Written from the Sea islands of South Carolina.
[Diary] Tesday, June 3, 1868.
It is a day of doubt and wearying uncertainty. Mr. Pierce is going home — perhaps not to return, and who can take his place here with the negroes? They trust so implicitly to his word and believe so entirely in his love for them. They come to him with all complaints of wrongs done them and are satisfied with his decisions even when against themselves. Last Sunday after the sermon he spoke to them about going away, of the benefits they were receiving, and of his successor. He said, “Lincoln always did think a great deal about you and was always your friend; now he is thinking more than ever and he is going to send you a protector. He is going to send a much more powerful man than I am, a big general to care for you — a man who has always been your friend. You must love him and obey him.” There was something so self-forgetting and humble in these words, and the manner of speaking, that it made my heart swell, and when he thanked them and said good-bye, a good many were much affected.
After he sat down, Mr. Horton said that all who were sorry to have him go had better express it by rising. All stood up and most of them held up both hands. Some began to bless and pray for him aloud, to say they “thanked massa for his goodness to we,” etc. It quite overcame him for a minute. He covered his eyes with his hands and sat down in the pew. Soon these people began to crowd around him and he had to shake hands with them. I saw then that his face was streaming with tears, as he passed pretty quickly out of church under the old oaks and the people crowded about him. I stood still in the pew watching it all, but soon I had to go on down the aisle, and I saw an old blind man waiting and looking anxious. Dr. Browne said to me, “He is quite blind.” “My friend” (to the blind man), “don’t you want to shake hands with Mr. Pierce?” “Yes, massa, but I can’t get to him — I’se blin’ an’ dey crowd so.” “I will shake hands for you,” I said, and gave him my hand. “Thank you, missus — thank you,” he said. I gave Mr. Pierce this handshake and he treasured it, I think.
It is storming most furiously, and I fear Ellen is out in it. It worries me and yet I feel faith that she will come to me. It seems impossible, though; all coming seems stopped. The new war, excitement at the North, the calling-out the militia, the battles, etc., have made it almost impossible that this place can command much notice. The Oriental is wrecked; the Atlantic up for repairs, and communication difficult. That wretch, T., who refused Mr. McKim and Ellen a passage on their permit from Barney and pass from Mr. Pierce, has it in his power to do such mischief and cause such delay and vexation as will make it almost impossible for Ellen to come. She has already had one expensive journey to New York for nothing. Poor Ellen! her trials are far harder than mine — she has borne much more.
