On our return from Savannah to Hilton Head, a few hours were spent in sending letters home, and preparing finally to cut loose from any Northern communications till we should reach New Orleans. General Gillmore decided to accompany the party through the whole of his Department. There was a final plunge in the bracing surf; a good-bye to the Dominie, who declared he couldn’t stay longer away from his congregation, and so went back on the “Arago;” a parting dinner, at which we were regaled with the sayings, doings and endurings of Jeff. Davis and party. It seems that the Sea Island negroes heard of General Gillmore’s dispatch, which mentioned Mr. Davis’ capture and coming, and so were prepared for his arrival. They lined the shore in vast numbers, and, as soon as his vessel had approached within what they supposed to be hearing distance, the affectionate creatures—otherwise known, while in slavery, as the happiest people on the face of the earth—of their own motion struck up the song—

with such a thunderous volume of sound, that there was no possibility of Mr. Davis’ remaining ignorant of their amiable intention toward the one whom they regarded as typifying the whole race of their kind and benevolent masters.

When we had all mustered on deck, next morning, the ancient town of Fernandina, Florida, was rising from the water on our right, with the quaint old fort beside it, and the new town in the distance. A medium-sized, plain frame house was pointed out as the residence of Senator Yulee, and, among the rambling, forsaken-looking wooden buildings of the place, it really had a Senatorial look. Fernandina, Florida, had always sounded in the North like a name of consequence. I find that it means a straggling village, which, in New York or Ohio, might have a post-office, but certainly could not aspire to the dignity of a county-seat.

But it has, according to the pilots and to the Coast Survey, the best harbor on the whole Atlantic coast, south of Fortress Monroe. There are over twenty feet on the bar, and the anchorage is safe and ample. Whenever the country back of it becomes anything, Fernandina must be a considerable place.

Whether Florida should ever have been a State in the Union, is a grave question but whether it should be one now, is, as it seems to me, no question at all. The total free population of the State, at the outbreak of the war, was seventy-eight thousand—a little more than a third as much as the city of Cincinnati, and only a few thousand over the present population of Cleveland or Albany. Giving such a constituency, scattered over a peninsula of swamps and everglades, and outlying barren islands, two Senators to balance the votes of Messrs. Wade and Sherman, or Sumner and Wilson, or Morgan and Harris, is very much like erecting Cleveland and Albany into independent governments, and saying they shall exercise equal powers in Congress with the States of Ohio and New York. Giving these Senators now, when their constituents have nearly all been in the Rebel army, and when, vehemently protesting against negro suffrage, they shut out all possibility of loyal votes, would be putting a reward on treason that we can hardly afford to pay.

One fails to understand how contemptibly small is the population scattered over this great expanse of territory, till he looks at the sizes of the principal towns. I have spoken of Fernandina as a village. Its population is less than fourteen hundred, all told; its white population less than eight hundred; and yet it is one of the largest towns in the State! Here is a table of the population of all the other “principal places:”

The citizens of Fernandina had recently been having an election for Mayor, and the old ways had been destroyed by the participation of negroes in the election. The violent Rebels of the place were all away in the Rebel army; the loyalists were very glad to be re-enforced by the negroes, and so they had been the first in the United States to exercise the right of suffrage. The Mayor elect, a M. Mot, was an enthusiastic little Frenchman, devoted to the idea that Fernandina might rival the olives of Seville, and that the olive oil of Florida might yet be fully equal to that of old Spain. He had not been sworn in, and so the Chief-Justice performed the ceremony in the little wooden building at the water’s edge—used for the custom house—in the presence of half a dozen witnesses. The little Frenchman may not make a fortune from his olive oil, but he enjoys the pre-eminence of being the first officer elected in the United States by universal loyal suffrage, and of having his election recognized by the highest judicial authority of the nation. The chances of the olive, however, seem to be also good. M. Mot came on board with a little bottle of oil, which he displayed in great triumph. “Bettare oleeve oil dare vas nevare.” And he seemed quite right. The old inhabitants say that every few years the frosts are likely to nip his olives; but we saw orchards of them growing beautifully in the open air, which had never been injured. If he should succeed, he will have added no inconsiderable element to the productive industry of Florida.

