negro. Every white inhabitant had disappeared, leaving the slaves alone
in possession. Their inferior appearance, habits, and qualities, their
curious lingo and strange pronunciation were in amusing contrast with
those of the blacks and mulattoes we had seen at the north. When I
met one of them near the Jones plantation and asked him whether he
belonged there, his answer was this: "No mawse, I no bene blahnx mawse
Jones, I bene blahnx mawse Elliot." Not having any idea what he meant,
I repeated the phrase to General Viele, who had some familiarity with
the southern negro, and who gave me the interpretation as follows:
"No master, I did not belong to master Jones, I belonged to master
Elliot." Mr. Elliot was the owner of another plantation near by. Soon
after we took possession of Hilton Head, negroes began to come in from
the neighboring islands, seeking shelter and food. They generally
appeared to rate themselves at the value set upon them by their
former masters. One morning a young black, of the deepest dye and
most cheerful expression of countenance, presented himself at brigade
headquarters, and on being asked whether any others had arrived with
him, he said with a delighted grin: "Yes, mawse, more 'n two hundred
head o' nigger come ober las' night." Most of the field hands were
of this description. But on each plantation there was usually one
man noticeably superior to the rest in manner and language. He was
generally the leader in their religious exercises, and had the gift of
the gab to no small degree; though his uncontrollable propensity to the
use of long words and incongruous expressions often gave a ludicrous
turn to the effect of his eloquence.
But whatever their grade of capacity or intelligence, the negroes
agreed in one thing. They were well satisfied to live on the
plantations, without control of their former owners, so long as
the crops of the present season would supply them with food. Their
liberation they knew was owing to the success of the Union troops, and
they showed a much more intelligent comprehension of the causes and
probable results of the war than they had been supposed to possess. But
as for doing anything themselves to help it on, that did not appear to
form part of their calculations. They would work for their rations when
destitute, would obey when commanded as they had been accustomed, and
they would aid the Union cause whenever they could do so in a passive
sort of way. But we soon found that we must not look to them for
anything like energetic or spontaneous action. This seemed a strange
indifference to a contest involving the freedom or servitude of their
race, and no doubt accounted for much of the aversion afterward felt by
our troops to the project of transforming some of them into soldiers.
But if we had remembered where the negroes came from, perhaps we should
not have been so much surprised. Their ancestors had been brought to
this country from the coast of Africa by slave-traders who had bought
them there. They were slaves already, when they were taken on board
ship. They had been captured in war, or seized by native marauders, who
took them for the purpose of reducing them to slavery and selling them
for profit. They were consequently from the least capable and least
enterprising of the negro tribes in Africa; and their descendants in
this country were of the same grade. If they could not resist being
made slaves by other negroes, how could they be expected to take part
in a war between whites, even to recover their own freedom?
Of course there were exceptions to this. In the month of May following,
a boat's crew brought away from Charleston harbor the barge of the
Confederate General Ripley, and escaped with it to the naval vessels
outside; and not long afterward the negro pilot, Robert Smalls, and his
companions ran the gauntlet of the forts in the night-time with the
steam-tug _Planter_, and delivered her safely to the blockading fleet.
But these were rare instances, and nothing of the kind happened at
Hilton Head.
What the sea-island negroes appeared to excel in more than anything
else was handling an oar, which they did in a way quite their own. In
their long, narrow "dug-outs," hollowed from the trunk of a Georgia
pine, each man pulling his oar in unison with the rest, they would
send the primitive craft through the water with no little velocity. In
lifting and recovering the oar they had a peculiar twist of the hand
and elbow that no white man could imitate; and their strange sounding
boat songs seemed to give every moment a fresh impulse to the stroke.
