Army Life in a Black Regiment | Page 3

spectacle since so common, seemed then the most daring of
innovations, and the whole demeanor of this particular regiment was
watched with microscopic scrutiny by friends and foes. I felt
sometimes as if we were a plant trying to take root, but constantly
pulled up to see if we were growing. The slightest camp incidents
sometimes came back to us, magnified and distorted, in letters of
anxious inquiry from remote parts of the Union. It was no pleasant
thing to live under such constant surveillance; but it guaranteed the
honesty of any success, while fearfully multiplying the penalties had
there been a failure. A single mutiny, such as has happened in the
infancy of a hundred regiments, a single miniature Bull Run, a
stampede of desertions, and it would have been all over with us; the
party of distrust would have got the upper hand, and there might not
have been, during the whole contest, another effort to arm the negro.
I may now proceed, without farther preparation to the Diary.

Chapter 2
Camp Diary
CAMP SAXTON, near Beaufort, S. C., November 24, 1862.
Yesterday afternoon we were steaming over a summer sea, the deck
level as a parlor-floor, no land in sight, no sail, until at last appeared
one light-house, said to be Cape Romaine, and then a line of trees and
two distant vessels and nothing more. The sun set, a great illuminated
bubble, submerged in one vast bank of rosy suffusion; it grew dark;
after tea all were on deck, the people sang hymns; then the moon set, a
moon two days old, a curved pencil of light, reclining backwards on a
radiant couch which seemed to rise from the waves to receive it; it sank
slowly, and the last tip wavered and went down like the mast of a
vessel of the skies. Towards morning the boat stopped, and when I
came on deck, before six,
"The watch-lights glittered on the land, The ship-lights on the sea."
Hilton Head lay on one side, the gunboats on the other; all that was raw
and bare in the low buildings of the new settlement was softened into
picturesqueness by the early light. Stars were still overhead, gulls
wheeled and shrieked, and the broad river rippled duskily towards
Beaufort.
The shores were low and wooded, like any New England shore; there
were a few gunboats, twenty schooners, and some steamers, among
them the famous "Planter," which Robert Small, the slave, presented to
the nation. The river-banks were soft and graceful, though low, and as
we steamed up to Beaufort on the flood-tide this morning, it seemed
almost as fair as the smooth and lovely canals which Stedman traversed
to meet his negro soldiers in Surinam. The air was cool as at home, yet
the foliage seemed green, glimpses of stiff tropical vegetation appeared
along the banks, with great clumps of shrubs, whose pale seed-vessels
looked like tardy blossoms. Then we saw on a picturesque point an old
plantation, with stately magnolia avenue, decaying house, and tiny
church amid the woods, reminding me of Virginia; behind it stood a
neat encampment of white tents, "and there," said my companion, "is
your future regiment."
Three miles farther brought us to the pretty town of Beaufort, with its
stately houses amid Southern foliage. Reporting to General Saxton, I

had the luck to encounter a company of my destined command,
marched in to be mustered into the United States service. They were
unarmed, and all looked as thoroughly black as the most faithful
philanthropist could desire; there did not seem to be so much as a
mulatto among them. Their coloring suited me, all but the legs, which
were clad in a lively scarlet, as intolerable to my eyes as if I had been a
turkey. I saw them mustered; General Saxton talked to them a little, in
his direct, manly way; they gave close attention, though their faces
looked impenetrable. Then I conversed with some of them. The first to
whom I spoke had been wounded in a small expedition after lumber,
from which a party had just returned, and in which they had been under
fire and had done very well. I said, pointing to his lame arm,
"Did you think that was more than you bargained for, my man?"
His answer came promptly and stoutly,
"I been a-tinking, Mas'r, dot's jess what I went for."
I thought this did well enough for my very first interchange of dialogue
with my recruits.
November 27, 1862.
Thanksgiving-Day; it is the first moment I have had for writing during
these three days, which have installed me into a new mode of life so
thoroughly that they seem three years. Scarcely pausing in New York
or in Beaufort, there seems to have been for me but