Sketches round Wilmington--Public opinion--Approach to Charleston
and Fort Sumter--Introduction to General Beauregard--Ex-Governor
Manning--Conversation on the chances of the war--“King Cotton”
and England--Visit to Fort Sumter--Market-place at Charleston.
Early next morning, soon after dawn, I crossed the Cape Fear
River, on which Wilmington is situated, by a steam ferry-boat. On
the quay lay quantities of shot and shell. “How came these here?”
I inquired. “They’re anti-abolition pills,” said my neighbour;
“they’ve been waiting here for two months back, but now that
Sumter’s taken, I guess they won’t be wanted.” To my mind, the
conclusion was by no means legitimate. From the small glance I
had of Wilmington, with its fleet of schooners and brigs crowding
the broad and rapid river, I should think it was a thriving
place. Confederate flags waved over the public buildings, and I
was informed that the Forts had been seized without opposition
or difficulty. I can see no sign here of the “affection to the
Union,” which, according to Mr. Seward, underlies all “secession
proclivities.”
As we traversed the flat and uninteresting country, through which
the rail passes, Confederate flags and sentiments greeted us
everywhere; men and women repeated the national cry; at every
station militiamen and volunteers were waiting for the train, and
the everlasting word “Sumter” ran through all the conversation in
the cars.
The Carolinians are capable of turning out a fair force of cavalry.
At each stopping-place I observed saddle-horses tethered under the
trees, and light driving vehicles, drawn by wiry muscular animals,
not remarkable for size, but strong-looking and active. Some
farmers in blue jackets, and yellow braid and facings, handed round
their swords to be admired by the company. A few blades had flashed
in obscure Mexican skirmishes--one, however, had been borne against
“the Britishers.” I inquired of a fine, tall, fair-haired young
fellow whom they expected to fight. “That’s more than I can tell,”
quoth he. “The Yankees ain’t such cussed fools as to think they can
come here and whip us, let alone the British.” “Why, what have the
British got to do with it?” “They are bound to take our part: if
they don’t, we’ll just give them a hint about cotton, and that will
set matters right.” This was said very much with the air of a man
who knows what he is talking about, and who was quite satisfied “he
had you there.” I found it was still displeasing to most people,
particularly one or two of the fair sex, that more Yankees were not
killed at Sumter. All the people who addressed me prefixed my name,
which they soon found out, by “Major” or “Colonel”--“Captain” is
very low, almost indicative of contempt. The conductor who took our
tickets was called “Captain.”
At the Peedee River the rail is carried over marsh and stream on
trestle-work for two miles. “This is the kind of country we’ll
catch the Yankees in, if they come to invade us. They’ll have
some pretty tall swimming, and get knocked on the head, if ever
they gets to land. I wish there was ten thousand of the cusses
in it this minute.” At Nichol’s station on the frontiers of South
Carolina, our baggage was regularly examined at the Custom House,
but I did not see any one pay duties. As the train approached the
level and marshy land near Charleston, the square block of Fort
Sumter was seen rising above the water with the “stars and bars”
flying over it, and the spectacle created great enthusiasm among
the passengers. The smoke was still rising from an angle of the
walls. Outside the village-like suburbs of the city a regiment was
marching for old Virginny amid the cheers of the people--cavalry
were picketed in the fields and gardens--tents and men were visible
in the byways.
It was nearly dark when we reached the station. I was recommended
to go to the Mills House, and on arriving there found Mr. Ward,
whom I had already met in New York and Washington, and who gave me
an account of the bombardment and surrender of the fort. The hotel
was full of notabilities. I was introduced to ex-Governor Manning,
Senator Chesnut, Hon. Porcher Miles, on the staff of General
Beauregard, and to Colonel Lucas, aide-de-camp to Governor Pickens.
I was taken after dinner and introduced to General Beauregard,
who was engaged, late as it was, in his room at the Head Quarters
writing despatches. The General is a small, compact man, about
thirty-six years of age, with a quick, and intelligent eye and
action, and a good deal of the Frenchman in his manner and look. He
received me in the most cordial manner, and introduced me to his
engineer officer, Major Whiting, whom he assigned to lead me over
the works next day.
After some general conversation I took my leave; but before
I went, the General said, “You shall go everywhere and see
everything; we rely on your discretion, and knowledge of what is
fair in dealing with what you see. Of course you don’t expect to
find regular soldiers in our camps or very scientific works.” I
answered the General, that he might rely on my making no improper
use of what I saw in this country, but, “unless you tell me to the
contrary, I shall write an account of all I see to the other side
of the water, and if, when it comes back, there are things you
would rather not have known, you must not blame me.” He smiled, and
said, “I dare say we’ll have great changes by that time.”
That night I sat in the Charleston club with John Manning. Who that
has ever met him can be indifferent to the charms of manner and of
personal appearance, which render the ex-Governor of the State so
attractive? There were others present, senators or congressmen,
like Mr. Chesnut, and Mr. Porcher Miles. We talked long, and at
last angrily, as might be between friends, of political affairs.