These songs had no resemblance to the half-humorous, half-sentimental
"plantation melodies" known to theatre-goers at the north. They were
more like religious rhapsodies in verse. At least, they had many words
and phrases of a religious character; but mingled together, in a kind
of incoherent chant, with many others of different significance, or
even none at all. It was not its meaning that gave value to the song;
it was its sound and cadence. Sometimes the verse would open with a few
words of extempore variation by the leader, and then the other voices
would strike in with the remaining lines as usual. Oftener than not,
the song was a fugue, every one of the half dozen boatmen catching up
his part at the right second, and chiming in all the louder and lustier
for having kept still beforehand. Once in a while the passenger would
be startled at seeing an oarsman suddenly strike the one in front of
him a smacking blow between the shoulders, at the same time injecting
into the melody a short improvised yell, by way of stimulus and
encouragement. Altogether, I have seldom witnessed a more entertaining
performance than one of these semi-barbarous vocal concerts in a South
Carolina dug-out.
Our brigade camp was in a large cotton-field lying across the road to
the northwest. At the time of our arrival it was covered with tall,
scraggy bushes, their white balls still ungathered; and for a night or
two we bivouacked in the deep furrows between them. But they were soon
removed and the surface quickly trampled down into a serviceable parade
ground, with the regimental camps extending along one side. Brigade
headquarters were in advance of the parade ground, opposite the right
of the line. At one end was the general's tent, fronting upon an oblong
space, enclosed on its two sides by the tents of the staff officers,
orderlies, and employees. Within the enclosed space was a single
live-oak, under which we gathered in the evening round a fire, to
smoke our pipes and talk over arrivals, reconnoissances, or projected
expeditions.
For some weeks pork and hard-bread were an important part of our fare.
Our private stores from the _Oriental_ were soon exhausted, and much
of the commissary supplies on the transport fleet had been lost or
damaged on the voyage down. Foraging on the plantations did something;
and the general even secured a cow, which he stabled alongside our
camp. But she was of very unprepossessing appearance. Her only fodder
was dry cornstalks; and the milk she gave, in the opinion of most, was
worse than none at all. The same verdict was rendered, after trial, on
the native beef. The most successful venture of this kind was a young
kid, secured in a day's tramp, which I butchered and dressed myself, as
being the only one of the staff entitled to rank as sawbones. After a
time supply ships and sutler schooners reached Port Royal, and our days
of short commons were over.
But the most gratifying arrival was that of our horses. They had
been shipped with many others, at the starting of the expedition, on
the steamer _Belvidere_, which was among the missing when the fleet
reassembled at Port Royal; and hearing nothing of her, we had given her
up for lost. In reality she had been very roughly handled in the gale,
and many of the animals cast loose, trampled on and thrown overboard;
but she had managed to keep afloat and make her way back to Fortress
Monroe. Here, after some delay, the remainder of the live stock was
reshipped and sent down to Port Royal on another steamer. Fortunately
our own horses were among the survivors.
The process of getting them on shore was something of a novelty. The
ship could hardly approach nearer than a quarter of a mile from the
beach; so they had to be dumped into the sea and make a landing for
themselves. The way it was done was this. A gangway was opened in
the ship's bulwarks, on the side away from shore; and a gang-plank
with cross cleats laid over the deck to the opening. The animal was
then placed at one end, prepared to "walk the plank" like a pirate's
prisoner. As he would never do this of himself if he knew what was
coming, he is half persuaded into it and half forced. One man starts
him with a little gentle solicitation by the head-stall. At the same
time two strong fellows clasp hands behind him, just above the hocks,
and as he steps forward they follow him with increasing pressure toward
the gangway; so that by the time he comes in sight of the awful void
beyond, his motion is too rapid for effectual resistance and over he
goes with a final splash.
Most horses, on coming to the surface, after a short reconnoissance
make straight for the shore, where they are taken in hand by men
waiting for them. But some lose their heads and swim away in the wrong
direction, so that they must be followed by boats and captured or
turned back; and a few will persist in getting upon some marshy island
or mud flat, where they flounder about until rescued with no little
trouble and difficulty. So we took the precaution, for our own horses,
to have a boat in waiting alongside the ship, with a long halter shank
attached to the head-stall, by which they could be guided to a safe
landing. On first coming up from his involuntary plunge bath, the
animal's expression is one of unbounded astonishment and indignation
at the outrage; but he soon follows willingly in the boat's wake, and,
once on shore, is quite contented to find himself again in friendly
hands.
