Historical Romance of the American Negro

by Charles Henry Fowler

"As to the murder at Fort Pillow, the whole thing was, of course, a put up job. After fighting all the morning, and finding ten times more trouble to get into the fort than they ever expected, at 1 P. M. they sent in a flag of truce. But whilst they pretended to be parleying round that flag of truce, the rebels rapidly and quietly pushed their men up on the sides of the fort, which was contrary to the laws of war, and then breaking off the truce made a sudden rush into the fort and took it. Then we surrendered, but the rebels would not receive our surrender, and their massacre began. They shot down and killed our officers and men in every possible way after they had given up their weapons of war. General Forrest and other rebel commanders were there and allowed the carnage to go on that afternoon and next morning. The rebels took our men, nailed some of them to the floors of old wooden buildings to which they next set fire, and thus burned them while yet alive. Then they called out others, one by one, and shot them as fast as they appeared. One of the principal white officers was murdered on the road as the rebels were marching away from the fort,—at least he never came through alive. No doubt that Congress will appoint a commission of inquiry at once, and make a complete examination of the whole affair, and the entire truth will be established from the mouths of those white and black soldiers who escaped. In the meantime, we have facts enough at hand to put all the above beyond the shadow of a doubt. It was horrible.

"My dear Beulah, I had much more to write to you about, but the doctors will be here in a quarter of an hour, and as I wish you to receive my letter without delay, I will now draw it to a hurried end, and leave the balance for my next epistle. In the meantime, my dear Beulah, keep the girls steady at school, for after good religion, I think that good education (put to good use) is the grandest ornament in the world, and in a woman I think it looks splendid. Also give all my love to Mr. and Mrs. John B. Sutherland, and give them a reading of this letter—and let our children read it too, by all means. I just feel, my dear, as if I could go on writing to you for a month,—you are such a comfort! But, good-by, God bless you! Ta-ta!

"Your thrice loving

"TOM."

My indulgent and kind readers, I would be glad if I could draw down the veil upon the disasters and defeats we met with from the hands of the rebels whilst our brave men were battling for freedom, and the reunion of all the States. But, alas, alas! that would never do, and I must tell the whole truth on both sides. We had our victories in plenty, and there was a general caving-in of Secessia going on continually, but O dear me! what drawbacks and disasters there are for the historian to tell! The whole nation was still smarting from our signal defeat at Olustee, Fla., when the butchery at Fort Pillow fell upon us like a thunderstorm in summer. I can't tell which was the worst in its way—our complete defeat, our flight and almost total annihilation at Olustee, or the barbarous murders at Fort Pillow. Our defeat at Olustee took place on the 20th of February, 1864. We must, in the first place, thank our General Gillmore for disobeying orders, and leading his black and white troops into that perfect trap which the rebels had prepared for us among the forest trees at Olustee. They had their masked batteries, and all their perfect preparations of war completely concealed from us till we were right inside the very trap itself, and then General Gillmore, instead of drawing back his forces and forming them into a regular line of battle, wildly rushed one regiment after another into the powerful rebel position that lay concealed between two swamps, where our poor fellows were just mown down like grass before the scythe. When eight hundred colored soldiers and six hundred white ones had thus been placed hors de combat, we turned and fled for Jacksonville, and all along the way the rebels followed up our retreat, and all the fugitives alike shared the disasters of a defeat, which was most complete in every part. The exultation at the South, of course, was as great as our depression of spirits at the North, for it was another Braddock's defeat over again; but then war is as much of a game as a game of cards, or a game at the checker-board. Thus one was in joy whilst the other was in grief; in the same way the dark night follows the bright day, and sunshine gives way to shadow. It is the self-same with the individual as with the nation. Which one of us has not had a grand day of triumph, as well as his night of misfortune and distress? What proportion our defeats bore to our victories I am at this time unable to say; but I know they were a very high percentage of the whole, as we found out to our cost. It is not my intention to open up the whole question, but there is at least one horror that I must mention besides actual conflict on the battle-field, which is, that the nation lost about 80,000 men that were starved to death (I might almost say) or perished through misusage and neglect, and the want of all comforts in the Southern prisons, at Richmond, Andersonville and elsewhere. Whilst we were fattening their men in our Northern cities, and exchanging them as prisoners of war, so they might take the field against us once more, our poor fellows, who were merely skin and bone, were returned to us only to remain mental and bodily wrecks on our hands the rest of their days. Few of them, indeed, were ever found fit to go back to the field again. Thus 80,000 men, some at least of whom were colored, died in the South from want of sufficient food, from cold in the winters, and almost every other conceivable and bad reason, such as the want of medicine, proper nursing and attention during sickness, and so forth. No wonder, then, that our people used to associate the murders at Fort Pillow and the deaths in the Southern prisons together.