I own it was a little irritating to me to hear men indulge in
extravagant broad menace and rhodomontade, such as came from their
lips. “They would welcome the world in arms with hospitable hands
to bloody graves.” “They never could be conquered.” “Creation
could not do it,” and so on. I was obliged to handle the question
quietly at first--to ask them “if they admitted the French were
a brave and warlike people!” “Yes, certainly.” “Do you think you
could better defend yourselves against invasion than the people of
France?” “Well, no; but we’d make it a pretty hard business for
the Yankees.” “Suppose the Yankees, as you call them, come with
such preponderance of men and matériel, that they are three to
your one, will you not be forced to submit?” “Never,” “Then either
you are braver, better disciplined, more warlike than the people
and soldiers of France, or you alone, of all the nations in the
world, possess the means of resisting physical laws which prevail
in war, as in other affairs of life.” “No. The Yankees are cowardly
rascals. We have proved it by kicking and cuffing them till we are
tired of it; besides, we know John Bull very well. He will make a
great fuss about non-interference at first, but when he begins to
want cotton he’ll come off his perch.” I found this was the fixed
idea everywhere. The doctrine of “cotton is king,”--to us who
have not much considered the question a grievous delusion or an
unmeaning babble--to them is a lively all-powerful faith without
distracting heresies or schisms. They have in it enunciated their
full belief, and indeed there is some truth in it, in so far as we
year after year by the stimulants of coal, capital, and machinery
have been working up a manufacture on which four or five millions
of our population depend for bread and life, which cannot be
carried on without the assistance of a nation, that may at any time
refuse us an adequate supply, or be cut off from giving it by war.
Political economy, we are well aware, is a fine science, but its
followers are capable of tremendous absurdities in practice. The
dependence of such a large proportion of the English people on this
sole article of American cotton is fraught with the utmost danger
to our honour and to our prosperity. Here were these Southern
gentlemen exulting in their power to control the policy of Great
Britain, and it was small consolation to me to assure them they
were mistaken; in case we did not act as they anticipated, it could
not be denied Great Britain would plunge an immense proportion of
her people--a nation of manufacturers--into pauperism, which must
leave them dependent on the national funds, or more properly on the
property and accumulated capital of the district.
About 8·30 P.M. a deep bell began to toll. “What is that?” “It’s
for all the coloured people to clear out of the streets and go
home. The guards will arrest any who are found out without passes
in half an hour.” There was much noise in the streets, drums
beating, men cheering, and marching, and the hotel is crammed full
with soldiers.
_April 17th._--The streets of Charleston present some such aspect
as those of Paris in the last revolution. Crowds of armed men
singing and promenading the streets. The battle-blood running
through their veins--that hot oxygen which is called “the flush of
victory” on the cheek; restaurants full, revelling in bar-rooms,
club-rooms crowded, orgies and carousings in tavern or private
house, in tap-room, from cabaret--down narrow alleys, in the broad
highway. Sumter has set them distraught; never was such a victory;
never such brave lads; never such a fight. There are pamphlets
already full of the incident. It is a bloodless Waterloo or
Solferino.
After breakfast I went down to the quay, with a party of the
General’s staff, to visit Fort Sumter. The senators and governors
turned soldiers wore blue military caps, with “palmetto” trees
embroidered thereon; blue frock-coats, with upright collars, and
shoulder-straps edged with lace, and marked with two silver
bars, to designate their rank of captain; gilt buttons, with the
palmetto in relief; blue trowsers, with a gold-lace cord, and brass
spurs--no straps. The day was sweltering, but a strong breeze
blew in the harbour, and puffed the dust of Charleston, coating
our clothes, and filling our eyes with powder. The streets were
crowded with lanky lads, clanking spurs, and sabres, with awkward
squads marching to and fro, with drummers beating calls, and
ruffles, and points of war; around them groups of grinning negroes
delighted with the glare and glitter, a holiday, and a new idea
for them--secession flags waving out of all the windows--little
Irish boys shouting out, “Battle of Fort Sumter! New edishun!”--As
we walked down towards the quay, where the steamer was lying,
numerous traces of the unsettled state of men’s minds broke out
in the hurried conversations of the various friends who stopped
to speak for a few moments. “Well, governor, the old Union is
gone at last!” “Have you heard what Abe is going to do?” “I don’t
think Beauregard will have much more fighting for it. What do you
think?” And so on. Our little Creole friend, by-the-bye, is popular
beyond description. There are all kinds of doggerel rhymes in his
honour--one with a refrain--
“With cannon and musket, with shell and petard,
We salute the North with our Beau-regard”--
is much in favour.
We passed through the market, where the stalls are kept by fat
negresses and old “unkeys.” There is a sort of vulture or buzzard
here, much encouraged as scavengers, and--but all the world has
heard of the Charleston vultures--so we will leave them to their
garbage. Near the quay, where the steamer was lying, there is a
very fine building in white marble, which attracted our notice. It
was unfinished, and immense blocks of the glistening stone destined
for its completion, lay on the ground. “What is that?” I inquired.
“Why, it’s a custom-house Uncle Sam was building for our benefit,
but I don’t think he’ll ever raise a cent for his treasury out of
it.” “Will you complete it?” “I should think not. We’ll lay on
few duties; and what we want is free-trade, and no duties at all,
except for public purposes. The Yankees have plundered us with
their custom-houses and duties long enough.” An old gentleman here
stopped us. “You will do me the greatest favour,” he said to one of
our party who knew him, “if you will get me something to do for our
glorious cause. Old as I am, I can carry a musket--not far, to be
sure, but I can kill a Yankee if he comes near.” When he had gone,
my friend told me the speaker was a man of fortune, two of whose
sons were in camp at Morris’ Island, but that he was suspected of
Union sentiments, as he had a Northern wife, and hence his extreme
vehemence and devotion.