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Combee Harriet Tubman The Combahee River Raid and Black Freedom During The Civil War Edda L Fields Black Full Chapter PDF
Combee Harriet Tubman The Combahee River Raid and Black Freedom During The Civil War Edda L Fields Black Full Chapter PDF
Combee Harriet Tubman The Combahee River Raid and Black Freedom During The Civil War Edda L Fields Black Full Chapter PDF
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COMBEE
COMBEE
HARRIET TUBMAN, THE COMBAHEE RIVER RAID,
AND BLACK FREEDOM DURING THE CIVIL WAR
EDDA L. FIELDS-BLACK
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the
University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing
worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and
certain other countries.
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America.
© Edda L. Fields-Black 2024
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in
writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under
terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning
reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department,
Oxford University Press, at the address above.
You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same
condition on any acquirer.
CIP data is on file at the Library of Congress
ISBN 978-0-19-755279-7
eISBN 978-0-19-755281-0
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197552797.001.0001
Support for the book was provided by Furthermore grants in publishing, a program of the
J.M. Kaplan Fund.
Dedicated to
Anna L. Richard Frasier (1900–2002)
Katie Richard Gilliard (1910–2016)
Jonas Fields (1929–2014)
who kept me linked to my ancestral home, shared with me
what they knew of our family’s stories, and inspired me and
generations to come
Contents
Timeline
A Note on Names
Foreword
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Appendixes
Notes
Index
Timeline
On June 20, 1863, less than two weeks before the Battle of
Gettysburg, the Wisconsin State Journal reported with great
excitement that earlier in the month Colonel James Montgomery of
the US Army and his “gallant band of 300 Black soldiers” had
“dashed” into what was widely considered a breadbasket of the
Confederacy, the rice plantations along the Combahee River in South
Carolina, destroyed millions of dollars of property and mansions
along fifteen miles of the river, and struck fear into the heart of the
rebellion. Moreover, it had done all this “under the guidance of a
Black woman.” It gave this Black woman and the Black soldiers
“some credit for the exploit,” which was now being called the
Combahee River Raid.1
This woman was none other than Harriet Tubman, the fugitive
slave known as “Moses.” To Sarah Bradford, one of her biographers,
Tubman recalled that she had “nebber see such a sight” as early on
the morning of the Combahee raid: hundreds, if not thousands, of
Blacks running for their lives—and their freedom—when they heard
the whistles of the US Army gunboat John Adams and the armed
transport steamer Harriet A. Weed coming up the river. First they
peered out “like startled deer” from their hiding places in the rice
fields and slave cabins. Then freedom seekers rushed to the boats
with their children and belongings. They came loaded down with
bags on their shoulders, baskets on their heads, young children
struggling to keep up, pigs squealing, chickens squawking, and
babies crying. Tubman told an interviewer decades after the war,
“These here, puts me in the mind of the children of Israel, coming
out of Egypt.”2
Tubman remembered it as a chaotic scene. One mother carried a
pail of rice on her head that was still smoking, as if just removed
from the fire. Children trailed behind her, clinging to her dress.
Another child was perched on her shoulders, gripping her forehead
from behind and digging a hand in the smoking rice pot: breakfast in
flight. On her back, the woman carried a bag with a pig in it.
Another woman brought two pigs, one white and one black. Tubman
remembered the white pig was named Beauregard and the black pig
Jeff Davis. She herself brought both Beauregard and Jeff Davis
onboard so that the woman, who was clearly weak from illness,
could carry her child onto the boat. Some women fled with twins
hanging around their necks. Tubman thought she had never seen so
many sets of twins in her life. They all came rushing to the Union
gunboats, followed close behind by enslaved drivers who lashed
them with whips, trying to get them to go back to the slave quarters
and rice fields. Then the drivers, too, got on the boats.3
The Union commanders, who were white, gave the orders for the
Black soldiers who had gone ashore—as well as others assisting in
the raid, including Tubman—to “double-quick” back to the boats.
Running, Tubman tripped on her long dress and fell. In frustration
she tore her garments so that she could move freely. When she got
back on the boat, her dress was little more than shreds.4
By now hundreds of freedom seekers stood on the riverbanks,
waiting to board the small rowboats designated to transport them
from the shore to the gunboats. The rowboats filled up quickly.