Every one in a brigade camp thinks his own horse the best of the lot.
He listens kindly to the eulogies of his comrades on their respective
mounts, but with full persuasion that every one of them would exchange
with him if he would allow it. My own animal was a bay stallion,
hardly more than fifteen hands high and slab-sided as a ghost; and the
deep hollows over his eyeballs proclaimed that his tenth birthday was
already past. But he had plenty of lightning in his veins, and there
must have been royal blood in his pedigree, though it was a stolen
one. He would go over broken bridges wherever there were timbers enough
for a foothold; and I have taken him out on a flatboat to the middle
of a wide creek and then walked him up a gang-plank to the deck of a
steamer without his showing the least hesitation. Notwithstanding his
slender build, his power of endurance was extreme, and the oddities of
his disposition were an unending source of surprise and entertainment.
The next enterprise of the expeditionary corps was the siege of Fort
Pulaski, at the mouth of the Savannah river. It was a formidable
casemated work, situated just inside the entrance, and guarding
the approach from below to the city of Savannah. It could not be
successfully attacked by the navy, owing to its size and strength
and the narrow limits of the river channel giving no room for the
evolutions of a fleet. The only place where land batteries could be
planted against it was Tybee island, between it and the sea, where
there were but slender facilities for such an operation. The island was
half sand and half marsh. On its sea-front was a shelving beach, backed
by a low ridge with a few stunted pines and bushes; and on the land
side there was little more than a wide stretch of trembling morass, in
full view of the fort and commanded by its guns. Nevertheless Captain
Gillmore reported that the thing could be done; and early in December
the Forty-sixth regiment was detached from our brigade and sent to
occupy Tybee island. The city of Savannah was fifteen miles above the
fort, on the south side of the river.
The part assigned to General Viele was to establish a blockade of the
Savannah river, between the city and the fort. In the month of January
we struck camp at Hilton Head and moved southwest to the farther end
of Daufuskie, the last of the islands in that direction suitable for
occupation by troops. From Hilton Head in direct line it was only
fifteen or sixteen miles; but by the circuitous water route through
Port Royal harbor, Scull creek, Calibogue sound, Cooper river, Ramshorn
creek, and New river, it was nearly twice that distance. In its general
features the island was similar to Hilton Head. Our quarters were on a
slightly elevated point, overlooking the lowlands and waterways toward
the Savannah river, which was about three miles away. In that whole
interval there was absolutely nothing to break the uniform level of
the landscape. It was at Daufuskie and thereabout that we came to know
the singular network of land and water communication that marks the
region. From the knoll in front of our headquarters you might see, some
distance away, the masts and smokestack of a gunboat apparently sailing
along through the meadows. Her spars and perhaps her bulwarks might
be visible, with nothing to be seen around them but a wide expanse of
grass-covered flats. Go where she was, and you would find her in a
creek hardly wide enough for her to turn in, but with ample depth of
water and straight vertical sides of black mud, like an enormous ditch.
Passing through one of these creeks in a row-boat at half tide, with
nothing to be seen on either hand above the brink, and other channels
opening into it every half mile or so, all looking alike, it would
be the easiest thing in the world to get lost, and almost impossible
to find your way again without a guide. Steamers of light draft and
not too great length could pass through most of these channels at the
proper tide.
On one occasion, after going down to Hilton Head for some business
connected with the medical department, I took passage at my return on
the steamer _Winfield Scott_, carrying one of the regiments destined
for Daufuskie. She left Hilton Head at an early hour, and in the
forenoon reached the sinuous channels northwest of Calibogue sound. She
was rather a large vessel to attempt the passage, but with due care
and a flood tide the pilot hoped she might get through. On coming to
a bend in the creek she would run her nose against the opposite bank,
then back a little and try again, turning slowly meanwhile, edging
round by degrees and rubbing the mud off the banks, bow and stern,
till she was clear of the obstruction and ready to go ahead again.
