Dead Confederates, A Civil War Era Blog

Frederick Douglass on Decoration Day, 1871

Posted in Memory by Andy Hall on May 27, 2018

On Decoration Day, 1871, Frederick Douglass gave the following address at the monument to the Unknown Dead of the Civil War at Arlington National Cemetery. It is a short speech, but one of the best of its type I’ve ever encountered. I’ve posted it before, but it think it’s something worth re-reading and contemplating every Memorial Day.

The Unknown Loyal Dead
Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia, on Decoration Day, May 30, 1871

Friends and Fellow Citizens:

Tarry here for a moment. My words shall be few and simple. The solemn rites of this hour and place call for no lengthened speech. There is, in the very air of this resting-ground of the unknown dead a silent, subtle and all-pervading eloquence, far more touching, impressive, and thrilling than living lips have ever uttered. Into the measureless depths of every loyal soul it is now whispering lessons of all that is precious, priceless, holiest, and most enduring in human existence.

Dark and sad will be the hour to this nation when it forgets to pay grateful homage to its greatest benefactors. The offering we bring to-day is due alike to the patriot soldiers dead and their noble comrades who still live; for, whether living or dead, whether in time or eternity, the loyal soldiers who imperiled all for country and freedom are one and inseparable.

Those unknown heroes whose whitened bones have been piously gathered here, and whose green graves we now strew with sweet and beautiful flowers, choice emblems alike of pure hearts and brave spirits, reached, in their glorious career that last highest point of nobleness beyond which human power cannot go. They died for their country.

No loftier tribute can be paid to the most illustrious of all the benefactors of mankind than we pay to these unrecognized soldiers when we write above their graves this shining epitaph.

When the dark and vengeful spirit of slavery, always ambitious, preferring to rule in hell than to serve in heaven, fired the Southern heart and stirred all the malign elements of discord, when our great Republic, the hope of freedom and self-government throughout the world, had reached the point of supreme peril, when the Union of these states was torn and rent asunder at the center, and the armies of a gigantic rebellion came forth with broad blades and bloody hands to destroy the very foundations of American society, the unknown braves who flung themselves into the yawning chasm, where cannon roared and bullets whistled, fought and fell. They died for their country.

We are sometimes asked, in the name of patriotism, to forget the merits of this fearful struggle, and to remember with equal admiration those who struck at the nation’s life and those who struck to save it, those who fought for slavery and those who fought for liberty and justice.

I am no minister of malice. I would not strike the fallen. I would not repel the repentant; but may my “right hand forget her cunning and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth,” if I forget the difference between the parties to hat terrible, protracted, and bloody conflict.

If we ought to forget a war which has filled our land with widows and orphans; which has made stumps of men of the very flower of our youth; which has sent them on the journey of life armless, legless, maimed and mutilated; which has piled up a debt heavier than a mountain of gold, swept uncounted thousands of men into bloody graves and planted agony at a million hearthstones — I say, if this war is to be forgotten, I ask, in the name of all things sacred, what shall men remember?

The essence and significance of our devotions here to-day are not to be found in the fact that the men whose remains fill these graves were brave in battle. If we met simply to show our sense of bravery, we should find enough on both sides to kindle admiration. In the raging storm of fire and blood, in the fierce torrent of shot and shell, of sword and bayonet, whether on foot or on horse, unflinching courage marked the rebel not less than the loyal soldier.

But we are not here to applaud manly courage, save as it has been displayed in a noble cause. We must never forget that victory to the rebellion meant death to the republic. We must never forget that the loyal soldiers who rest beneath this sod flung themselves between the nation and the nation’s destroyers. If today we have a country not boiling in an agony of blood, like France, if now we have a united country, no longer cursed by the hell-black system of human bondage, if the American name is no longer a by-word and a hissing to a mocking earth, if the star-spangled banner floats only over free American citizens in every quarter of the land, and our country has before it a long and glorious career of justice, liberty, and civilization, we are indebted to the unselfish devotion of the noble army who rest in these honored graves all around us.

______________

Image: Graves of nine unknown Federal soldiers in Pontotoc County, Mississippi. Photo by Flickr user NatalieMaynor, used under Creative Commons license. Text of Douglass speech from Philip S. Foner and Yuval Taylor, Frederick Douglass: Selected Speeches and Writings.

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Decoration Day at Arlington, 1871

Posted in African Americans, Memory by Andy Hall on May 26, 2018

As many readers will know, the practice of setting aside a specific day to honor fallen soldiers sprung up spontaneously across the country, North and South, in the years following the Civil War. One of the earliest — perhaps the earliest — of these events was the ceremony held on May 1, 1865 in newly-occupied Charleston, South Carolina, by that community’s African American population, honoring the Union prisoners buried at the site of the city’s old fairgrounds and racecourse, as described in David Blight’s Race and Reunion: The Civil War in American Memory.

