, then laughing, in the
agitation of a common passion the orator had evoked. They seemed to know
all about the Chief Justice, and clamored for him, till, as he stood up
for a moment, the thunder of the cheers swayed the Spanish moss that
hung in pendent streamers above our heads, and made the leaves of the
live-oaks quiver as if a gale were blowing through the branches. “If I
had only known you were coming,” whispered a superintendent, “we might
have had two or three marriages here, under the live-oaks, to conclude
the exercises of the day!”
But it was when the “exercises” were over, that the real interest of the
occasion was brought out. Not less than a hundred of Doctor Fuller’s
former slaves were in the audience. The moment the benediction was
pronounced, they made a rush for the platform, and the good Doctor found
his path blocked up at the steps. “Lod bress ye, Massa Rich’d; was
afeard ’ud never see ye agin.” “Don’t you know me, Massa Rich’d? I’m
Aunt Chloe.” “’Pears like ye wa’n’t never comin’, no more!” And all the
while a vigorous hand-shaking and hand-kissing went on, the former
master standing on the steps, and looking benevolently down into
upturned faces that fairly shone with joy and excitement.
Presently one of the Aunties, whose happiness was altogether too
exuberant for words, struck up a wild chant, and in a moment half a
hundred voices had joined her. She stood with clasped hands and beaming
face, balancing from one foot to the other in a sort of measured dance,
sometimes stopping a moment to shout “glory,” and then resuming with yet
more enthusiasm; while the former slaves still kept crowding up, feeling
the Doctor’s hair, passing their hands over his shoulders, clustering
lingeringly about him, and joining with deep-throated emphasis in the
chant. Soon other women had approached the swaying leader, two or three
clasped hands, there was the same animal, half-hysteric excitement, the
same intoxication of the affections, which we had witnessed in the
morning on St. Helena; while, meantime, a few middle-aged negroes, who
gave no other marks of excitement than a perfectly gratified expression
of countenance, quietly engaged the Doctor in conversation, told him
something of their life since they had become freemen, their hardships
and their final prosperity. The women kept up the singing; more and more
negroes were joining the circle about the former planter, as we pushed
through and left them to themselves. Long lines of soldiers were
marching away, their glistening bayonets setting the red rays of the
sinking sun to flickering in grotesque lights and shades over the
shouting and dancing slaves. Under the trees on the outskirts stood a
group of interested spectators, officers, traders, agents of different
departments of the Government; a few ladies wonderingly looked on; the
breeze was fluttering the flags over the platform; and the late slaves
were still singing and kissing their former master’s hand. It was our
last sight of Beaufort.
* * * * *
A lead-colored little steamer lay at the wharf to take us down to Hilton
Head; a short, heavy-set, modest-speaking, substantial negro, a little
past middle-age, came to say that the vessel was ready, and awaited our
orders. It was the “Planter,” and the negro was her Captain, Robert
Small—lionized over much, but not spoilt yet. The breeze over the island
was delicious; not a film of mist flecked the sky; and down to the very
meeting of sky and water, we caught the sparkle of the stars, brilliant
with all the effulgence of tropic night.
-----
Footnote 18:
I subsequently, however, saw several badly-neglected cotton fields.
The very intelligent correspondent of the Boston _Advertiser_ (Mr.
Sidney Andrews,) writing from Beaufort, in July, likewise found
ill-tilled plantations. He says:
“Some of the cotton and corn fields, through which we passed, were in
a decidedly bad state of cultivation, others better, but hardly any
quite satisfactory, until we reached the plantation to which our
journey was directed. Then the appearance of the crops suddenly
changed; the fields were free from weeds, the cotton plants healthy,
and the corn fields promising a heavy yield. Everything bespoke thrift
and industry. We passed through a most beautiful grove of live-oaks,
with its graceful festoons of gray moss—under the shadow of the trees
a roomy log cabin, in which a colored preacher was addressing an
audience of devout negroes, for it was Sunday—until, at last, we found
the ‘mansion,’ surrounded with live-oaks and magnolia trees. The
estate had, before the war, belonged to one of the wealthiest planters
of that region, who had gone to parts unknown as soon as the blue
jackets threatened their descent upon Beaufort. It struck me as
singular that a man of such wealth, as he was reputed to possess,
should have lived in a house so small and unpretending, as in the
North would be considered as belonging to a forty-acre farm; but such
was the case.”
Footnote 19:
The correspondent of the Boston _Advertiser_ gives the following Sea
Island incident, which occurred in July:
“While we were conversing with the lessee, we observed a negro woman,
with two children, leaning against the railing of the Verandah. Her
countenance wore so sad a look that we asked for the cause. The story
was mournful enough. She had been sick. Another woman had come into
her house to attend to her work. Her husband, Tony, had taken a fancy
to the other woman. After awhile, he had gone away and ‘married her.’
She had insisted upon his remaining with her. He had done so, for some
time, and then gone off again to live with the other wife. Where was
her husband? ‘He was in the meeting-house, yonder, praying.’ Of
course, they had been slaves, had but recently left the ‘old
plantation,’ where such things were little more than matters of
course. The vices of the negro are the vices of the slave. When ‘Tony’
will know what it is to be a freeman, he will know, also, that it will
not do to have two wives, and to go praying, while one of his wives,
with her and his children, are standing by the side of the
meeting-house, weeping over his inconstancy.”