Army Life in a Black Regiment | Page 9

twilight the air is full of singing, talking, and
clapping of hands in unison. One of their favorite songs is full of
plaintive cadences; it is not, I think, a Methodist tune, and I wonder
where they obtained a chant of such beauty.
"I can't stay behind, my Lord, I can't stay behind! O, my father is gone,
my father is gone, My father is gone into heaven, my Lord! I can't stay
behind! Dere's room enough, room enough, Room enough in de heaven
for de sojer: Can't stay behind!"
It always excites them to have us looking on, yet they sing these songs
at all times and seasons. I have heard this very song dimly droning on
near midnight, and, tracing it into the recesses of a cook-house, have
found an old fellow coiled away among the pots and provisions,
chanting away with his "Can't stay behind, sinner," till I made him
leave his song behind.
This evening, after working themselves up to the highest pitch, a party
suddenly rushed off, got a barrel, and mounted some man upon it, who
said, "Gib anoder song, boys, and I'se gib you a speech." After some
hesitation and sundry shouts of "Rise de sing, somebody," and "Stan'
up for Jesus, brud-der," irreverently put in by the juveniles, they got
upon the John Brown song, always a favorite, adding a jubilant verse
which I had never before heard,--"We'll beat Beauregard on de clare
battlefield." Then came the promised speech, and then no less than
seven other speeches by as many men, on a variety of barrels, each
orator being affectionately tugged to the pedestal and set on end by his
specal constituency. Every speech was good, without exception; with
the queerest oddities of phrase and pronunciation, there was an
invariable enthusiasm, a pungency of statement, and an understanding
of the points at issue, which made them all rather thrilling. Those
long-winded slaves in "Among the Pines" seemed rather fictitious and

literary in comparison. The most eloquent, perhaps, was Corporal Price
Lambkin, just arrived from Fernandina, who evidently had a previous
reputation among them. His historical references were very interesting.
He reminded them that he had predicted this war ever since Fremont's
time, to which some of the crowd assented; he gave a very intelligent
account of that Presidential campaign, and then described most
impressively the secret anxiety of the slaves in Florida to know all
about President Lincoln's election, and told how they all refused to
work on the fourth of March, expecting their freedom to date from that
day. He finally brought out one of the few really impressive appeals for
the American flag that I have ever heard. "Our mas'rs dey hab lib under
de flag, dey got dere wealth under it, and ebryting beautiful for dere
chilen. Under it dey hab grind us up, and put us in dere pocket for
money. But de fus' minute dey tink dat ole flag mean freedom for we
colored people, dey pull it right down, and run up de rag ob dere own."
(Immense applause). "But we'll neber desert de ole flag, boys, neber;
we hab lib under it for eighteen hundred sixty-two years, and we'll die
for it now." With which overpowering discharge of
chronology-at-long-range, this most effective of stump-speeches closed.
I see already with relief that there will be small demand in this
regiment for harangues from the officers; give the men an empty barrel
for a stump, and they will do their own exhortation.
December 11, 1862.
Haroun Alraschid, wandering in disguise through his imperial streets,
scarcely happened upon a greater variety of groups than I, in my
evening strolls among our own camp-fires.
Beside some of these fires the men are cleaning their guns or rehearsing
their drill,--beside others, smoking in silence their very scanty supply
of the beloved tobacco,--beside others, telling stories and shouting with
laughter over the broadest mimicry, in which they excel, and in which
the officers come in for a full share. The everlasting "shout" is always
within hearing, with its mixture of piety and polka, and its castanet-like
clapping of the hands. Then there are quieter prayer-meetings, with
pious invocations and slow psalms, "deaconed out" from memory by
the leader, two lines at a time, in a sort of wailing chant. Elsewhere,
there are conversazioni around fires, with a woman for queen of the
circle,--her Nubian face, gay headdress, gilt necklace, and white teeth,

all resplendent in the glowing light. Sometimes the woman is spelling
slow monosyllables out of a primer, a feat which always commands all
ears,--they rightly recognizing a mighty spell, equal to the
overthrowing of monarchs, in the magic assonance of _cat, hat, pat,
bat_, and the rest of it. Elsewhere, it is some solitary old cook, some
aged Uncle Tiff, with