Over the years, “Decoration Day” events gradually coalesced around late May,  particularly after 1868, when General John A. Logan, commander-in-chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, called for a day of remembrance on May 30 of that year. It was a date chosen specifically not to coincide with the anniversary of any major action of the war, to be an occasion in its own right. While Memorial Day is now observed nationwide, parallel observances throughout the South honor the Confederate dead, and still hold official or semi-official recognition by the former states of the Confederacy.

Recently while researching the life of a particular Union soldier, I came across a story from a black newspaper, the New Orleans Semi-Weekly Louisianan dated June 15, 1871. It describes an event that occurred at the then-newly-established Arlington National Cemetery. Like the U.S. Colored Troops who’d been denied a place in the grand victory parade in Washington in May 1865, the black veterans discovered that segregation and exclusion within the military continued even after death:

DECORATION DAY AND HYPOCRISY.

The custom of decorating the graves of soldiers who fell in the late war, seems to be doing more harm to the living than it does to honor the dead. In every Southern State there are not only separate localities where the respective defendants of Unionism and Secession lie buried, but there are different days of observance, a rivalry in the ostentatious parade for floral wealth and variety, and a competition in extravagant eulogy, more calculated to inflame the passions than to soften and purify the affections, which ought to be the result of all funeral rights.

Besides this bad effect among the whites there comes a still more evil influence from the dastardly discriminations made by the professedly union [sic.] people themselves.

Read this extract from the Washington Chronicle:

AT THE COLORED CEMETERY

While services were in progress at the tomb of the “Unknown” Comrade Charles Guthridge, John S. Brent, and Beverly Tucker, of Thomas R. Hawkins Post, No. 14 G.A.R., followed by Greene’s Brass Band, Colonel Perry Carson’s Pioneer Corps of the 17th District, Butler Zouaves, under the command of Charles B. Fisher, and a large number of colored persons proceeded to the cemetery on the colored soldiers to the north of the mansion, and on arriving there they found no stand erected, no orator or speaker selected, not a single flag placed on high, not even a paper flag at the head boards of these loyal but ignored dead, not even a drop of water to quench the thirst of the humble patriots after their toilsome march from the beautifully decorated grand stand above to this barren neglected spot below. At 2 ½ o’clock P.M., no flowers or other articles coming for decorative purposes, messengers were dispatched to the officers of the day for them; they in time returned with a half dozen (perhaps more) rosettes, and a basket of flower leaves. Deep was the indignation and disappointment of the people. A volley of musketry was fired over the graves by Col. Fisher’s company. An indignation meeting was improvised, Col. Fisher acting president. A short but eloquent address was made by George Hatton, who was followed by F. G. Barbadoes, who concluded his remarks by offering the followign resolutions, which were unanimously adopted:

Resolved, that the colored citizens of the District of Columbia hereby respectfully request the proper authorities to remove the remains of all loyal soldiers now interred at the north end of the Arlington cemetery, among paupers and rebels, to the main body of the grounds at the earliest possible moment.

Resolved, that the following named gentlemen are hereby created a committee to proffer our request and to take such further action in the matter as may be deemed necessary to a successful accomplishment of our wishes: Frederick Douglass, John M. Langston, Rev. Dr. Anderson, William J. Wilson, Col. Charles B. Fisher, William Wormley, Perry Carson, Dr. A. T. Augusta, F. G. Barbadoes.

If any event in the whole history of our connection with the late war embodied more features of disgraceful neglect, or exhibited more clearly the necessity of protecting ourselves from insult, than this behavior at Arlington heights, we at least acknowledge ignorance of it.

We say again that no good, but only harm can result from keeping up the recollection of the bitter strife and bloodshed between North and South, and worse still, in furnishing occasion to white Unionists of proving their hypocrisy towards the negro in the very presence of our dead.

The black soldiers’ graves were never moved; rather, the boundaries of Arlington were gradually expanded to encompass them, in what is now known as Section 27.  Most of the graves, originally marked with simple wooden boards, were subsequently marked with proper headstones, though many are listed as “unknown.” In addition to the black Union soldiers interred there, roughly 3,800 civilians, mostly freedmen, lie there as well, many under stones with the simple, but profoundly important, designation of “citizen.” The remains of Confederate prisoners buried there were removed in the early 1900s to a new plot on the western edge of the cemetery complex, where the Confederate Monument would be dedicated in 1914.

Unfortunately, the more things change, the more. . . well, you know. In part because that segment of the cemetery began as a burial ground for blacks, prisoners and others of lesser status, the records for Section 27 are fragmentary. Further, Section 27 has — whether by design or happenstance — suffered an alarming amount of negligence and lack of attention over the years. The Army has promised, and continues to promise, that these problems will be corrected.

As Americans, North and South, we should all expect nothing less.

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Images of Section 27, Arlington National Cemetery, © Scott Holter, all rights reserved. Used with permission. Thanks to Coatesian commenter KewHall (no relation) for the research tip.

