On the night of August 27, 1893, while en route from Boston to Savannah on the steamer “City of Savannah,” the terrible devastating cyclone, which swept over the Sea Island Coast of South Carolina, was experienced by me in all its awfulness, terminating in the wreck and complete break up of that magnificent ship, and the terrible suffering and endurance of three days lashed to the rigging, without food or water and facing and hourly expecting death. Where could help come from? All the boats and ships in these waters had probably met the same fate as ours. All hope of help from nearby was abandoned, and our eyes were fastened on the North with anxious watchfulness. On the third night, when all hope had died out, in the darkness shot up a bright signal light—the last we had on board—and in a few moments another light shot out into the sky about two miles away; our cry for help was answered! Out of the North came help to us, and after the perilous work of rowing from one ship to the other, trip after trip, through breakers and high-running seas, we were saved and carried into port.
On arriving in Savannah and seeing from the papers, as the reports slowly came in, the awful wreckage which had been wrought on the islands, my sympathies were naturally aroused, for who could better know what these people must have passed through? When, a few days later, the call was issued for the Red Cross to assume control of the relief work, I abandoned the plans which had brought me South and joined Miss Barton’s forces.
A first inspection of the devastated district was appalling, and even as the scenes of distress, sickness and destitution became more familiar, its sadness did not wear away. Here were pretty islands, where, a few days before, cotton had been in its full luxuriance, corn almost ready for harvesting waving in the breeze, a bounteous harvest smiling in the faces of a contented people, their little homes intact and comfortable and each one congratulating himself and each other on a prosperous season as the fruits of their labors. Yes, prosperous, for to these colored people, whose needs are small, whose ambition receives no stimulus, fifty or sixty bushels of corn is a bounteous harvest. But the storm came! In a few hours neat cottages were a heap of ruins, scattered perhaps miles away; giant trees lay across the roads, twisted and knotted into almost impossible shapes; corn and cotton gone, and human beings—missing. Roads flooded with water, almost impassable, but still alive with people—here a mother looking for her children, a husband for his wife, children for their parents. There in the marsh, a dark object is seen lying prostrate. Onward they push, waist deep in water and mud, till they grasp the inanimate object, and after a moment’s silence a piercing wail announces another loved one found, dead. Go with them as they carry their dead home. Home! where is it? Gone! A few boards or branches of trees have been put together, tent fashion, covered with corn stalks and mud, and into this the family crowd, wet (for it rained incessantly nearly two weeks after the storm), hungry, sick, ragged and helpless, unable to think or act for themselves, dazed by the calamity which had befallen them; they looked around for some hand to lead them out of their pitiable condition, but everywhere the same wreckage and destitution faced them. But where should they look?
As we on the wreck amidst the breakers looked northward, so these people cast their eyes thither and sent out a plea for help. Hoping against hope, they lingered on, until, when everything seemed darkest, a gleam of light shot out of the Northern sky and help came quickly; they were saved from starvation. They grasped at the finger of help extended to them, as a drowning man at a straw, and with a supreme effort dragged themselves out of a listless, apathetic condition and endeavored out of chaos to bring order. With such a vast territory, and so many thousands of destitute people to care for, the task of systematizing the work was a heavy one. It was, however, divided into districts, and each willing helper entered on his labor with very little to encourage him, but with obstacles innumerable. How to get from island to island—boats all wrecked; how to get supplies to them; how to pick out the most needy cases to serve first when all were needy and the supplies scanty. The steam launch from the United States navy-yard was placed at my service and provisioned for a week.
I started out to the district assigned me, comprising the following named islands: Hilton Head, Pinkney, Harry Young, Savage, Hunting, Bull’s, Spring, Barataria and Dawfuskie, with Bluffton on the mainland south of Broad River, a treacherous stream, four miles wide, which received the full fury of the Atlantic and renders navigation by small craft hazardous. To prevent as far as possible any imposition on the part of applicants for relief, who were not in absolute necessity, I made my inspection from house to house, going into their corn cribs and estimating from their supply on hand how long they could exist without assistance. The condition of their houses, clothing and sickness in their families was also carefully noted. The stagnant water lying on the land, with no outlet, the hot sun, beating down on decaying animal and vegetable matter, the drinking water all polluted, had caused malaria in its worst form to be general amongst the people. With my medicine case constantly with me, scantily provided with quinine and other simple remedies, I relieved the cases as I met them, sending the worst cases to Beaufort, where they could be attended to by one of the doctors on the staff of the Red Cross located at headquarters.
After examining some three hundred families on Hilton Head Island, after driving from one end of the island to the other—fifteen miles—and being met on every hand with appeals for aid of every description, from young and old, from strong, healthy, able-bodied men to weak, tottering old uncles and aunties, I concluded that issuance of relief, without requiring some work from those able to work, would be demoralizing, and act as an incentive to people outside to flock to the islands, claiming assistance. What work should be organized was the next question. There were no ditches on the islands. Those which had been dug in ante-bellum times had become filled up. Had there been any outlet or drainage of any description, so that the waters could have run off the land, the loss of crops consequent on the heavy rains which followed the storm would not have been so serious. I therefore put those who were able to work digging ditches, those refusing to work I refused assistance. The result of this was that a total length of about thirty-seven miles of ditches, varying from two to four feet wide and from two to six feet deep, were dug. The benefit of this work was apparent during the summer and fall following, which was an unusually wet season, and in the bottom lands, but for these ditches, the crops would have been inundated. As it was, exceptionally good crops were produced, the health of the island was improved and a large area of otherwise waste land was reclaimed and rendered tillable.
