Atlantic Monthly, Volume 12, No. 73, November, 1863 by Various

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Volume 12, No. 73, November, 1863

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Thank Heaven for the immortality of love! for when all other means of
salvation failed, a spark of this vital fire softened the man's iron
will until a woman's hand could bend it. He let me take from him the
key, let me draw him gently away and lead him to the solitude which now
was the most healing balm I could bestow. Once in his little room, he
fell down on his bed and lay there as if spent with the sharpest
conflict of his life. I slipped the bolt across his door, and unlocked
my own, flung up the window, steadied myself with a breath of air, then
rushed to Doctor Franck. He came; and till dawn we worked together,
saving one brother's life, and taking earnest thought how best to secure
the other's liberty. When the sun came up as blithely as if it shone
only upon happy homes, the Doctor went to Robert. For an hour I heard
the murmur of their voices; once I caught the sound of heavy sobs, and
for a time a reverent hush, as if in the silence that good man were
ministering to soul as well as sense. When he departed he took Robert
with him, pausing to tell me he should get him off as soon as possible,
but not before we met again.

Nothing more was seen of them all day; another surgeon came to see the
captain, and another attendant came to fill the empty place. I tried to
rest, but could not, with the thought of poor Lucy tugging at my heart,
and was soon back at my post again, anxiously hoping that my contraband
had not been too hastily spirited away. Just as night fell there came a
tap, and opening, I saw Robert literally "clothed and in his right
mind." The Doctor had replaced the ragged suit with tidy garments, and
no trace of that tempestuous night remained but deeper lines upon the
forehead and the docile look of a repentant child. He did not cross the
threshold, did not offer me his hand,--only took off his cap, saying,
with a traitorous falter in his voice,--

"God bless you, Ma'am! I'm goin'."

I put out both my hands, and held his fast.

"Good bye, Robert! Keep up good heart, and when I come home to
Massachusetts we'll meet in a happier place than this. Are you quite
ready, quite comfortable for your journey?"

"Yes, Ma'am, yes; the Doctor's fixed everything; I'm goin' with a friend
of his; my papers are all right, an' I'm as happy as I can be till I
find"--

He stopped there; then went on, with a glance into the room,--

"I'm glad I didn't do it, an' I thank yer, Ma'am, fer hinderin'
me,--thank yer hearty; but I'm afraid I hate him jest the same."

Of course he did; and so did I; for these faulty hearts of ours cannot
turn perfect in a night, but need frost and fire, wind and rain, to
ripen and make them ready for the great harvest-home. Wishing to divert
his mind, I put my poor mite into his hand, and, remembering the magic
of a certain little book, I gave him mine, on whose dark cover whitely
shone the Virgin Mother and the Child, the grand history of whose life
the book contained. The money went into Robert's pocket with a grateful
murmur, the book into his bosom with a long look and a tremulous--

"I never saw _my_ baby, Ma'am."

I broke down then; and though my eyes were too dim to see, I felt the
touch of lips upon my hands, heard the sound of departing feet, and knew
my contraband was gone.

When one feels an intense dislike, the less one says about the subject
of it the better; therefore I shall merely record that the captain
lived,--in time was exchanged; and that, whoever the other party was, I
am convinced the Government got the best of the bargain. But long before
this occurred, I had fulfilled my promise to Robert; for as soon as my
patient recovered strength of memory enough to make his answer
trustworthy, I asked, without any circumlocution,--

"Captain Fairfax, where is Lucy?"

And too feeble to be angry, surprised, or insincere, he straightway
answered,--

"Dead, Miss Dane."

"And she killed herself, when you sold Bob?"

"How the Devil did you know that?" he muttered, with an expression
half-remorseful, half-amazed; but I was satisfied, and said no more.

Of course, this went to Robert, waiting far away there in a lonely
home,--waiting, working, hoping for his Lucy. It almost broke my heart
to do it; but delay was weak, deceit was wicked; so I sent the heavy
tidings, and very soon the answer came,--only three lines; but I felt
that the sustaining power of the man's life was gone.

"I thought I'd never see her any more; I'm glad to know she's out of
trouble. I thank yer, Ma'am; an' if they let us, I'll fight fer yer till
I'm killed, which I hope will be 'fore long."

Six months later he had his wish, and kept his word.