At last she came to a turn that looked rather easier than the rest,
but where there was a narrow spit at the bottom running out from one
side toward the other. In trying to pass, the vessel grounded on this
spit. It was still flood tide, and with vigorous pushing she might get
over. So at it she went, with all steam on and her paddles doing their
best. At each new trial she gained a little, but it was harder work
every time; and she finally succeeded, at full high water, in getting
exactly half-way over. Fifteen minutes later there was no chance. She
was stranded, helpless, on the bar, bow and stern both sinking slowly
with the ebb and weighing her down past hope of deliverance. In an
hour or two her main deck began to crack open, and it was all the men
could do to get a few horses across the widening chasm to be landed on
the neighboring flats. Then we all disembarked and made ourselves as
comfortable as possible while awaiting other means of transportation.
But the _Winfield Scott_ never left that place till she was taken away
piecemeal. She had weathered the November gale at sea, to be wrecked on
a sunshiny forenoon in Ramshorn creek.
The troops at Daufuskie were a part of the old brigade, together with
the Sixth Connecticut, two or three companies of artillery, and a
detachment of the First New York Engineers. The last were extremely
useful, as much of the work to be done was of an engineering character.
The spot selected for the first blockading battery was a part of Jones'
island called "Venus Point," on the north shore of the Savannah river,
four miles above Fort Pulaski. To reach it from Daufuskie we had to
pass by boats through New river and Wright river into Mud river, and
thence across the marshy surface of Jones' island to Venus Point, a
distance altogether of nearly five miles. The opening from Wright river
into Mud river was an artificial passage called Wall's Cut, excavated
some years before to enable steamers from Charleston by the inside
route to get into the Savannah river. It had been obstructed after the
battle of Port Royal by an old hulk placed crosswise and secured by
piles, to prevent the passage of our gunboats. A company of the New
York Engineers, under Major Beard, opened the passage again by removing
the piles and swinging the hulk round lengthwise against the bank,
where it now lay, a dismal looking object, abandoned at last by friend
and foe.
Military operations often seem to be going on very slowly, especially
to those at a distance who are unacquainted with the local conditions;
but the work required for an enterprise like the investment of Fort
Pulaski, as we soon found, cannot be done in a hurry. First of all
there must be night reconnoissances by capable and well informed
officers, through intricate waterways and over pathless islands, to
learn the position of the enemy, the obstacles to be encountered, and
the available points for occupation. After that begins the labor of the
troops. Wharves must be built and roads cleared, before the barges and
steamers can be used to advantage for transportation. Jones' island,
the intended location of the battery, was like its neighbors, a marshy
flat covered with reeds and tall grass. Its surface was so treacherous
that a pole or a stick could be thrust down through its superficial
layer of tangled roots into a fathomless underlying quagmire of
soft mud. Twice a month, at the spring tides, it was flooded almost
everywhere to the depth of several inches; and at no time would it bear
with safety a horse, a wagon, or even a loaded wheelbarrow. For the
transportation of anything weighty over its surface to Venus Point, it
must have an artificial causeway.
Early in February the troops on Daufuskie were set to work in the pine
woods, cutting down saplings of the proper size, and carrying them on
their shoulders to a newly built wharf on the west side of the island.
Ten thousand of these poles were thus brought from the woods to the
water front, there loaded on flatboats and towed round to the landing
place at Jones' island. There they were laid crosswise on the surface,
to form a corduroy road, about three-quarters of a mile in length, to
Venus Point. Then sandbags were carried over, to make something like
firm ground for the gun-platforms, and a dry spot for the magazine. All
the work at this place had to be done in the night time, as it was in
full view of the rebel steamers passing every few days up and down the
river.
