Page images
PDF
EPUB
[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]

JANUARY, 1917

RECOLLECTIONS OF A REBEL REEFER. I

BY JAMES MORRIS MORGAN

FROM the southern twilight of my early childhood memories there blazes out the recollection of a tragedy which, time and again, returns to trouble the dreams of my old age. I was an eyewitness of the blowing up and destruction by fire of the Princess, the finest steamboat on the Mississippi in those days. The night before the disaster my father and mother had kissed me goodbye and gone on board of an old dismantled steamboat, which answered the purposes of a wharf, to await the arrival of the Princess, as they intended to take passage on her for New Orleans. Early the next morning I went down to the river to find out if they had yet left. The Princess had just drawn out into the stream, and as I stood watching her as she glided down the river, a great column of white smoke suddenly went up from her and she burst into flames. She was loaded with cotton. As though by magic the inhabitants of the town gathered at the riverside, and in the crowd I spied my brother-in-law, Charles La Noue, in a buggy. He called to me. I jumped in alongside him and we dashed down the river road in the direction of the burning boat. The road was rough and the horse was fast. The high levee on our right shut out the view of the river so that we could see only the great col

VOL. 119-NO. 1

umn of smoke. On our left were the endless fields of sugar-cane, with an occasional glimpse of a planter's house set in a grove of pecan trees.

At last, in a great state of excitement, we arrived at the plantation of Mr. Conrad. 'Brother Charlie' jumped out of the vehicle and ran toward the house, while I made the horse fast to a tree. I then mounted the levee, from where I could see floating bales with people on them; men in skiffs, from both sides of the river, were rescuing the poor terror-stricken creatures, bringing them ashore. From the levee I rushed into the park in front of Mr. Conrad's residence, and there saw a sight which can never be effaced from my memory. Mr. Conrad had had sheets laid on the ground amid the trees, and barrels of flour were broken open and the contents poured over the sheets. As fast as the burned and scalded people were pulled out of the river they were seized by the slaves, and, while screaming and shrieking with pain and fright, they were forcibly thrown down on the sheets and rolled in the flour. The clothes had been burned off of many of them. Some, in their agony, could not lie still, and, with the white sheets wrapped round them, looking like ghosts, they danced a wild hornpipe while filling the air with their screams. Terrified by the

awful and uncanny scene, I hid behind a huge tree, so that I should not see it, but no tree could prevent me from hearing those awful cries and curses, which echo in my ears even now.

Suddenly, to my horror, one of the white spectres, wrapped in a sheet, his disfigured face plastered with flour, staggered toward my hiding-place, and before I could run away from the hideous object, it extended its arms toward me and quietly said, 'Don't be afraid, Jimmie. It is me, Mr. Cheatham. I am dying, — hold my hand!' And he sank on the turf beside me. Although dreadfully frightened, I managed between sobs to ask the question uppermost in my mind: 'Can you tell me where I can find my father and mother?' The ghostlike man replied with a cry which seemed to wrench his soul from his body, shivered for an instant, and then lay still. A slave passing by pointed to the body and casually remarked, 'He done dead.'

A Creole negro woman then came running toward me; she was stout and almost out of breath, but was still able to shout out to me in her native patois: 'Mo cherche pour toi partout; M'sieur La Noue dit que to vinit toute suite!'

When I found Brother Charlie, he was ministering to the maimed, but found time to tell me that my parents had taken another boat, and thereby had saved their lives. I returned at once to my home, where I was comforted in the strong arms of Katish, my old black nurse.

[These vivid leaves, taken at random from the first chapters of Colonel Morgan's memoirs, set the pace, so to speak, for a life-record of adventure that stands out even in these days, when our ability to react to the prodigies of modern warfare is almost exhausted.

James Morris Morgan, as he tells us in the earlier pages of his recollections,

the

was born in New Orleans in 1845 spoiled youngest child of a large family which, when the great decision of 1860 came, was divided against itself. Willful and high-spirited, his first education was drawn largely from the racing stables of his relatives, on whose great plantations he ran wild until, at fourteen, he was offered an appointment as midshipman at Annapolis. The possibilities of a roving sea-life made an instant appeal to him, and, after much trial and tribulation, he squeezed past the examining board into the Naval Academy, where he found himself aboard the school-ship Constitution, with a number of boys as green as himself. Among these were Charles S. Clark, who brought the Oregon round South America during the Spanish War; Robley D. Evans, better known later as 'Fighting Bob'; Sigsbee, of the Maine tragedy in Havana harbor; Gridley, commander of Dewey's flagship at Manila Bay, and others of equal note. Young Morgan was in the midst of his training when the war broke out but here he takes up his own story.]

I

By the end of 1860 a dark cloud had settled over our spirits and we no longer spent our few moments of leisure in skylarking, but, instead, discussed the burning question of secession. We did not know anything about its merits, but conceived the idea that each state was to compose a separate nation. Harry Taylor, afterwards rear-admiral, who was from the District of Columbia, said that he was going with New York because that state had more commerce than any other one, and necessarily would have the biggest navy. He was promptly called down by being informed that no one would be allowed to join any state except the one he was born in, and he was further humiliated by a

much-traveled boy who asserted that he had been in Washington, and that the District of Columbia had only one little steamboat out of which to make a navy, and that one ran between Washington and Acquia Creek, and she was rotten. Personally, I was insulted by being informed that Louisiana had been purchased by the money of the other states just as a man buys a farm, and that, therefore, she had no right to secede. This was said in retort after I had made the boast that by rights many of the states belonged to Louisiana. So the wrangle went on day after day, until the news came that South Carolina had in reality seceded, and the boys from that state promptly resigned and went home. Then followed the news of the firing on Fort Sumter. The rest of the lads from the South resigned as rapidly as they could get permission from home to do so- I among the rest.