Every one knows the story of the attack on Fort Wagner; but we should
not tire yet of recalling how our Fifty-Fourth, spent with three
sleepless nights, a day's fast, and a march under the July sun, stormed
the fort as night fell, facing death in many shapes, following their
brave leaders through a fiery rain of shot and shell, fighting valiantly
for "God and Governor Andrew,"--how the regiment that went into action
seven hundred strong came out having had nearly half its number
captured, killed, or wounded, leaving their young commander to be
buried, like a chief of earlier times, with his body-guard around him,
faithful to the death. Surely, the insult turns to honor, and the wide
grave needs no monument but the heroism that consecrates it in our
sight; surely, the hearts that held him nearest see through their tears
a noble victory in the seeming sad defeat; and surely, God's benediction
was bestowed, when this loyal soul answered, as Death called the roll,
"Lord, here am I, with the brothers Thou hast given me!"

The future must show how well that fight was fought; for though Fort
Wagner still defies us, public prejudice is down; and through the
cannon-smoke of that black night the manhood of the colored race shines
before many eyes that would not see, rings in many ears that would not
hear, wins many hearts that would not hitherto believe.

When the news came that we were needed, there was none so glad as I to
leave teaching contrabands, the new work I had taken up, and go to nurse
"our boys," as my dusky flock so proudly called the wounded of the
Fifty-Fourth. Feeling more satisfaction, as I assumed my big apron and
turned up my cuffs, than if dressing for the President's levee, I fell
to work on board the hospital-ship in Hilton-Head harbor. The scene was
most familiar, and yet strange; for only dark faces looked up at me from
the pallets so thickly laid along the floor, and I missed the sharp
accent of my Yankee boys in the slower, softer voices calling cheerily
to one another, or answering my questions with a stout, "We'll never
give it up, Ma'am, till the last Reb's dead," or, "If our people's free,
we can afford to die."

Passing from bed to bed, intent on making one pair of hands do the work
of three, at least, I gradually washed, fed, and bandaged my way down
the long line of sable heroes, and coming to the very last, found that
he was my contraband. So old, so worn, so deathly weak and wan, I never
should have known him but for the deep scar on his cheek. That side lay
uppermost, and caught my eye at once; but even then I doubted, such an
awful change had come upon him, when, turning to the ticket just above
his head, I saw the name, "Robert Dane." That both assured and touched
me, for, remembering that he had no name, I knew that he had taken mine.
I longed for him to speak to me, to tell how he had fared since I lost
sight of him, and let me perform some little service for him in return
for many he had done for me; but he seemed asleep; and as I stood
reliving that strange night again, a bright lad, who lay next him softly
waving an old fan across both beds, looked up and said,--

"I guess you know him, Ma'am?"

"You are right. Do you?"

"As much as any one was able to, Ma'am."

"Why do you say 'was,' as if the man were dead and gone?"

"I s'pose because I know he'll have to go. He's got a bad jab in the
breast, an' is bleedin' inside, the Doctor says. He don't suffer any,
only gets weaker 'n' weaker every minute. I've been fannin' him this
long while, an' he's talked a little; but he don't know me now, so he's
most gone, I guess."

There was so much sorrow and affection in the boy's face, that I
remembered something, and asked, with redoubled interest,--

"Are you the one that brought him off? I was told about a boy who nearly
lost his life in saving that of his mate."

I dare say the young fellow blushed, as any modest lad might have done;
I could not see it, but I heard the chuckle of satisfaction that escaped
him, as he glanced from his shattered arm and bandaged side to the pale
figure opposite.

"Lord, Ma'am, that's nothin'; we boys always stan' by one another, an' I
warn't goin' to leave him to be tormented any more by them cussed Rebs.
He's been a slave once, though he don't look half so much like it as me,
an' I was born in Boston."

He did not; for the speaker was as black as the ace of spades,--being a
sturdy specimen, the knave of clubs would perhaps be a fitter
representative,--but the dark freeman looked at the white slave with the
pitiful, yet puzzled expression I have so often seen on the faces of our
wisest men, when this tangled question of Slavery presents itself,
asking to be cut or patiently undone.

"Tell me what you know of this man; for, even if he were awake, he is
too weak to talk."

"I never saw him till I joined the regiment, an' no one 'peared to have
got much out of him. He was a shut-up sort of feller, an' didn't seem to
care for anything but gettin' at the Rebs. Some say he was the fust man
of us that enlisted; I know he fretted till we were off, an' when we
pitched into old Wagner, he fought like the Devil."

"Were you with him when he was wounded? How was it?"

"Yes, Ma'am. There was somethin' queer about it; for he 'peared to know
the chap that killed him, an' the chap knew him. I don't dare to ask,
but I rather guess one owned the other some time,--for, when they
clinched, the chap sung out, 'Bob!' an' Dane, 'Marster Ned!'--then they
went at it."