That Fight in Reno

Posted in Memory by Andy Hall on May 25, 2018

After the president’s pardon of boxer Jack Johnson yesterday, I pulled out an article I wrote almost 30 years ago about his famous bout with Jim Jeffries in Reno in 1910, that secured him the heavyweight title. It’s easy to forget today what an upheaval that was at the time.

 

“Furious Fists Unleashed”

Jack Johnson did more than knock out Jim Jeffries in Reno in 1910. He challenged the way Americans looked at black boxers. When the “Great White Hope” fell in the 15th round, some perceptions were changed forever as well.

By Andrew W Hall

Everything seemed to change in 1910. Under the brilliant glare of Halley’s Comet, British suffragettes vandalized public buildings and assaulted members of Parliament. The year saw the death of King Edward VII, who had carried over into the 20th century traditional Victorian ideals of order and social place.

Across the Atlantic, the administration of President Taft found itself drawn into a bloody civil war in Nicaragua. Mexico, too, reeled under the first blows of revolution. And in a one-sided boxing match in Reno, Nev., a black fighter named Jack Johnson pummeled the old assumptions of innate white superiority in all endeavors. Not until the sinking of an unsinkable Titanic two years later would public confidence receive such a shock. Never again would the world be quite so stable, or quite so safe.

Though Johnson was never entirely comfortable with his spectacularly prominent place in the era’s headlines, he was a natural for the ring and almost guaranteed a spot in history as the first black heavyweight champion. Born Arthur John Johnson in Galveston, Texas, in 1878, Johnson quickly discovered the talent in his fists. He honed his skills while working on the port’s cotton wharves and soon fought his way through the local, illicit prizefighting circuit. By 1900, Johnson was fighting professionally in Chicago.

By 1903, Johnson held the black heavyweight title. On Dec. 26, 1908, he defeated the acknowledged white heavyweight titleholder, Tommy Burns, a Canadian. Johnson took home the gold belt, but his victory sparked a fierce debate in boxing circles. Was Johnson’s claim legitimate?

Burns had defeated Marvin Hart for the crown, but Hart had had the title voluntarily bestowed on him by Jim Jeffries, the reigning champ. Many of the boxing authorities who had not questioned the strength of Burns’ claim before his bout with Johnson now argued that, as Hart had not actually defeated Jeffries for the championship, Burns’ claim to the heavyweight title was shaky at best.

Still others, like John L. Sullivan, criticized Burns for crossing the “color line. “ Black fighters had been around for years, but no white champion had been willing to risk losing the crown to one of them. Clearly, Johnson would have to successfully defend his claim against an undisputed champion.

The prospect of such a bout electrified the American populace. Even those who did not ordinarily follow the sport were intrigued by the prospect of an interracial battle for unquestioned ring supremacy. Even before a challenger was chosen, the appellation “Great White Hope “ was applied to the figure who would return the reign over a gentleman’s sport to the Caucasian race. The stage was being set for a main event as divisive in its preparation as it would be bloody in its aftermath.

Eventually Jeffries, as the last “real “ heavyweight champion, agreed to return to the ring to battle Johnson. It would be a long trip. In the six years since he relinquished the prize belt, he had ballooned to 300 pounds. With former champ Jim Corbett guiding his training, Jeffries began a desperately grueling regiment to get back into shape.

The fight’s promoter, Tex Rickard, was a shrewd businessman. With the reluctant agreement of both fighters, Rickard did everything he could to exploit the white versus black angle, by implication selling the match as the ultimate test of true racial superiority. He almost promoted himself out of the business. Just two weeks before the opening bell in San Francisco, California Governor James N. Gillett decided that the bout was not going to be a simple exhibition match — as allowed under California law — but, in fact, a prohibited prizefight. Quickly, Rickard scrambled for a new site, picking the sporting town of Reno, Nev.

As the fight date of July 4 drew near, Jeffries became increasingly sullen and irritable. By contrast, Johnson seemed relaxed and easygoing, training or not training as he pleased. Reporters around Johnson’s training camp attributed his easy confidence to the notion that the black man did not have the capacity to anticipate beyond the present to his assured defeat. Johnson was “safe in his soul shallowness and lack of imagination;’ the newspapers reported. An estimated 20,000 people-almost all white-poured into the eight-sided outdoor arena on the Fourth of July. In the unlikely event that anyone in the audience was still unaware of the fight’s racial significance, a brass band clambered up into the ring and thumped away at what the Chicago Tribune’s reporter described as “patriotic tunes. “* Rickard, acting as referee, introduced the fighters. By prearrangement, they did not shake hands as they turned for their corners.

Johnson controlled the fight from the start. He was much faster than Jeffries and let the white boxer commit himself to a move before exploiting an opening. Johnson used his speed and agility to keep out of Jeffries’ reach. Time and again, Johnson would bob and weave away at the last moment, landing a powerful blow to Jeffries’ unprotected side. “Jeff “ had made his reputation with wild-swinging bullish charges. Johnson was the perfect foil for that technique, using almost delicate maneuvers to neutralize Jeffries’ attacks. Johnson was clearly in no hurry. He let Jeffries set the pace for his own defeat.

