IN CAMP.
Negro soldiers on the Sea islands have long since ceased to be objects of wonder or curiosity, and may be seen to-day in camp, on picket, or on detached service, everywhere doing their work in a quiet, soldierly manner, and attracting no more attention than the white troops about them. Through many difficulties, and against great opposition, they have conquered their present honorable position in the Department of the South. The untimely draft of the freedmen made by General Hunter in May, 1862, the violence and deception with which the order was enforced, as well as the refusal of the Government to receive these regiments into the service, causing the dispersion of the troops without pay and without honor, was enough to discourage all further enlistment. But when, last winter, General Saxton called for volunteers, an entire regiment was soon raised, and early in the present year, the 1st South Carolina Volunteers were ready to take the field. Fortunately for the regiment and for the country, the services of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, of Worcester, Mass., were secured as commander of this first regiment of Union soldiers raised in South Carolina. 'The right man in the right place' has not become so common a sight in our army, as to prevent our being thankful that so fit an appointment was made and accepted. Surely we are but just beginning to learn what heroes we have, when we see a man of high literary attainments, whose eloquent words, both spoken and written, have contributed so largely to the physical, mental, and moral culture of his countrymen, laying down the pen for the sword at the call of duty, and winning at once by his wisdom and skill the two highest objects of an officer's ambition, the devotion of his men, and the commendation of his superiors.
Soon after arriving at Port Royal, I paid a visit to Colonel Higginson's regiment, then encamped about four miles from Beaufort. Setting out on horseback in company with one of the superintendents, our ride took us along the banks of the Beaufort river, past cotton plantations, and through pleasant woods bright with the golden blossoms of the pines. Although it was early in February, we saw the negroes at work in the fields, 'listing' the ground—a process of breaking up the soil with hoes—while here and there a solitary palmetto stood, like a scarecrow, as if to warn away all invaders. We soon reached 'Camp Saxton,' which we found pleasantly situated near a large and magnificent grove of live oaks, just at the bend of the river, where a fine view is given of the winding stream, the harbor of Port Royal, and the low-lying islands in the distance. The grove, which is the handsomest on the islands, was formerly part of a plantation belonging to a master well known by his cruelty toward his slaves, and the tree which served as the whipping post is still pointed out. A short distance from the camp, by the river side, may be seen the remains of an old Spanish fort, built of oyster shells, and said to have been erected in the year 1637.
To one accustomed to notice the sanitary appearance of camps, the neatness observable both in the streets and tents of 'Camp Saxton' was an agreeable surprise. Few camps in any department of the army are better policed, or present to the visitor such a general air of order and cleanliness as this first encampment of Colonel Higginson's regiment. As we enter one of the streets a company inspection of arms is going on, which displays to good advantage the proficiency of the colored soldier in the minutiæ of his work. Soon after, we are summoned to witness a battalion drill, and my companion, who has been both an army officer and a 'Democrat,' is extravagant in his praise of the movements and evolutions of the troops. Before leaving the camp we visit the snug and comfortable hospital into which Yankee ingenuity has metamorphosed the upper story of an old ginhouse. The surgeon informs us that the most common disease in the regiment is pneumonia, and that, in order to guard as far as possible against this, he has the middle board of the tent floor taken up just at night, and a fire built on the ground, to remove the dampness.
We are careful to make our exit at the proper place, as negro soldiers on guard observe unwonted strictness, and we hear of their having threatened to shoot the commanding general himself for attempting to pass out at some other than the regular passage way.