Fernandina has been held by our troops for a long time, but for over a year the Rebels were just across the Bay, and the pickets of the opposing forces were often separated by only this narrow sheet of water. Mr. Hallett Kilbourn, the Government purchasing agent, has thus found his area greatly circumscribed. He boasts that he has bought enough to pay the expenses of his office, but beyond this his operations are not likely to extend. Rebels are beginning to return, and disputes as to property are already common. Men who find that the Government, while they have been fighting to overthrow it, has used their property, complain bitterly of the injustice with which they are treated; and through the very importunity of their complaints, they are not unlikely to carry some of their claims.

A little negro school here, displayed the same rapid progress in the lower branches which has been observed all along the coast. Here, too, the negroes seemed deficient in love for the old masters, to whom we have been told that they were so much attached; and when informed of Jeff. Davis’ capture, spontaneously struck up the same song as at Hilton Head—

Leaving Fernandina, and steaming up the St. Johns’ river, we saw something of the cracker “plantations.” The native forests generally ran down to the water’s edge, but here and there, little lawn-like inclosures, extended back to clumps of trees, in the midst of which shabby frame houses could be seen—the “mansions” of the Floridian planters. Cultivated fields were rare, and the country seemed rather used for grazing than for any more strictly agricultural purposes. Pelicans were seen occasionally in the water, quite near the boat, and immense stories were told of the alligators one did not see. Scarcely a white man appeared along the whole route, and even the negroes were seen infrequently.

Starting from Fernandina at noon, we were at Jacksonville an hour before sundown. A few brick warehouses and stores make up the street fronting on the water, and a huge billiard saloon seems as much of an institution as the stores. Everywhere the sand was almost bottomless, and walking, for even a square or two, was exceedingly uncomfortable. A negro guard paced along the wharf; negroes in uniform were scattered about the streets, interspersed with a few Rebel soldiers, and a very neatly-policed negro camp occupied one of the vacant squares. These negroes are fine, stalwart men, better in physique than those at Savannah, and, in fact, rather superior to the lusty fellows at Port Royal. They seemed to speak a worse patois than the Sea Islanders, and words of Spanish, in the mouths of some of them, testified to their being genuine sons of the soil, with a lineage running back in a straight line to the days of the Spanish occupation. There was scarcely a mulatto among them.

Within a few moments after our boat touched the wharf, a Tax Commissioner of Florida, and a curious, squatty military officer, with certainly the most extraordinary squeaking voice ever heard on a parade ground, came on board. The officer was General Israel Vogdes, an old West Pointer, standing high in the technical points of his profession, and more than fair in its practice. He commanded the post, and proved as agreable in all other respects as he was vocally atrocious. He had established his headquarters in the best house in town; and the staff whiled away their leisure hours in the runaway Rebel’s billiard room, or over his books.

Here, in the evening, came ex-Senator Yulee—a Hebrew, who, like Belmont, has changed his name. When he represented the Territory of Florida in the House, he was known as Mr. Levy. When Florida was admitted as a State, and he had married into the family of old “Duke Wickliffe,” of Kentucky, he turned up as Senator, under the name of Yulee, and remained in that body till, in 1861, he resigned to enter the Rebellion. Now, with his property in Fernandina confiscated, his office, influence, means of livelihood all gone, the ex-Senator comes out of the Rebellion, and out of the interior, where he has been hiding, to have an interview with the Chief Justice, whom, as fellow-member of the Senate, he had treated as “outside of any healthy political organization.”

Mr. Yulee was, of course, polite and plausible, but it was amusing to see how ignorant he was that during the last four years anything had happened! Slavery was dead—that much was hastily admitted—but what other change the causeless Rebellion could have, or ought to have wrought, he didn’t see. That there was any modification of the old order of things—that Southern men were not to be heeded whenever they stamped their feet—that every Rebel had not the same rights under the Constitution with every loyal man—were things which, in his seclusion in the interior, had never occurred to him. He had been appointed a Commissioner to see whether the Administration would not permit the Governor and Legislature to resume control of the State, and dispense with further military interference! While we were at Hilton Head, General Gillmore had issued an order overturning the effort of the fugitive South Carolina Governor to continue his control of his State; and Senator Yulee had just heard of it. He was greatly disturbed, and begged Mr. Chase to tell him whether it could be possible that the Administration would sustain Gen. Gillmore, and thus, by refusing to recognize the only constitutional authorities of the State, plunge them all into anarchy again!