I sat down suddenly, for the old anger and compassion struggled in my
heart, and I both longed and feared to hear what was to follow.

"You see, when the Colonel--Lord keep an' send him back to us!--it a'n't
certain yet, you know, Ma'am, though it's two days ago we lost
him--well, when the Colonel shouted, 'Rush on, boys, rush on!' Dane tore
away as if he was goin' to take the fort alone; I was next him, an' kept
close as we went through the ditch an' up the wall. Hi! warn't that a
rusher!" and the boy flung up his well arm with a whoop, as if the mere
memory of that stirring moment came over him in a gust of irrepressible
excitement.

"Were you afraid?" I said,--asking the question women often put, and
receiving the answer they seldom fail to get.

"No, Ma'am!"--emphasis on the "Ma'am,"--"I never thought of anything but
the damn' Rebs, that scalp, slash, an' cut our ears off, when they git
us. I was bound to let daylight into one of 'em at least, an' I did.
Hope he liked it!"

"It is evident that you did, and I don't blame you in the least. Now go
on about Robert, for I should be at work."

"He was one of the fust up; I was just behind, an' though the whole
thing happened in a minute, I remember how it was, for all I was yellin'
an' knockin' round like mad. Just where we were, some sort of an officer
was wavin' his sword an' cheerin' on his men; Dane saw him by a big
flash that come by; he flung away his gun, give a leap, an' went at that
feller as if he was Jeff, Beauregard, an' Lee, all in one. I scrabbled
after as quick as I could, but was only up in time to see him git the
sword straight through him an' drop into the ditch. You needn't ask what
I did next, Ma'am, for I don't quite know myself; all I'm clear about
is, that I managed somehow to pitch that Reb into the fort as dead as
Moses, git hold of Dane, an' bring him off. Poor old feller! we said we
went in to live or die; he said he went in to die, an' he's done it."

I had been intently watching the excited speaker; but as he regretfully
added those last words I turned again, and Robert's eyes met
mine,--those melancholy eyes, so full of an intelligence that proved he
had heard, remembered, and reflected with that preternatural power which
often outlives all other faculties. He knew me, yet gave no greeting;
was glad to see a woman's face, yet had no smile wherewith to welcome
it; felt that he was dying, yet uttered no farewell. He was too far
across the river to return or linger now; departing thought, strength,
breath, were spent in one grateful look, one murmur of submission to the
last pang he could ever feel. His lips moved, and, bending to them, a
whisper chilled my cheek, as it shaped the broken words,--

"I would have done it,--but it's better so,--I'm satisfied."

Ah! well he might be,--for, as he turned his face from the shadow of the
life that was, the sunshine of the life to be touched it with a
beautiful content, and in the drawing of a breath my contraband found
wife and home, eternal liberty and God.

* * * * *

THE SAM ADAMS REGIMENTS IN THE TOWN OF BOSTON.--CONCLUDED.[1]

THE REMOVAL.

"I have been in constant panic," wrote Franklin in London to Dr. Cooper
in Boston, "since I heard of troops assembling in Boston, lest the
madness of mobs, or the interference of soldiers, or both, when too near
each other, might occasion some mischief difficult to be prevented or
repaired, and which might spread far and wide."

The people wore indignant at the introduction of the troops, and the
crown officials were arrogant and goading; but so wise and forbearing
were the popular leaders, that, for ten months, from October, 1768, to
August, 1769, no detriment came to their cause from the madness of mobs
or the insolence of soldiers. The Loyalists, in this public order, saw
the wholesome terror with which military force had imbued the community;
they said this "had prevented, if it had not put a final period to, its
most pestilential town-meetings": but they termed this quiet "only a
truce procured from the dread of the bayonet"; and they held that
nothing would reach and suppress the rising spirit of independence but a
radical stroke at the democratic element in the local Constitution. They
relied on physical force to carry out such a policy, and hence they
looked on the demand of the people for a withdrawal of the troops as
equivalent to a demand for the abandonment of their policy and the
abdication of the Government. The partial removal already made caused
great chagrin. The report, at first, was hardly credited in British
political circles, and, when confirmed, was construed into inability,
inconsistency, and concession by the Administration, and a sign that
things were growing worse in America.