Jack London, correspondent for the New York Herald, had written that Johnson was a “master mouth fighter;’ keeping up a constant flow of witty banter and mild taunts with an opponent, his cornermen and the audience. There was a purpose to the tactic. It helped break the other fighter ‘s concentration. Whether it affected Jeffries was not clear. The White Hope remained silent, concentrating on a huge wad of gum he chewed throughout the match.

Johnson’s running commentary certainly affected Jeffries’ cornermen, though. Corbett, who had attached himself to the White Hope’s cause early, had a pet theory that, once enraged, blacks (and particularly Johnson) would become useless in the ring. From the first bell, Corbett screamed vulgar insults at Johnson, but the black fighter defused the taunts by feigning the ingratiating manner of the stereotypical Southern black man.

The madder Corbett got, the calmer Johnson became. Late in the fight, Johnson teased the former champ, “I thought you said you’d have me wild! “ Corbett didn’t get the joke.

The verbal jousting provided some sorely needed pleasure for Jeffries’ supporters. The fight was not going at all as predicted. There was one bright spot for them in the fourth round when Jeffries brushed the black fighter against the rope and opened his lip. As the blood streamed down Johnson’s chin, some in the crowd began shouting, “First blood for Jeffries!” They did not know that the former champion had opened a wound Johnson had received two days before.

From then on, virtually everything went against Jeffries. In the fifth round, he received a bad cut under one eye and another on the chin. In the sixth, Johnson slammed a powerful left into “Jeff’s” right eye, which immediately began to close.

As the fight ground on, Jeffries began having trouble judging distance and timing, landing only a few blows to Johnson’s midsection. The black fighter backpedaled here and advanced there, egging on Jeffries by opening his guard. In the 11th round, Johnson crashed back Jeffries’ head with a series of rights that became a Johnson trademark. The motion was like that of a sewing machine. But if Jeffries were outclassed in speed and agility, his endurance remained. His right eye closing, his nose broken and his face bruised and smeared with blood, Jeffries kept staggering forward, flailing almost blindly.

To some observers, it appeared that Johnson was prolonging the fight just to watch Jeffries suffer. The black man’s taunts, no longer humorous, had a vindictive ring: “How do you feel, Jim? I can take you out when I want to, Jim. Does it hurt, Jim? “

In the 15th round, Jeffries continued to advance, now erect, now crouching into Johnson’s fists. A series of blows forced Jeffries back against the ropes, where he rolled away and struck the canvas. As promoter Rickard pushed Johnson back, Jeffries pulled himself to his feet. Another flurry of gloves and again Jeffries fell to his knees, once again pulling himself up at the count of nine. For the third time the black man knocked Jeffries down, this time leaving him sprawling over the rope. The Great White Hope’s cornermen climbed into the ring. The fight was over.

The amazing thing about the battle, in retrospect, was not that Johnson won, but that so many fans and sportswriters alike seemed convinced that Jeffries could not lose. Six years of comfortable retirement had left Jeffries a fat old man. The Jeffries of 1903 or 1904 might have had a fair chance against Johnson. In 1910, he had none. It is incredible that so many failed to see the inevitability of Jeffries’ defeat, and perhaps they did not want to.

The image of Jim Jeffries lying groggy on the ropes, smeared with his own blood and in the black shadow of Jack Johnson, however, was one ·that burned into the consciousness of many Americans, black and white alike. Weeks of prefight publicity had brought the nation to the edge of an emotional precipice; everything was riding on this fight. That no one in the national (white) press foresaw a Johnson victory made the event all the more devastating for “Jeff’s “ supporters, and the more joyous for Johnson’s. The racial violence that flared across the nation was almost as inevitable as the outcome of the fight itself.

Most of the violence was one-sided. In Little Rock, Ark., an argument on a streetcar about the fight left two black passengers dead. Near tiny Uvalda, Ga., black workers at a construction camp became involved in a gun battle with angry whites. No one knows who fired first, but the whites made several trips into town for more ammunition and chased fleeing blacks into the woods. Casualties: three dead, five wounded, all black. Three more died in Shreveport, La.

In Houston, a black man got too “uppity “ about Johnson’s victory and had his throat slashed from ear to ear for his impertinence. Black tenements in New York were torched with the residents inside. Attacks resulting in death or serious injury were reported nationwide-in Baltimore, Md., Cincinnati, Ohio, Los Angeles, Ca., and Pueblo, Colo. At least a dozen people died in the wake of Johnson’s victory. But if the violence directed against blacks was intended to quash any notions of equality blacks might have received from the fight, it had the opposite effect because it showed how seriously some whites considered the matter.

Before the fight, one newspaper’s sports editor had predicted that, in the event of a Johnson victory, the black fighter’s earnings would total $360,750 to Jeffries’ $158,000. Their actual earnings were far less, for the projections were based on royalties from exhibitions of films made at the fight. In the aftermath of the riots following the fight, many communities banned the films. Apparently tempers had cooled in the time it took to distribute the movies, though, for few disturbances were reported in the cities where they were shown.