I passed over the side of the old Constitution and out of the United States Navy, with a big lump in my throat, which I vainly endeavored to swallow, for I had many very dear friends among the northern boys - in fact, affectionate friendships, some interrupted by death but a few others which have lasted for more than half a century. To my surprise, my captain, George Rodgers, accompanied me ashore and to the railway station, telling me, as I walked beside him, that the trouble would end in a few weeks, and that I had made a great mistake, but that even then it was not too late if I would ask to withdraw my resignation.

[blocks in formation]

boy. But the Confederacy was calling me, and I marched firmly on. The call seemed much louder at Annapolis than it did after I reached my native land.

At that time I was very small for my age (fifteen), so small, in fact, that I was dubbed 'Little' Morgan, which nickname has stuck to me to this day despite my five feet nine and a quarter inches in height and over two hundred pounds weight. With as much dignity as my size at the time would permit of my assuming, I took my seat in the car and started for Washington. Then I commenced to size up the situation. I had only twelve dollars, all the pay that was due me when I resigned, and there was a thousand miles for me to travel to reach my home; but what worried me most was the fear that the authorities would arrest me if they found out that I proposed to offer my services to the Southern Confederacy. I had no civilian togs, but I had taken the gold anchors off my collar, on which they had left dark imprints, and put blue velvet covers, fastened by elastics, over the brass buttons of my jacket. This, with the glazed cover of my cap to hide the silver anchor which adorned its front, constituted my disguise, which I felt sure would be sufficient to enable me to slip through the enemy's capital without recognition. I was just beginning to feel comfortable when a motherly-looking old lady on the opposite seat disturbed my equanimity by asking me in a loud voice if I was 'one of those little Naval Academy boys who were going South.' That woman surely had the making of a Sherlock Holmes in her.

I had not an idea as to what I would have to do to reach home after I arrived in Washington; so, to throw the minions of Abraham Lincoln further off my trail, I went straight to the house of Captain Henry Maynadier, U.S.A., an ardent Union man who had

married one of my first cousins. I told him that I wanted to get home and had no money, and then, washing my hands of all responsibility, left the rest for him to do. He did it. He obtained a permit for himself and me to pass through the lines, and, hiring a hack, we started on our adventure.

The Union pickets held the Long Bridge; half a mile below, on the Alexandria road, were posted the Confederate sentries. Of course, with the permit, we had no difficulty in crossing the bridge; but before we had proceeded very far on the road a man with a gun jumped out of the bushes and ordered us to halt. The fellow was an Irishman who had formerly done chores at Captain Maynadier's house in Washington, and, of course, he instantly recognized him, at the same time crying out gleefully, 'Begorra! we'll whip those dirty nigger-loving Yanks now that you are coming with us!'

The captain said a few pleasant words to him, told him that I was going South, and asked him to see that I did not miss my way to Alexandria where I was to catch the train. He also told me to jump out quickly and ordered the driver to turn around. I had hardly reached the ground when the driver put whip to his horses and the astounded picket, recovering from his astonishment, raised his gun. I begged him not to shoot, assuring him that Captain Maynadier was coming South later. He did with Sherman! This occurred in the latter part of April. In November of that year, Captain Maynadier and I were shooting at each other at Island No. 10 on the Mississippi.

Arriving at the railway station in Alexandria, I found a great crowd wildly cheering ex-Senator Wigfall, who was a volunteer aide on General Beauregard's staff and who had received the sword of Major Anderson when Fort Sumter surrendered. Wigfall stood on

the rear platform of a car, bowing his appreciation of the enthusiasm. I found an unoccupied seat on the train and was making myself comfortable, when a big, broad-shouldered, stumpy man waddled up to where I sat, and said, 'Sonny, as you are so small and I am so large, I think we will make a good fit for this narrow seat'; and, without further ado, he seated himself beside me, first asking me to move so he could have the place by the window.

The train started amid wild cheers for Wigfall, the hero of the hour, and at every station where we stopped crowds were gathered, demanding a speech from the great man. The stout fellow with the short legs who was seated beside me apparently took no interest in the proceedings and seemed engrossed by his own thoughts. It was some time after dark when we arrived at Lynchburg, Virginia, where the largest crowd we had yet seen was waiting for the train. Many of the men bore torches, but they were not cheering for Wigfall; they seemed to be in an ugly humor about something. Suddenly there were cries of 'Hang the traitor! Here is a rope! Bring him out!' as the maddened mob fairly swirled about the car. A man burst through the door, rushed up the aisle to where I sat, and said to my neighbor, 'Are you Andy Johnson?'

'I am Mr. Johnson,' replied the stout gentleman.

'Well,' said the stranger, 'I want to pull your nose!' and he made a grab for Mr. Johnson's face.

The latter brushed the man's hand aside, at the same time jumping to his feet. There followed a scuffle for a few seconds, and poor little me, being between the combatants, got much the worst of it.

The crime for which they wanted to lynch Mr. Johnson was the fact that he was reported to be on his way to Tennessee for the purpose of preventing

« PreviousContinue »