General Gage had withdrawn the Sixty-Fourth and Sixty-Fifth Regiments,
the detachment of the Fifty-Ninth, and the company of artillery, which
left the Fourteenth Regiment under Lieutenant-Colonel Dalrymple and the
Twenty-Ninth under Lieutenant-Colonel Carr,--the two regiments which
Lord North termed "the Sam Adams Regiments,"--not enough, if the
Ministers intended to govern by military force, and too many, if they
did not intend this. They continued under General Mackay until he left
for England, when the command devolved on Lieutenant-Colonel Dalrymple,
the senior officer, under whom they had landed, who was exacting, severe
in his judgment on the Patriots, and impatient of professional service.
Commodore Hood and his family also sailed for Halifax. Both Mackay and
Hood, aiming at reconciliation, and liberal in non-essentials, easily
won the general good-will. The disuse of the press-gang, which even
"Junius" was now justifying, and which England had not learned to
abominate, but which rowelled the differently trained mind of the
Colonies, was regarded as a great concession to personal liberty; and
the discontinuance of parades and horse-racing on Sundays was accepted
as a concession to a religious sentiment that was very general, and
which, so far from deserving the sneer of being hypocritical, indicated
the wide growth of respect for things noble and divine. These officers
seemed, at least, to steer clear of political matters, to keep to the
line of their profession, and to make the best of an irksome duty. They
lived on good terms with the popular leaders, were invited to visit the
common-schools with the Selectmen, appeared at the public festivals,
and, on their departure, were handsomely complimented in both the Whig
and Tory journals for the manner in which they had discharged their
duties. They were, however, no mere lookers-on, and their official
representations and conclusions were no more far-reaching than those of
their superiors. Hood, from Halifax, wrote in harsh terms of Boston,
although he put on record severe and true things of that chronic local
infliction, the Commissioners of the Customs. His official letters,
printed this year, were open to sharp criticism, which they received in
the journals. Not, however, until the publication of the Cavendish
Debates was it known that General Mackay, who was regarded as uncommonly
liberal, received every personal attention, and was the most
complimented by the press, stood up in the House of Commons, soon after
his arrival in England, and maligned Boston in severe terms. He charged
the town with being without government; said it was tyrannized over by a
set of men hardly respectable, in point of fortune; and even had the
hardihood to say that some of the troops he commanded there had been
sold for slaves!

Boston, now a subject of speculation in Continental courts, as well as
of abuse in Parliament, was destined to undergo a still severer trial
for the succeeding seven months, from August, 1769, to March, 1770,
during the continuance of the two remaining regiments. This was an
eventful period, characterized by violent agitation in the Colonies to
promote a repeal of the revenue acts and an abandonment of the
intermeddling and aggressive policy of the Ministry; and it was marked
by uncommon political activity in Boston. The popular leaders, as
though no British troops were lookers-on, and in spite, too, of the
protests and commands of the crown officials, steadily guided the
deliberations of the people in Faneuil Hall; and at times the disorderly
also, in violations of law and personal liberty that can never be
justified, intrepidly carried out their projects. The events of this
period tended powerfully to inflame the public mind. The appeals of the
Patriots, through the press, show their appreciation of the danger of an
outbreak, and yet their determination to meet their whole duty. They
endeavored to restrain the rash among the Sons of Liberty within the
safe precincts of the law; yet, repelling all thought of submission to
arbitrary power, they strove to lift up the general mind to the high
plane of action which a true patriotism demanded, and prepare it, if
need were, for the majestic work of revolution.

The executive, during an interval thus exciting and important, was in a
transition-state, from Francis Bernard to Thomas Hutchinson. It was
semi-officially announced in the journals, when the Governor sailed for
England, that the Administration had no intention of superseding his
commission; and it was intimated that the Lieutenant-Governor would
administer the functions of the office until the return of the chief
magistrate to his post. These officials, for nine years, had been warm
personal friends and intimate political associates. Indeed, so close had
been their private and public relations, that Bernard ascribed the
origin of his administrative difficulties to his adoption of the
quarrels of Hutchinson. For a long time, the Governor had been seeking
and expecting something better in the political line than his present
office, as a substantial recognition of his zeal; and he had urged, and
was now urging, the selection of the Lieutenant-Governor for his
successor in office. He represented that Hutchinson was well versed in
the local affairs,--knew the motives of the Governor,--warmly approved
the policy of the Ministry,--had been, on critical occasions, a trusted
confidential adviser,--and, in fact, had become so thoroughly identified
with public affairs, that, of the two officials, he (Hutchinson) was the
most hated by the faction, which the Governor seemed to consider a
special recommendation. He favored this appointment as a measure that
would be equivalent to an indorsement of his own administration, and
therefore a compliment to himself and a blow at the faction. "It would
be," he said, "a peculiarly happy stroke; for while it would discourage
the Sons of Liberty, it would afford another great instance of rewarding
faithful servants to the Crown."