I have seen the soldiers of Colonel Higginson's regiment on several other occasions than the one above described, and have always found them displaying the same soldierly qualities. Their picketing of Port Royal island has not been surpassed by any white regiment for the rigor and watchfulness with which it was enforced. 'Will they fight?' is a question which the events of the war are fast answering in the affirmative. The South Carolina volunteers have not as yet met the rebels in close conflict; but, in holding captured places against large numbers of the enemy, in passing rebel batteries on the Florida rivers, and in hazardous excursions into the heart of the enemy's country, where they have been constantly exposed to the fire of sharp-shooters and guerillas, they have behaved as bravely as any other regiments in the service; while they have united to their ready obedience and prompt execution of orders, a dash and fierceness such as might have been expected from their excitable nature when under the stimulus of actual warfare. In view, therefore, of the admirable manner in which these freedmen have performed all the duties of a soldier's life which have thus far been required of them, it is fair to presume that in the fierce shock of open battle, they will acquit themselves like men. A striking illustration of the wide difference between the theories of those who oppose the use of the negro as a soldier, and the facts which the war is constantly revealing, was furnished on our passage from North Carolina to Port Royal. 'Will the negro troops be clean?' was asked of an officer of the regular army, and his reply was a highly wrought and imaginary description of the horrible condition of the garrisons, and the fearful epidemics, which would be occasioned by placing black soldiers in the forts on our Southern coast. The facts of the case in reference to the comparative cleanliness of white and black troops showed that, while the companies of regulars under this officer's care habitually neglected on ship-board the simplest sanitary regulations, such as sweeping and washing the decks, the negro soldiers who had been taken on our Government transports to various points on the Florida coast, daily observed these important rules, gaining thereby the commendation of the ship's officers, and promoting at the same time their own health and comfort. The explanation of this fact is found in the prompt and unquestioning obedience of the black soldier, the peculiar characteristic of those who have been accustomed in a state of servitude to execute the commands of those who were over them.
The tide of public opinion is setting so strongly in favor of the use of negroes as soldiers, that the present danger seems to lie in the direction of our indulging in too extravagant expectations of their efficiency. We must not overlook the fact that, in the case of the former slaves, as much depends upon the character of their officers as upon the valor of the men. Nor should it be forgotten that among the freedmen who come within our lines, there is only a small proportion of able-bodied men capable of enduring the hardships of the service. In too many instances slavery has sapped the vigor of their lives, and the examinations of our surgeons have revealed an extent of physical weakness which is truly surprising. There can, however, no longer be any doubt in the minds of candid and loyal men, that the freedmen who are able to bear arms will prove themselves valiant soldiers, jealous defenders of their own and their country's liberties, and a terror to their enemies, who have so madly attempted to destroy both 'Liberty and Union.'
A SPIRIT'S REPROACH.
I stood beside the altar with a friend,
To hear him plight his faith to a young bride,
A rosy child of simple heart and mind.
Yet two short years before, on that same spot,
I heard the funeral chant above the bier
Of a first wife—a woman bright as fair,
Or blessed or cursed with genius, full of fire—
Who loved him with a passion high and rare;
Whom he had won from paths of fame and art
To walk unknown life's quiet ways with him.
My mind was with the past, when the loud swell
Of music rose to greet the childlike bride,
The organ quivering as with solemn joy:
Alas! another voice breathed through it all,
Reproachful, haughty, wild, but very sad;
Near, though its tones fell from that farthest shore,
Where the eternal surge beats time no more!
Sadly I gazed upon my friend, to mark
If his new joys were quelled by the weird strains:
He heard it not—he only saw the face,
Blushing and girlish, 'neath its bridal veil;
Saw not the stronger spirit standing by,
With immortelles upon its massive front,
And drooping wings adown its snowy shroud,
And sense of wrong dewing its starry eye;
Nor heard the chant of agony, reproach,
Chilling the naïve joy of the marriage song.
* * *
'Say, canst thou woo another for thy bride,
Whilst I am living—ever near thee still!
Renounce the faith so often pledged to me,
Forget me, while I dream of thee in heaven!
When the word love first fell upon my ear,
I was a dreamer wrapped in pleasant thoughts,
Dwelling in themes apart from common life,
Nor needed aught for bliss save my still hours,
My studies, and the poet's golden lyre.
The stars revealed to me their trackless paths,
The flowers whispered me their secrets sweet,
And science oped her ways of calm and light.
Yet love, like ancient scroll, was closely rolled;
I had no wish to read its mystic page;
Its wooing wakened in me wondering scorn,
Its homage insult to my virgin pride;
If lovers knelt, 'twas but to be denied.
And yet it pleased to know myself so fair,
Because I loved the Beautiful. We met!
Dark, fierce, and full of power thy features were,
Yet finely cut, chiselled and sculptured well,
Reminding me of antique demigod.
The dream of the wild Greek, maddened with light
From Beauty's sun, before me living stood.
Ah! not of marble were thy features pale!