Quietly slipping out of Reno on a special train, Johnson went on to a well-publicized and controversial career. It included three marriages to white women, an international flight from prosecution under the Mann Act, a term in Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary and loss of the heavyweight crown in a possibly fixed match against Jess Willard in 1915. Jeffries returned to his alfalfa farm and, years later, grumbled that he’d been drugged before he climbed into the ring in Reno.

Whatever headlines they made after 1910-and Johnson, in particular, made many-neither fighter was ever able to rivet the attention of the world as he did at Reno. As fights go, the Johnson-Jeffries bout was one-sided, even dull. But the issues read into the match by promoters, sportswriters and fans ensured that whatever the outcome, this one fight would cause reverberations far beyond the ring, into the deepest beliefs and prejudices of the day’s dominant culture.

It had the universal appeal of a 19th-century adventure story, with a hero in white and a villain in black. On a hot Independence Day afternoon in Reno, Jack Johnson, Jim Jeffries and Tex Rickard changed the sport of boxing – and America – forever.

_______

Mail Contracts for Texas, 1858-62

Posted in Memory by Andy Hall on May 12, 2018

This is neat. This is a notice from the federal government, seeking bids on contracts to carry the U.S. Mail throughout Texas for a four-year term, 1858 – 62. Assuming that many or most of these contracts were eventually awarded, this gives a very detailed look at how overland travel was organized here on the eve of the Civil War. Routes, schedules, frequency – it’s all laid out here.

If you read much at all about transportation networks in the 19th century, particularly in the West, it becomes immediately apparent how important these mail contracts were to operators of stagecoach lines, riverboats, and railroads. While contracts for carrying the mail would not support a company’s operation by themselves, they often did provide a regular, reliable source of revenue that made the difference between profit and loss for the company. There were significant marketing advantages to having a mail contract, as well — it lent an air of prestige, speed, and reliability to the company. Failure to meet the terms of a contract could similarly cause headaches for a transportation company, as I noted in my riverboat book:

 

The U.S. Mail route through Galveston and Buffalo Bayou to Houston was a particularly important one and often at the center of controversy. Galveston was a primary terminal for one of the main transcontinental mail routes, one that began in New Orleans, went by coastal steamer to Galveston, then overland to San Antonio, El Paso, Santa Fe and points farther west, all the way to San Francisco—total contractual transit time from the Crescent City to Frisco was twenty-five days.

Galveston, though, was seen by many as a problem and came to be known as a bottleneck in the fast and efficient transport of the mail. Galveston’s monopoly on mail coming in from the rest of the United States was a source of deep annoyance for both citizens and newspapermen, who charged that publishers on the island were using their influence to hold newspapers coming in from other parts of the country for several days, allowing the Galveston publishers the ability to go to print first with the latest national news. This frustration led to many customers avoiding the U.S. Mails altogether, sending valuable parcels and shipments by way of one of the private express companies that sprang up to carry mail and valuable packages along their own routes, generally overland. . . .

John Sterrett and Frederick Smith bid successfully for a $20,000 mail contract in 1858 [No. 8509 highlighted above] that required them to provide mail service between Galveston and Houston six times per week. This was likely the largest single contract and route out of Galveston, including as it did not only mail destined for Harrisburg and Houston but also points north and west of the Bayou City. With the requirement for mail service six days every week, it was also the most regular and frequent. The Houston Navigation Company was well established by this time, so Sterrett and Smith likely had little trouble meeting the terms of the mail contract. Nonetheless, there were critics always ready to pounce, as when, just a few weeks after Sterrett and Smith won their contract, complaints were being made about Sterrett’s failure to deliver the mail as expected. The Galveston Civilian and Gazette came to Sterrett’s defense, pointing out that it was the first time in twenty years that he’d failed to carry the mails, and even in this case, it was a trip outside the strict terms of his contract. Sterrett, the Civilian and Gazette pointed out, “has been running between Houston and Galveston nineteen years, and in that time has made four thousand trips between the two places. Every man who has ever travelled in Texas knows him, and very few who have ever made a trip with him but tell their friends to do the same thing. Justice requires us to say there are other boats in the Houston trade that will compare well with steamboats anywhere; but Capt. Sterrett always manages to command the best one.”

 

The newspaper’s claim that Sterrett had, in nineteen years on the route, made the passage between Galveston and Houston some four thousand times averages out to about three one-way trips in every five days. Although the exact number cannot be known, the newspaper’s estimate in Sterrett’s case is entirely plausible.

Click to embiggen. From the Palestine, Texas Trinity Advocate, Feb 17, 1858, p. 2.

Steve Perry: Thanks for the Slavery!