At last all was ready for taking over the armament of the battery. In
the afternoon I went over the corduroy toward Venus Point, and at my
return about dusk, two of the guns were starting on the same road. It
looked then as if the officers and men in charge would have no easy
time of it, but their difficulties turned out much greater than I
supposed. It took all that night and the next to get the guns over and
put them in place. With the carriage wheels guided on a double row of
planks laid end to end, taken up in the rear and laid down in front as
the procession moved on, the shifting tramways were soon covered with
the island mud, smooth and slippery as so much mucilage. When a wheel
happened to get over the edge of its plank, down it would go, hub deep,
in the soft morass; and then the men must set to work with levers to
lift it out again, themselves immersed up to their knees in the same
material. Many of them encased their feet and legs in empty sandbags
tied at the knee, for protection against the all pervading mud. It was
an exhausting labor, sometimes almost disheartening; but perseverance
at last prevailed, and on the morning of the twelfth the six guns were
all in position.
The next day I paid another visit to the work at Venus Point to see
how it looked. It could hardly be called a fort. It was only a place
where some platforms had been laid down and guns mounted, enclosed by
a low parapet, not so much to repel an enemy as to keep out the tides.
Nevertheless it was named Fort Vulcan, perhaps because it was better
fitted for aggression than for defense.
While I was there it happened that the rebel steamer came down on her
usual trip from Savannah to Fort Pulaski, and the battery opened on
her for the first time. She was an ordinary river steamboat, painted
white; and her name, the _Ida_, could be read with a good glass upon
her wheelhouse. She evidently suspected something new at Venus Point
and hugged the farther edge of the channel. After some shots had been
launched at her, the artillery officer in charge invited me to try
my hand at the game. So I sighted one of the guns as well as I could
guess at her speed and distance, pulled the lanyard, and watched the
effect of the discharge with no little interest. It was the first time
I had ever had the opportunity of firing at a steamboat. As might be
expected, I failed to make a hit. At that distance she seemed to be
moving very slowly, though she was no doubt making the best of the
time so far as she was able; and while my thirty pound projectile was
traveling across the river, she was going down stream fast enough to
be quite out of its way when it got there. Apparently she escaped all
the shots without serious damage, for she kept on her course toward
Fort Pulaski; but she did not venture to risk it again, and returned to
Savannah by a circuitous channel farther south.
A week later the passage was more effectually closed by a second
battery established on Bird island, opposite Venus Point and near the
south bank of the river. This was the same kind of low-lying flat with
the other islands in the neighborhood. When I made a visit to the work
some days afterward, it was at the period of a spring tide, and nearly
everything beyond the parapet was submerged. I was taken to the tent
of Major Beard, the commanding officer, in a row-boat. The plank floor
of the tent was just above the water level; but the major was lying,
high and dry, in a bunk of rough boards, smoking his pipe with an air
of supreme satisfaction. He had been from the start most active and
efficient in the work of establishing the blockade, and he now held the
advanced position, where it hardly looked as if he had ground enough to
stand on. He was commissioned as field officer in the Forty-eighth New
York, but had been detached for some weeks on special service at Hilton
Head and Daufuskie.
During this time we had at brigade headquarters several officers of the
regular army, whose acquaintance I greatly enjoyed. Captain Gillmore,
chief engineer of the expedition, then about thirty-seven years of
age, was with us from the first. Cheerful, hearty, enterprising, and
wholly devoted to his work, he was the moving spirit throughout. He
knew every detail of the engineering and artillery service, and his
knowledge was exact and thorough. It was his examination and advice
that determined the plan for the reduction of Fort Pulaski, and he
fixed upon the location of all the batteries on Tybee island. The river
blockade from Daufuskie was a part of his scheme, and while there he
spared no pains or fatigue to superintend everything and make sure
that it was done right. After this was completed, he returned to Tybee
island, to push on the works at that place with the same unremitting
persistency. The capture of the fort was the occasion of a well
deserved advancement in rank, and before the close of the war he became
major-general of volunteers.