Thomas Hutchinson, descended from one of the most respected families of
New England, and the son of an honored merchant of Boston, was now
fifty-seven years of age. He was a pupil at the Old North Grammar
School, and was graduated at Harvard College, when he entered upon a
mercantile life. He was not successful as a merchant. Thus early,
however, he evinced the untiring industry that marked his whole career.
He had a decided political turn, and, with uncommon natural talent, had
the capacity and the ambition for public life. An irreproachable private
character, pleasing manners, common-sense views of things, and politics
rather adroit than high-toned, secured him a run of popular favor and
executive confidence so long that he had now (1769) been thirty-three
years uninterruptedly engaged in public affairs; and he confessed to his
friends that this concern in politics had created a hankering for them
which a return to business-pursuits could not overcome. He had reason to
be gratified at the tokens of public approbation. He was so faithful to
the municipal interests as a Selectman that the town intrusted him with
an important mission to England, which he satisfactorily executed; his
wide commercial knowledge, familiarity with constitutional law and
history, decided ability in debate, and reputed disinterestedness, gave
him large influence as a Representative in the General Court; he showed
as Councillor an ever ready zeal for the prerogative, and thus won the
most confidential relations with so obsequious a courtier as Bernard; as
Judge of Probate, he was attentive, kind to the widow, accurate, and won
general commendation; and as a member of the Superior Court, he
administered the law, in the main, satisfactorily. He had been Chief
Justice for nine years, and for eleven years the Lieutenant-Governor. He
had also prepared two volumes of his History, which, though rough in
narrative, is a valuable authority, and his volume of "Collections" was
now announced. His fame at the beginning of the Revolutionary
controversy was at its zenith; for, according to John Adams, "he had
been admired, revered, rewarded, and almost adored; and the idea was
common that he was the greatest and best man in America." He was now,
and had been for years, the master-spirit of the Loyalist party. It Is
an anomaly that he should have attained to this position. He had had
practical experience, as a merchant, of the intolerable injustice of the
old mercantile system, and yet he sided with its friends; he had dealt,
as a politician, to a greater degree than most men, with the rights and
privileges which the people prized, conceded that they had made no ill
use of them, and yet urged that they ought to be abridged; as a patriot,
when he loved his native land wisely, he remonstrated against the
imposition of the Stamp Tax, and yet he grew into one of the sturdiest
of the defenders of the supremacy of Parliament in all cases whatsoever.
He exhibited the usual characteristics of public men who from unworthy
considerations change their principles and desert their party. No man
urged a more arbitrary course; no man passed more discreditable
judgments on his patriot contemporaries; and if in that way he won the
smiles of the court which he was swift to serve, he earned the hatred of
the land which he professed to love. The more his political career is
studied, the greater will be the wonder that one who was reared on
republican soil, and had antecedents so honorable, should have become so
complete an exponent of arbitrary power.

Hutchinson was not so blinded by party-spirit or love of money or of
place as not to see the living realities of his time; for he wrote that
a thirst for liberty seemed to be the ruling passion, not only of
America, but of the age, and that a mighty empire was rising on this
continent, the progress of which would be a theme for speculative and
ingenious minds in distant ages. It was the vision of the cold and clear
intellect, distrusting the march of events and the capacity and
intelligence of the people, he had no heart to admire, he had not even
the justice to recognize, the greatness that was making an immortal
record,--the sublime faith, the divine enthusiasm, the dauntless
resolve, the priceless consciousness of being in the right, that were
the life and inspiration of the lovers of freedom. He conceded, however,
that the body of the people were honest, but acted on the belief,
inspired by wrong-headed leaders, that their liberties were in danger;
and while, with the calculation of the man of the world, he dreaded, and
endeavored to stem, still, with a statesman's foresight, he appreciated
and held in respect, the mysterious element of public opinion. He felt
that it was rising as a power. He saw this power already intrenched in
the impregnable lines of free institutions. Seeking to know its springs,
he was a close and at times a shrewd observer, as well from a habit of
research, in tracing the currents of the past, as from occupying a
position which made it a duty to watch the growth of what influenced the
present. His letters, very voluminous, deal with causes as well as with
facts, and are often fine tributes to the life-giving power of vital
political ideas, from the pen of a subtle and determined enemy.

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