[C] See Continental for June, 1863.
UNDER THE PALMETTO.
On Saturday, the 31st of January, 1863, the steamer 'S.R. Spaulding,' flagship of General Foster's fleet, left the harbor of Morehead City, N. C., on a supposed expedition to some point on the Southern coast. For two days we had watched from her deck the long procession of vessels moving slowly round Fort Macon, and then, with all sails set, or under full head of steam, passing proudly on in their southward course. Only those who have witnessed such scenes can realize the eager interest and intense excitement which attend the preparation for a naval expedition. Then, too, there were glories of the past to kindle hope and stimulate ambition. The successes of Burnside, Du Pont, and Farragut were fresh in memory, and why should not we win new laurels for the old flag, and place our commander's name high on the list of fame? And so, with feelings of pride and expectation, we gladly saw the shores of North Carolina with their forests of pines recede from sight, as, under a cloudless sky and over a waveless sea, we glided on toward the hated mother State of the rebellion.
The sequel of the 'Foster Expedition' is well known. We anchored, on the 2d of February, in the capacious harbor of Port Royal, and were flagship no longer. Fortunately, the long interval between our arrival and the final departure for Charleston under another commander, gave abundant opportunities for studying new phases of life and character, and for learning something of the 15,000 freedmen who compose the loyal population of the Sea islands.
ON THE PLANTATIONS.
A geographical description of these outlying islands of South Carolina is hardly necessary at a time when we are studying the map of the republic under the guidance of bayonets and rifled cannon; and the guns of Admiral Du Pont revealed more of Port Royal and its surroundings than we should ever have learned from our geographies. Previous to the rebellion these islands seem to have been rarely visited—so rarely, indeed, that the presence of one of our naval vessels in the Beaufort river, a few years ago, was the signal for a week's festivities and a general gathering of all the inhabitants to see the strangers—while the 'cotton lords' vied with each other in entertaining the distinguished guests. For the most part the islands are low, abounding in salt-water creeks and marshes, and covered, here and there, with forests of pine and live oak. The climate in winter is delightful, and the rapid advance of vegetation in March and April—the sudden bursting into bloom of a great variety of flowers and flowering shrubs—lends additional charms to the early spring. Sitting, on one of those delicious April days, in the upper piazza of an old plantation house—the eye resting on the long stretch of the cotton fields, now green with the growing plant—or tracing the windings of the creek through the numerous small islands, till it is lost in the haze which covers all the distance—or, again, watching the shadows as they pass over the groves of oak and pine—while over the whole scene there broods the stillness of a midsummer's noon—I could but wonder at the madness which had driven the former dwellers in such a fair land into the desperate hazards and unaccustomed privations of civil war.
Those who visit these islands to-day, must not expect to realize, in the altered condition of affairs, their ideal of plantation life, however that ideal may have been formed. The change which has been wrought in little more than a year, is truly wonderful. The traces of slavery may indeed be found in an exhausted soil and an exhausted race, but all outward signs of the institution have been removed. 'The whip is lost, the handcuff broken,' the whipping post destroyed, and the cotton gins broken down. At the 'great house' you find, instead of the master and overseer, the superintendent and school teacher. In the field, the cotton tasks are comparatively small, but the garden patch in the rear of the cabin is large, well fenced in and well cultivated. If you see few indications of positive happiness, you find no appearances of overburdened misery. There is about the whole place something of the air of a New England farmstead, where labor, being honored, crowns even the humblest with dignity and peace. You take unspeakable comfort in the fact, that, open what door you may into the life of these people, there is no skeleton of oppression to startle and haunt you. Go with me, then, on this calm, bright day of early March, to visit one of the plantations on Port Royal Island, a few miles out of Beaufort. The quartermaster kindly furnishes us with a carriage, somewhat shabby and rickety to be sure, but one of the best that 'Secesh' has left for our use. Our steeds, too, are only slow-moving Government mules, but there is one aristocratic feature of our establishment to remind us of the life that was, viz.: a negro coachman 'educated to drive,' under whose skilful guidance many a happy family party have been conveyed from plantation to plantation on social visits like ours to-day. Uncle Ned speaks kindly of his 'ole massa,' and says he 'would hab stayed wid 'um, ef massa hadn't run away from heself.'
'But why didn't you go with him, uncle?'
'Oh, sah, I could nebber go to de Secesh.'