Posted in Memory by Andy Hall on May 8, 2018

A history of Rome and Floyd County, state of Georgia, United StaA few years ago I wrote up a profile on Steve Perry of Rome, Georgia. Perry was better known in his later years as “Uncle Steve Eberhart,” and was a fixture at Confederate reunions across the South for more than 20 years. Although there were a number of old African American men who attended and performed — there’s really no other word for it — at such reunions, Perry was distinctive. Although he was not a large man physically, Perry always stood out because of the outlandish costume he wore, that usually included a battered top hat decorated with feathers and brass epaulets with miniature flags in them. Often he carried one or two live chickens (right) to highlight his role as a forager during the war.

One of the things I came to understand about Perry was that he appears to have treated his “Uncle Steve Everhart” role as something of a character, separate and distinct from Steve Perry. “Eberhart” was, in effect, a stage name. While making public appearances at Confederate reunions, men like Perry typically went out of their way to embrace the “happy slave” stereotype of African-Americans central to the Lost Cause. They were cheerful, obsequious, and above all grateful for the beneficence of their “white folks.” All of this is well-known to anyone who has looked closely at contemporary accounts of their appearances Confederate reunions.

But knowing all that, I was still surprised to come across this short clip of Steve Perry speaking to the newsreel camera at a reunion, said to be at Biloxi in 1930. Although I’d read a number of interviews with Perry, it was the first time I heard his voice. It was apparently an unusual occasion for him too, because he took the opportunity to play his role in the Lost Cause narrative to the hilt (at about the 1:00 mark):

 

“[unintelligible] southern white man, my race would have been in the jungles of Africa today, ignorant as any wild beast. He brought me over here, and made a human out of me!”

“Made a human out of me,” in the form of chattel property. Yuck. No wonder he was so popular at reunions, and was considered to be a “mascot” of the Floyd County UCV camp in Rome.

I used to think that Steve Perry/Eberhart was slyly ridiculous. Now I suspect he was just ridiculous ridiculous.

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Would-Be Dowling Monument Bomber Pleads Guilty

Posted in Memory by Andy Hall on May 2, 2018

The Houston man arrested last summer for attempting to blow up the Dick Dowling monument near the Houston Zoo has pleaded guilty:

Shackled in an olive green jail uniform, Andrew C.E. Schneck, bent forward with his hands in handcuffs, pleaded guilty to willfully attempting to maliciously damage or destroy property in violation of federal law. A federal prosecutor dismissed a sentence enhancement, related to the harm an explosion could have caused, that could have allowed for a longer prison sentence.

The 26-year-old with a history of concocting homemade explosives told U.S. District Judge Ewing Werlein Jr. he was pleading guilty voluntarily and understood he was giving up rights by doing so.

Then the judge asked him to explain his thinking at the time: “Mr. Schneck, I’d like you to tell the court what was going on that day?”

Explaining himself

Schneck paused for nearly a minute and then asked the judge to repeat the question.

He said,“Well uh … I … well, the material … I purchased the batteries and the timer myself from commercial sources. The explosive compound I manufactured myself.”

The look on the judge’s face appeared to indicate his answer wasn’t sufficient.

Schneck continued, saying, “The intent was to damage the statue significantly.”

After several minutes of questioning, the judge said he found Schneck capable of entering a plea. He faces five to 20 years in prison and a fine of up to $250,000 at his sentencing, which the judge set for June 22.

Outside the courtroom Schneck’s attorney Philip Hilder said, “He pleaded guilty because he recognizes his actions and accepts his responsibility and wishes to move on. He has some health issues that we are dealing with that contributed to the event.”

Schneck spent several months of his detention at an intensive inpatient program. He told the judge he is taking mood stabilizing medication under the direction of the detention facility.

Schneck graduated with a degree in chemistry from Austin College in Sherman and had a penchant for experiments, according to a source familiar with the case.

He was convicted in 2014 of storing explosives for which he earned five years of probation.

Following the 2017 attempted bombing in Hermann Park, agents returned to the neighborhood to search the home in Southhampton Place, near the Museum District, where Schneck lived with his parents.

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The Odyssey of the CSS Stonewall

Posted in Memory by Andy Hall on April 21, 2018

The Late Unpleasantness: A Civil War Blog

Some friends and I were discussing the Civil War the other day—a common topic.  The subject came up, when did the war end?  “On April 9, 1865, of course, when Lee surrendered to Grant,” said one.  “No,” said another, “when Jo Johnston surrendered to Sherman in North Carolina.”  “No, No, you’re both wrong,” said a third, “it was in Texas in May.”

The CSS Stonewall in drydock, probably in France during construction.  Millers Photographic History of the War vol. 6. The CSS Stonewall in drydock, probably in France during construction. Millers Photographic History of the War vol. 6.

“You’re all wrong,” said I.  “The last Confederate troops to lay down their arms weren’t any of those.  It was the Confederate Navy that was the last to surrender, or at least two of their ships.”  And therein hangs a curious little tale or two.

Close up view of the Stonewall in drydock.  Millers Photographic History of the War, Vol. 6 Close up view of the Stonewall in drydock. Millers Photographic History of the War, Vol. 6

There was the CSS Stonewall, for example…

View original post 938 more words

Did a C.S.S. Alabama Crew Member Die in the Titanic Disaster?