After visiting my district I concluded to make Hilton Head my headquarters. There was no building available so tents had to be brought over for our use as storage, hospital, sewing and living accommodations. What willing hands to help make our camp comfortable! Some making cupboards, desks, stools, benches, bedsteads, out of old packing boxes, some gathering moss to lay on the floor as a carpet, and finally unfurling the Red Cross flag to the breeze and we were established. To simplify the work of issuing supplies weekly, I gave each family a card. On this I marked everything to be issued and each issue was crossed off, preventing it being presented twice in one week. It also enabled the old and sick to send by children or any one else, and receive the supplies without coming themselves.
How shall I describe our daily work? No regular hours, no routine, no system apparently, and yet everything went along in the twenty-four hours of duty as smoothly as possible. No regular hours? No; unless from sunrise to sunrise may be counted regular. No routine—no system? No; unless attending to everything as soon as it presented itself may be called system. At daylight the applicants would be around the tents waiting to see “Mr. Red Cross,” and from then on a steady stream of people, some sick, wanting medicine; some hungry, wanting food; some ragged, wanting clothes; some loafers, wanting anything they could get. As soon as this stream could be stemmed, and a little breakfast eaten hastily, came visits to the sick who were unable to come to us; and in all sorts and conditions of vehicles, from a shaky cart with an ox as motive power, to a roadcart behind a mule, we went wherever we were called. On returning to camp, deputations of applicants from other islands would be in waiting, and while eating dinner, these would be attended to. After this the men working on the ditches would be visited. When it became dark and everyone had gone home, we would visit our hospital tents, make patients comfortable for the night, and retire to our own tents, hoping to sleep, hoping against hope, for “the poor ye have always with you:” and this case was no exception, for at all hours of the night we were called out to go anywhere from one to six or seven miles, to attend someone who was sick or dying. In the midst of this work visits had to be paid periodically to the other islands in my district (where I had local committees to look after the distribution of supplies) often taking up two or three days. And what a scene of bustle our camp presented every Friday when the supplies came! Thirty or forty carts in line at the landing—the boat arrives—all hands help unload, and then load the carts, the number of sacks or boxes in each cart being marked down against the driver, and away they go to the camp, three miles away. As soon as they arrive, the crowd of waiting recipients hand in their cards, and as they are called in one by one, their bags ready opened, the “weekly ration” is quickly measured, dropped in, the card returned marked, and away they go. While all this is being done, a flotilla of small boats from the other islands in the district, is at the landing, and as each “captain” presents his order issued by me, my storekeeper gives him the supply for his island, and away he goes home, to enact the same scene with cards and empty bags and hungry people. Nor was this all. Houses must be built, lumber and nails measured and distributed (tents being provided for the houseless temporarily). Those whose houses were not damaged were required to help others rebuild. Their clothing had to be brought over, repaired and distributed. How this was done is shown in Mrs. Macdonald’s report.
This seems very simple to write about now after a year’s lapse of time, but it does not convey to the mind of the reader the constant anxiety resting on the mind of the Red Cross officer, with, as I had, 2,554 people in absolute need of all the necessaries of life; separated from Beaufort, the source from which I had to draw all my supplies, by Broad River, with the majority of the boats in this district rendered helpless by the storm—it was a matter of constant anxiety how I should get my weekly supplies for this large number of people, scattered over so large a territory, with so many rivers to cross. If the supplies were not here on time, think of these people having to tramp home empty-handed to hungry children, who could not understand that “it was too rough to cross Broad River.” With this difficulty constantly before me, it is a satisfaction now to put on record the self-sacrificing zeal of one colored man on Hilton Head Island—Ben Green—who placed his boat and the services of himself and men at my disposal and, without fee or reward of any kind, for several months, during good and bad weather, brought over the large amount of supplies required for this district. Another anxiety was, whether, when the boat went to Beaufort, sufficient supplies would be on hand to satisfy the demands of all the districts, or whether I should be put on “half rations.” Amid all this anxiety, there were occasional gleams of sunshine to cheer us in our arduous work, as, when I received from Miss Sarah S. Monroe, of 13 W. Ninth street, New York, two boxes of delicacies for the sick, and, after Mrs. Macdonald had cooked beef tea, corn starch, etc., and sent it round by little girls to the old and sick, how they would “tank de good Lawd fer sendin’ de buckra to look after us po’ cull’d folks;” how the name of “Miss Cla’ Ba’ton” was on everybody’s tongue, the infant girls named Clara Barton and the boys “Red Cross.” The self-appointed “Red Cross Deacons,” with an enormous Red Cross stitched on a piece of white cotton and worn on the left arm, were conspicuous in showing their gratitude for the bounty received. Then, when planting time came and seeds of every description and in large quantities were distributed to them, how eagerly they worked in their gardens, planting garden “yarbs” (herbs) and then their corn, cotton, etc. Our thanks are due to the J.C. Vaughan Seed Store of New York and Chicago (through Mr. Burt Eddy, their Southern Agent), for a large supply of potatoes and other seeds sent direct to me.
A brief summary of food supplies issued in my district shows: