One stepped out from their midst and approached us; and as I came forward to meet him he saluted and said, “Whom have I the honor of addressing, sir?”
He was a fine looking fellow and his uniform was as fresh as though it had just come out of a tailor’s shop, while I was unshaven and was wearing my very oldest fatigue suit, that was powder stained after last night’s fight.
I informed the officer of my name, rank, and to what ship I belonged and he responded: “I am Colonel ——, in command of the —— Regiment, Louisiana Home Guards, and am commanding here at Camp Chalmette. With the guns of the Federal fleet bearing upon us, I consider it my duty to surrender my command to the forces of the United States!”
Never in all my varied experiences, before or since that morning, have I been so embarrassed as on the occasion when this remarkably spruce and very fluent gentleman tendered me his sword, and the other officers in their turn, in strict seniority, also handed me their side arms in token of their surrender “to the forces of the United States,” as represented by me and my boat’s crew!
I did my very best, however, to preserve my dignity and to give a strictly official air to the whole proceeding. But there was something so supremely ridiculous in these forty officers loading me down with their weapons, when I had come on shore merely for a flag, that I could scarcely conceal my mirth.
I informed them that I should duly present the matter for consideration to our fleet commander, and saluting with great solemnity retired to my boat, making the best show of my twelve sailors possible under the circumstances.
I carried my boat load of swords off to the Hartford, and Farragut sent Captain Broom with a file of marines to parole the officers and to return them their side arms. I held on to the flag, however, and I should have had it to this day had it not been lost at a church fair, where it had been borrowed for decorative purposes, some years later.
By ten o’clock the fleet got under weigh and steamed slowly up the river, keeping a careful lookout at every bend for the “line of batteries” of which we had so long heard but which we never discovered.
As a matter of fact we did not find a gun placed in position to oppose us until we came to Chalmette, three miles below the city, where half a dozen old 32-pounders opened upon us, but were at once silenced by the leading ship before the fleet could get within range.
All day of the 24th we steamed quietly up the river, past the sugar plantations, where sheets were hung out as flags of truce, and the only people visible were negroes who waved their hats to us in joyous welcome as we passed.