Posted in Memory by Andy Hall on April 14, 2018

[Originally posted April 14, 2012]

It could well be.

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Image: Titanic at Cherbourg on the evening of April 10, 1912. Original painting by Ken Marschall, 1977.

Presentation May 3 in Galveston: “Ship Biscuit & Salted Beef”

Posted in Memory by Andy Hall on April 3, 2018

 

Join us on Thursday evening, May 3, at Rosenberg Library in Galveston as Grace Tsai (above at center, with the SBSB team) offers up “Ship Biscuit & Salted Beef: An Experimental Archaeological Study on Shipboard Food.” The Hawkins Squadron business meeting will begin at 1900 hours, with Ms. Tsai’s presentation at 1920. Please note the change of venue; light refreshments will be served.

Before canning and refrigeration were invented, strict limitations on shipboard provisions to reduce illness from food spoilage on ships were enforced. Unfortunately, these preservation methods also decreased the nutritional value of food on lengthy voyages. Grace Tsai’s research looks into the effects of shipboard diet on the health of sailors via the nutritional and microbiological intake of seamen on 17th-century ships. However, rather than using traditional methods to determine past health and nutrition, this project involved replicating shipboard food using the exact ingredients and methods of preparation from the 17th century. This data will support or refute historical accounts related to shipboard food and sailors’ experiences on ships, refine our grasp on our shared maritime history, and create new material for further study in maritime history.

Ms. Tsai graduated with bachelor degrees in Psychology and Anthropology from the University of California, San Diego in 2011. Currently, she is a PhD student in the Nautical Archaeology Program at Texas A&M University. Her work focuses on understanding post-medieval seafaring life through analysis of diet and physical labor on sailors’ health. Her most recent field work includes the Gnaliç Project, an excavation of a sixteenth-century Venetian galley that sank off the coast of Croatia, the Burgaz Harbor Project, an excavation of Hellenistic harbors in Turkey, and the Shelburne Steamboat Project, an excavation of a steamboat graveyard in Vermont. She has also helped catalogue lead fishnet weights from Uluburun, a late Bronze Age shipwreck, in Turkey. In her free time, she works as the co-founder and CEO of Bezoar Laboratories LLC, a R&D company focusing on probiotic supplements.

The Texas Navy Association is a private, 501(c)(3) organization, dedicated to preserving and promoting the historical legacy of the naval forces of the Republic of Texas, 1835-46. The mission of the Texas Navy Association is to preserve and promote an appreciation of the historic character and heroic acts of the Texas Navy; to promote travel by visitors to historical sites and areas in which the Texas Navy operated; to conduct, in the broadest sense, a public relations campaign to create a responsible and accurate image of Texas; and to encourage Texas communities, organizations, and individuals, as well as governmental entities, to participate with actions and money, in pursuit of these objectives. Membership in the Texas Navy Association is open to all persons age 16 and over who have an interest in Texas history and want to help support the goals of the organization.

In Galveston, the Charles E. Hawkins Squadron was organized in the fall of 2016, and meets on the first Thursday evening in odd-numbered months.

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The Ghost and John the Drayman

Posted in Memory by Andy Hall on March 31, 2018

 

As the sun rose off Sisál in the Yucatán that Sunday morning in early March 1836, its rays illuminated a couple of dozen vessels anchored off the beach – small, local trading craft, mostly, with a few larger merchantmen displaying the ensigns of other nations – Americans, Hamburg traders, and the like. Two vessels rode at anchor farther offshore, a Texian warship displaying the tricolor ensign of the 1824 Mexican constitution, and her prize, the Mexican trading schooner Pelícano, that had arrived the morning before after a passage from New Orleans.[1]

It was an audacious thing the commander of the Texian schooner Liberty, William S. Brown, and his crew had done just hours before, cutting out Pelícano from the crowded anchorage, almost under the muzzles of a battery of 18-pounders on shore. The Mexican garrison had not been caught off guard; they had noticed Liberty lying well offshore the previous day, suspected her identity, and had taken precautions against any attempted attack by the Texian vessel. Several of Pelícano’s sails had been unbent and taken ashore, a spike was hammered through the jaws of the main boom to immobilize that crucial spar, and – most important – three dozen soldados from the local garrison, under command of an officer, had been put aboard. All these preparations had come to naught. After a short, sharp fight on deck, fourteen of Liberty’s crew had overcome the soldiers and Pelícano’s own crew, leaving six dead, five seriously wounded, and nine prisoners. The rest of the schooner’s defenders had dived over the side and made for the shore; none of the Texians suffered any serious injury.

Now, after spending part of the morning transferring crew, valuables, and sailing gear between the two vessels, Pelícano got underway with orders to proceed across the Gulf of Mexico to Matagorda, some 550 nautical miles away to the northwest. She carried a small prize crew under the command of Liberty’s Sailing Master, Oliver Mayo. After seeing the watch set and being satisfied that all was in order for the time being, Mayo ordered one of the prize crew forward into Pelícano’s cramped galley, to brew some coffee.