But worse horrors remained for the sanguine Senator to encounter. He had not recovered from the shock of learning that, instead of being again clothed with the authority of the State, he and his fellow conspirators stood a better chance of being dealt with for treason, when the negro question came up. He was desirous that the State officials should control the freedmen. It was suggested that the freedmen, being in some sections in the majority, and in all having the advantage of loyalty, might better control the State officials. “Why, they’ll all starve. They are shiftless, improvident, idle, and incapable of taking care of themselves.” The experiences of Port Royal were recited. He was incredulous. He didn’t know what the Port Royal negroes were like; but it was exceedingly strange if any negroes could save enough during the summer to support them through the winter.

His desire to be polite, and to avoid committing himself to any unpleasant declarations, made the ex-Senator very cautious; and toward the close he seemed too much surprised and bewildered, by what he heard, to have much to say. He came down to Jacksonville, seeing no reason why he should not run up to Tallahassee, help the Governor engineer the State back into the Union, and, through the elections, patch up some policy for “taking care of the negroes,” and then prepare to resume his seat in the United States Senate at the beginning of the next session. He returns to the country, assured that neither he nor the Governor will be recognized as State officials, and somewhat alarmed lest they may be recognized as traitors.^[21]

Meanwhile, one of our party, who had been strolling about the town, came in with a curious case. A returned Rebel soldier had found a pretty little cracker girl, scarcely fourteen years old, and not yet emancipated from short dresses and pantalets, to whom he had taken a violent liking, and whom, by promises of toys and a new dress, he had induced clandestinely to marry him. The poor girl’s mother was distressed, took the girl away, and refused to recognize the marriage. The Rebel soldier came into town, found the girl and her mother here, and seized upon the child, vowing that she must straightway come home with him, or he would kill her. The people of the town did not seem to think the affair unusual, or requiring any attention; nobody was going to interfere, and the fellow was about to force away the child from her mother. Perhaps the incident is as good an illustration of the Florida cracker stage of civilization as could have been found.

General Vogdes procured horses, and a party, including one of the Florida ladies, went out riding, just as the sun was going down. The roads were bad; where there was no sand, there were stumps and mud holes; and the country, wherever we rode, was flat, uninteresting and unimproved. Returning, we found the straggling little town had put on new attractions. The trees that belt all its streets had hidden the omnipresent sand; the moonlight, glimmering through the foliage, concealed all the shabbiness and doubled all the beauties of the dilapidated, but shrubbery-embowered houses; the air was delightfully balmy—more than realizing all that has been said of the Florida climate; and, in short, we kept riding about for an hour, by moonlight. Then, how to get back was the question. My companion lived in the town; surely she ought to know its dozen streets, but she didn’t. “There’s our house, just beyond that clump of trees!” We rode up, and found it wasn’t. Protracted searching ensued; then, “Oh, here it is; I know it by the piazza.” But when we rode up, it was found the moonlight and shadows had been deceptive. At last she heard a familiar voice: “Beckie, is that you?” “Laws, missus, what you doin’ out heah. Thort sure yous gwine home an hour ago.” “Beckie, I’m not lost, but I can’t see in the shade, and have just got turned around a little. Which way is our house?” “Haw, haw,” in chorus from half a dozen African females. “Laws, Missus, to think of yous a gittin’ lost in Jacksonville! Why, chile, deres de house right round de cohnah, whar it alius was!”

“Right round de cohnah” we started; but somehow we didn’t get there. I’ve done a good deal of horseback riding, in a good many out-of-the-way places; on prairies where there wasn’t a landmark; in pine woods, where there were so many I couldn’t see; through the labyrinthine mazes of roads cut in the forests by the several advancing brigade trains of a great army; through unfamiliar swamps, without a road, under heavy fire, where I was compelled to rely on my pocket compass, to know how to get out from the sweep of the batteries; but I never got lost before. That sensation was reserved for enjoyment at the village of Jacksonville, and within the corporate (and sandy) limits of the same, in the State of Florida. We rode blindly around, for about two hours, till General Vodges sent out soldiers to look for us. When, at last, we cantered up in grand style, we strenuously declared that the evening was so charming we couldn’t think of coming in sooner.