We also met with a great defeat at the explosion of the mine at Petersburg, on the 30th of July, 1864. That turned out one of the greatest blunders and most bungled affairs of the whole war. It was decided that the colored troops should lead the charge into Petersburg after the explosion had cleared the way for the advance and attack. Then a general, who ranked higher, in a spirit of jealousy countermanded the first and best arrangements, and ordered his white troops to lead the advance. Then the mine itself did not explode until some hours after the appointed time. When the explosion came the advance and attack were so bungled that the whole affair turned out a complete failure. The attacking troops were also caught inside the crater in a perfect trap, and the colored troops who were sent in to their aid, fared no better. In fact, at last there was neither advance nor retreat for any one, and things were even worse than at Olustee, and all had to surrender in a body, prisoners of war. Thus all our labors were thrown away at Petersburg on that fatal morning, through jealousy and every kind of bungling and mismanagement. General Grant has recorded it in his life, that if the first arrangements had been carried out, they would no doubt have succeeded in capturing the city.

But such are jealousy and ignorance! These were the two grand causes of the disaster of the Union armies during the first half of the war, and all these misfortunes happened in the face of an ever-watchful and desperate enemy, who had staked everything on the issue—life, fortune and all—an enemy fighting with all his might for the institution of slavery, and for the control of his own land and government without interference from Uncle Sam. But so it has ever been with all wars that the historian has ever recorded. Nations have their dark days as well as their bright ones. And if we had great and crowning victories, we also had our defeats and dark days.

Before my dear Tom got wounded, and was taken to the hospital at New Orleans, I received a letter from him describing a march his regiment had down the banks of a beautiful river in Mississippi, after which they came upon the boundaries of one of those grand mansions that I alluded to before as almost excelling the princely palaces of the grandees of Europe. We used to think Riverside Hall something (continues my dear letter-writer), but Riverside Hall was nothing to Belmont, as this place was called. The family had all left, and there was nobody in and about the princely place. No wonder that the slave-holder had grown rich! With a thousand people to work for them for nothing, and themselves pocketing the entire proceeds of their labors and toils, all they had to do was to bank their money, and lay it out in eating and drinking and riotous living, as the Bible tells us. No wonder that they had pleasant trees and shrubbery, and fine streams gliding through the park here, the smooth lawns reminding one of the garden of Eden before the fall of our first parents. No wonder that they had grand statuary all along their graveled walks, along which fine carriages and lordly companies on foot glided along their sunny way in the palmy days of slavery, now departed to return nevermore! In the Sunny South this day, we marched down the banks of one of the sweetest rivers I have seen in the State of Mississippi. I have written a few verses on the subject; written them on a marble table in the interior of splendid Belmont, a mansion, which for glory and for beauty, it would dazzle your eyes to look upon. Here are the lines I composed:

UPON THE SOUTHERN RIVER!

Across the bridge we made our way,

The dancing waves sang loud and gay,

And warm and bright the sunbeams lay,

Upon the Southern River!

And countless birds sang in the trees,

Our banners fluttered in the breeze,

All eyes were charmed midst scenes like these,

All down the Southern River!

Our hearts were light, our bands did play

Upon that glorious sunny day.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Beside the southern river!

"The Sunny South!—The Sunny South!"

These words were ever in each mouth,

Suggesting things of love and youth

Along the Southern River.

And still we marched, and laughed and sang

And down the flowery banks we sprang,

The wild woods with the echoes rang

All down the Southern River!

Until we came to "Belmont" grand,—

The finest mansion in the land,

That on the rising ground does stand

Beside the Southern River!

Thus my Tom wrote about the Southern river and the Sunny South. After this I never wondered more why the slave-holders fought so hard to gain their independence. No wonder, when they fought for "Belmont," etc.!