The man ordered to perform this task was an odd character, an Englishman by birth, known as “John the Drayman.”[2] He had come aboard at New Orleans a few weeks before. Shortly before he enlisted, a friend of his had hanged himself in the boarding house where they both resided, and John the Drayman believed he was haunted by his dead friend’s spirit. He would, frequently and without warning, suddenly fix his gaze on a distant point, and be overcome with a trembling fear when he saw a vision of the dead man. He would become completely transfixed and immobile when these visions occurred, a dangerous thing aboard ship. Some of Liberty’s crew found this habit to be ridiculous and annoying while others, the more superstitious members of the ship’s company, found it unsettling and frightening. Either way, John the Drayman was an unpopular figure among the crew.

Soon the prize crew caught the scent of roasting beans on the galley stove. Then there was a shriek, and John the Drayman burst on deck, mumbling and ashen-faced. Sailing Master Mayo recognized the problem instantly. “Blast him!,” he said. “He has seen the ghost. Jump in there, one of you, and look after the coffee.” Now Seaman John Lechter[3] went forward, but he passed in one side of the galley cabin and out the other, without stopping. He, too, came out shocked and mumbling. Now the crew genuinely became alarmed.

Mayo was having none of it. He went forward himself, and stuck his head in the little doorway. Now the whole prize crew, following close behind him, heard distinctly a piteous, unearthly moaning coming from within the galley. John the Drayman, having recovered his composure, sarcastically asked his fellows, “why don’t you go in now?”

Sailing Master Mayo, convinced that the mournful wails were from a more conventional source, led forward several of the crew and commenced a search of the galley. They quickly found a tall, cadaverous man, Pelícano’s cook, who had squeezed himself into an impossibly small space behind the galley stove. Stacks of firewood on either side of the stove helped conceal his location. He had hidden himself there when the Texians first boarded the schooner several hours before, convinced that if he was captured he’d be executed on the spot. It seemed like a workable plan, until John the Drayman had struck up a fire to roast the coffee. Now the unfortunate man was hopelessly wedged between a hot stove and the bulkhead, unable either to extricate himself or bear the pain in silence. The prize crew had to unlash the hot stove and drag it away from the bulkhead to get the poor man out, by which time he was half-dead from fear, heat, and exhaustion. After he was revived and recovered enough to speak to his rescuers, he was convinced to sign on to service in the Texian Navy himself, where an experienced cook would always find a welcome berth.[4]

The remainder of the voyage to Matagorda would pass uneventfully, but Pelícano was wrecked on March 15 trying to cross the bar into Matagorda Bay proper. The prize crew escaped, and while salvaging the cargo, discovered gunpowder hidden inside larger casks of flour, fruit, and other provisions. This power was forwarded along to Sam Houston’s Texian Army, then encamped on the west bank of the Brazos River. On March 31, Houston issued a proclamation to the citizens of Texas and the United States describing the military situation in Texas. He specifically singled out the capture of Pelícano, saying “Captain Brown, with one of our vessels, has taken a Mexican vessel, with 240 barrels of flour, 300 kegs of powder, and other supplies for the Army.”[5]

Sadly, John the Drayman was himself not to survive long after the wreck of Pelícano. Now back aboard Liberty after having assisted with the salvage of Pelícano’s cargo, John the Drayman was ordered out on Liberty’s main boom to bring in a line that had come loose in the following breeze. He had got the line and creeping back along the boom when, it seems, his dead friend’s ghost appeared again. John the Drayman clambered to his feet, standing upright on the boom over the water, spread his hands wide, and shouted, “he is coming!” Then John the Drayman fell, the waters of Matagorda Bay closed over him, and he was seen no more.

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[1] This story is adapted from S. W. Cushing, Wild Oats Sowings; or the Autobiography of an Adventurer (New York: Daniel Fanshaw, 1857), 164-71, with additional sources as noted.

[2] Cushing does not give John the Drayman’s proper name; if the first name John is correct, he might be Able Seaman John Whitlock, or Seaman John Glover, both believed to be part of Liberty’s crew on this voyage. John Powers, The First Texas Navy (Austin: Woodmount Books, 2006), 218.

[3] Cushing gives Lechter’s last name only; his full name is given in Powers, 218.

[4] This might be one J. Cortes, who is listed as a Cook’s Helper aboard the Texian schooner Invincible, between April 25 and July 10, 1837. Cushing’s account claims the man was Italian, and Cortes generally indicated a Spanish, Portuguese, or Catalan origin. Linda Ericson Devereaux, The Texas Navy: Freedom Fighter for the Republic of Texas Who are Among the Unsung Heroes of the Days of Yesterday (Nacogdoches, Texas: Ericson Books, 1983), 54.

[5] Niles’ Weekly Register (Baltimore), May 7, 1836, 174.

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