Like summer's lightning, lights and shadows danced
As feelings surged within thy stormful soul.
Full of high thoughts and poetry wert thou:
I left the paths of thought to hear thee speak
Of love and its devotion, endless truth.
All nature glowed with sudden, roseate light;
The waves of ocean, mountains, forests dim,
The waterfall, the flower, the clinging moss,
Were woven in types of purity and peace,
To etherealize and beautify thy love.
Marriage of souls, eternal constancy,
Gave wildering love new worth and dignity.
My maiden pride was soothed, and if I felt
Repelled by human passion, still I joyed
In sacrifice that made me wholly thine.
We wedded—and I rested on thy heart,
Counted its throbs, and when I sadly thought
They measured out the fleeting sands of life,
I smiled at Time—Love lives eternally!
I was not blind to my advantages,
Yet I became a humble household dove,
Smoothing to thy caress the eager wings
Which might have borne me through the universe.
All wealth seemed naught; had stars been in my gift,
I would have thrown them reckless all to thee!
Two happy years—how swift they fleeted by!—
And then I felt a fluttering, restless life
Throbbing beneath my heart; and with it knew
(I ne'er could tell you how such knowledge came)
That I must die! A moment's dread and pang
O'ercame me—then the bitter thought grew sweet:
My passing agony would win the boon
Of life immortal for our infant's soul;
The innocent being, through whose veins would flow
Our mingling hearts for ever—ever—one!
We spoke of death, and of eternal life;
Many and fond the vows then pledged to me:
'If cruel death must sever us on earth,
Rest calmly on my never-changing love;
Now and forever it is solely thine!
Thou art my soul's elect—my Bride in Heaven!'
So deeply did I trust thy plighted faith,
I nerved my ardent soul to bear it all,
And calmly saw the fated hour approach,
Nor quailed before the pangs of death to give
Our living love to a fond father's kiss:
Smiling I placed him in thy arms—then died.
The songs of angels wooed me high above,
But my firm soul refused to leave its loves!
I won the boon from heaven to hover near,
To count the palpitations of thy heart,
And speak, unseen, to thee in varied ways.
I breathed to thee in music's plaintive tones,
I floated round thee in the breath of flowers,
I wooed thee in the poet's tender page,
And through the blue eyes of our orphaned child
I gazed upon thee with the buried love
So fraught with faith and haunting memories.
With spirit power I ranged the world of thought
To twine thee with the blue 'Forget me not!'
* * *
Oh, God! thine eye seeks now a fresher face,
Thy voice has won another's earnest love,
Her head rests on the heart once pledged to me,
And I have poured my worship on the dust!
He loves again, and yet I gave him all—
Been proud—is this 'the worm that never dies?'
Ah, what am I?—a ruined wreck adrift
Upon a surging sea of endless pain!
Are human hearts all fickle, faithless, base?
Does levity brand all of mortal race?
When we shall meet within the Spirit's land,
How wilt thou bear my sorrow, my despair?
Wilt strive to teach me there thy new-found lore—
Forgetfulness? I could not learn the task!
Wilt seek to link again our broken ties?
Away! I would not stoop my haughty brow
To thing so false as thou! I love—yet scorn!
We give ourselves with purity but once;
The love of soul yields not to change of state;
Heaven's life news the broken ties of earth;
There is no death! all that has truly lived,
Lives ever; feeling cannot die; it blooms
Immortal as the soul from which it springs!
Why do I shrink to own the bitter truth?
I never have been loved—'twas mockery all!'
* * *
Thus sang the tortured spirit, while the chant
Of the new bridal filled the quivering air.
The ring of gold upon the finger placed,
The girlish blushes, the groom's joyous smile,
Told all was over, and the crowd dispersed:
But the high face of the wrung spirit pressed
Upon my heart, haunting me with its woe.
What was her doom? Was she midst penal fires,
Whose flames must burn away the sins of life,
The hay and stubble of idolatrous love?
Ah, even in its root crime germs with doom!
Must suffering consume our earthly dross?
Is't pain alone can bind us to the Cross?
She worshipped man; true to his nature, he
Remained as ever fickle, sensuous, weak.
'Love is eternal!' True, but God alone
Can fill the longings of an immortal soul:
The finite thirst is for the Infinite!