Daily Observations from The Civil War

. . . March, 1859.

Though this is March, the Japonicas are just passing out of blossom and the roses are in their first fresh glory—yellow and white Banksia, the Lamarque, and all those choice fresh varieties. I’ll just run down in the garden here and pick you a rosebud. There it is —my voucher for the floral stories.

While we were at the Pulaski in Savannah, the great sale of Pierce Butler’s slaves took place, and there all the gentlemen interested were congregated. You would never suppose the young meek pale little man, Pierce Butler, to be either a slave-owner or Mrs. Kemble’s husband. He is the indignant vestryman, I am told, who walked out of Rev. Dudley Tyng’s Church when that sermon was preached. I am glad to hear that Mrs. Kemble has never drawn a dollar of her alimony, $3,000 a year, but allows it to accumulate for the children. She has the honest pride of maintaining herself, under the circumstances. Of course, you have read the Tribune’s account; the girls sent it to us, and we have kept it well concealed, I assure you, for there are fire-eaters in the house, who would not hesitate to insult us. But now it is copied into the New York Herald—the only northern daily sold here — and has gone all through the city. There is a shrewd Philadelphian here, with his wife, Mr. Ashmead. He knew the agent at that sale. He attended the sale; took notes of course, as every northerner had to do, and now and then made a modest bid—to appear interested as a buyer. He says: “ All I can say of Doe-stick’s account is it does not go one bit beyond the reality — hardly comes up to it, indeed.” He heard all the remarks quoted about Daphney’s baby; says the story of Dorcas’ and Jeffrey’s love is true; and it was to himself and one other that the negro driver’s remarks about the efficacy of pistols were made. He thought Mr. Ashmead was one of the same sort! The latter was a Buchanan man; he goes home an Abolitionist, and says: “Now I can believe that everything in Uncle Tom’s Cabin might really happen.” [click to continue…]

Warning! This article was written in 1859.  It contains language that is considered unacceptable today.

As properly part of the history of the war, the following New York Tribune’s account of this sale is valuable. It was found among Abby’s papers, dated March 9th, 1859:

A GREAT SLAVE AUCTION.
400 MEN, WOMEN, AND CHILDREN SOLD.

“The largest sale of human chattels that has been made in Star-Spangled America for several years took place on Wednesday and Thursday of last week at the Race Course, near the City of Savannah, Georgia. The lot consisted of four hundred and thirty-six men, women, children and infants, being that half of the negro stock remaining on the old Major Butler plantations which fell to one of the two heirs to that estate — Mr. Pierce M. Butler, still living and resident in the city of Philadelphia, in the free state of Pennsylvania. They were, in fact, sold to pay Mr. Pierce M. Butler’s debts.

“The sale had been advertised largely for many weeks, and as the negroes were known to be a choice lot and very desirable property, the attendance of buyers was large. Little parties were made up from the various hotels every day to visit the Race Course, distant some three miles from the city, to look over the chattels, discuss their points, and make memoranda for guidance on the day of sale. The buyers were generally of a rough breed, slangy, profane and bearish, being, for the most part, from the back river and swamp plantations where the elegancies of polite life are not, perhaps, developed to their fullest extent.

“The negroes were brought to Savannah in small lots, as many at a time as could be conveniently taken care of, the last of them reaching the city the Friday before the sale. They were consigned to the care of Mr. J. Bryan, auctioneer and negro broker, who was to feed and keep them in condition until disposed of. Immediately on their arrival they were taken to the Race Course and there quartered in the sheds erected for the accommodation of the horses and carriages of gentlemen attending the races. Into these sheds they were huddled pell-mell, without any more attention to their comfort than was necessary to prevent their becoming ill and unsalable.

“The chattels were huddled together on the floor, there being no sign of bench or table. They eat and slept on the bare boards, their food being rice and beans, with occasionally a bit of bacon and corn bread. Their huge bundles were scattered over the floor, and thereon the slaves sat or reclined, when not restlessly moving about or gathered into sorrowful groups discussing the chances of their future fate. On the faces of all was an expression of heavy grief.

“The negroes were examined with as little consideration as if they had been brutes; the buyers pulling their mouths open to see their teeth, pinching their limbs to find how muscular they were, walking them up and down to detect any signs of lameness, making them stoop and bend in different ways that they might be certain there was no concealed rupture or wound.

“The following curiously sad scene is the type of a score of others that were there enacted: [click to continue…]

(Letters of a Family during the War for the Union)

Abby writes to her cousin, Harriet Gilman:

Charleston, S. C., Feb. 6, 1859.

Slave auctions are of daily occurrence, and one of these we attended, seeing what perhaps no lady-resident of Charleston has seen. But for that sad insight we might have thought things had a pretty fair aspect, generally. Certainly nothing forced itself unpleasantly on our attention, only every black face in the street reminded us of the system. I enclose you the list of some we saw sold. It is the list of only “one lot” put in by one trader. I could not get a full catalogue of sale; it seemed very long, and the men who held them were marking off the names and the prices which they brought. One man, a great stout thorough African, ran up to $780, but that was “cheap.” The sale was in Chalmers street —a red flag indicating the spot—hardly a stone’s throw from the hotel. The slave yard was probably the largest in Charleston —a great empty square, with high walls on three sides and a platform where the auctioneer stood and around which the bidders were grouped. On the fourth side was a five or six-story brick building, dirty, ragged-looking, like our rear tenements, where the poor crowd were lodged. The gentlemen of our party, Mr. Robert Howland, and Mr. Charles Wolcott of Fishkill (who is here with his wife on a hasty tour), went in among the bidders. We ladies stood at the gate and looked in. Whole families of all ages were standing back against the walls, being questioned by purchasers and waiting their turn. A poor old woman, her head bowed, was sold with her son. They told us families are never separated except on account of bad behavior when they wish to get rid of some bad fellow—that this is so much the custom that the opposite course would not be tolerated. But mortgages, sheriffs’ sales, sudden death of the owner, etc., must often, as we can imagine, infringe on this custom. Among the saddened lookers on, all colored women except ourselves, was a middle-aged black woman, with a child in her arms. Mother had much talk with her. “Ah! Misses,” she said, “they leave me some of the little ones. They sell my boys away, but I expect that, and all I wish is that they may get a good Master and Misses. There! Misses, that’s one of my boys on the stand now! I don’t mind that, but its hard to have the old man (her husband) drifted away. But what can I do? My heart’s broke, and that’s all.” He had been sold some time ago, and was gone she didn’t know where. We turned home sickened and indignant. The bidders were gentlemanly-looking people, just such as we met every day at the hotel table. The trader had come down with this very gang in the cars with the Wolcotts the day before, and was so drunk then he could hardly stand. Isn’t Dr. Cheever justified?