Another transport steamer, the Sentinel, had earlier run aground on
a sandbar and could not be dislodged; it had been abandoned for
the time being. Without that third vessel available to transport
everyone who had rushed to the riverbank, most freedom seekers
were not able to bring on board any of the personal effects they had
laboriously toted to the riverbanks. In fact, they could not take
anything with them except the clothes on their backs. On the
landing, they left an assortment of clothes, pots, kettles, baskets,
bolts of cloth, hats, and shoes, everything they possessed in the
world. Nevertheless, the loss of these possessions was a small price
to pay for a way out of what Frederick Douglass called the “prison-
house of bondage.”5
Those who hadn’t yet boarded held on to the sides of the
rowboats, preventing the boats from taking off without them. They
must have known this would be their only opportunity to leave, and
these boats the only way out. Though the crews smacked their
hands with the oars to get them to let go, they were determined to
hold on. The entire mission came close to disaster.6
By this point the sun was coming up and Montgomery’s mission
would be in full view of any Confederate forces that might have been
in the area. Any delay could have given the Confederate forces
enough time to regroup and attack, slaughtering everyone, soldiers
and freedom seekers alike. Confederate pickets could have shot
them off like sitting ducks. Every second counted.7
Someone had to calm the desperate freedom seekers. Colonel
Montgomery implored Tubman, or “Moses,” as he called her, to
“speak a word of consolation to your people.” Decades later, Tubman
told an interviewer that they were no more her people than they
were Montgomery’s—“only [they] was all Negroes.” To Sarah
Bradford she recalled that those she encountered in coastal South
Carolina were foreign to her: “Why der language down dar in de far
South is jus’ as different from ours in Maryland as you can tink.” In
fact, Tubman and the Blacks in coastal South Carolina spoke
different varieties of a Creole dialect that was evolving among
enslaved and free Black people in the Atlantic basin. Tubman spoke
a Chesapeake Creole that was influenced primarily by English and
other European languages and thus likely revealed fewer African
inflections. Freedom seekers in coastal South Carolina spoke a
Lowcountry Creole that continued to incorporate elements of West
African languages up until almost the Civil War. A similar creolization
process created the two dialects, but different inputs put into
different physical and social environments over time had resulted in
different linguistic products. Thus, Tubman and the freedom seekers
had difficulty understanding each other. As Tubman put it, “Dey
laughed when dey heard me talk. An’ I could not understand dem,
no how.”8
But why Tubman was in the South—in South Carolina, where the
Civil War began—was unambiguous. She had known since the
passage of the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 that there was “gwine to
be war.” In 1862, she decided to do her part, risking her freedom,
her safety, and her very life. She was ready to go to war for people
she did not know and whose language and culture she could not
even understand. However, she knew that they all had one thing in
common: the pursuit of freedom.9
The centerpiece of Tubman’s efforts was the Combahee River
Raid. In the course of six hours, she, Montgomery, the 2nd South
Carolina Volunteers, and one battery of the 3rd Rhode Island Heavy
Artillery attacked no fewer than seven rice plantations. They
destroyed $6 million in property, including homes, stables,
storehouses, and other outbuildings, as well as millions of bushels of
rice. They confiscated hundreds of heads of livestock, including
eighty or ninety horses. Most of all, they set in motion the freedom
of 756 enslaved people, Confederate planters’ most valuable
“possessions.” The US forces did not lose a single life. One could
argue that they executed the largest and most successful slave
rebellion in US history.10
********
Most know that Harriet Tubman escaped enslavement, led herself
and more than sixty others out of bondage via the Underground
Railroad—giving about seventy more people detailed instructions on
how to get to freedom—and became a suffragist, fighting to expand
voting and civil rights to those who had been excluded from them.
Though some of Tubman’s biographers, including Earl Conrad and
Kate Larson, have written about Tubman’s Civil War experiences, her
work for the US Army’s Department of the South during the Civil War
remains the least-studied period of Tubman’s otherwise well-studied
life.
Tubman left Boston in 1862 and traveled to Port Royal, South
Carolina, one year into the war, shortly after the port city had been
liberated by Union forces. She embedded herself in the Beaufort
Black refugee community, acting as a nurse, cook, spy, and scout for
the US Army. There she recruited the men who piloted Colonel
Montgomery, the 2nd South Carolina Volunteers, and the 3rd Rhode
Island Heavy Artillery up the Combahee River and onto the
plantations in the Combahee River Raid.
We know this because there are records of her service. Tubman’s
second husband, Nelson Davis, served in the 8th Regiment,
Company C, of the US Colored Troops (USCT) from September 25,
1863, to November 10, 1865. After Davis’s death on October 14,
1888, Tubman received a widow’s pension of $8 per month for her
husband’s service. Her testimony is recorded in a report from the
House Committee on Invalid Pensions submitted to the whole House
of Representatives and requesting an increase to $25. Tubman’s
application for a widow’s pension—similar to others in the massive
collection of documents housed in the National Archives in
Washington, DC—reveals that she worked as a “nurse and cook in
hospitals and a commander of several men (eight or nine).” She
therefore had a “double claim” on the US government—one for a
widow’s pension and the other for her own military service.11
The Combahee River Raid was Colonel Montgomery’s most
successful Civil War expedition. In fact, it was one of the most
successful Union expeditions of the entire Civil War in terms of
property damage and number of enslaved people freed. Yet aside
from Jeff Grigg’s study, The Combahee River Raid: Harriet Tubman
and Lowcountry Liberation, very little has been written about it.
Why? The answer is that Tubman and the men and women she
freed were all illiterate. Tubman never wrote her own account of the
raid. She told parts of it to abolitionist friends—like Sarah Bradford,
mentioned earlier—and supporters, who wrote it down for her. Taken
together, all these accounts provide evidence of her Civil War
activities in coastal South Carolina, where, despite language and
cultural differences, she gathered from the Lowcountry Creoles the
intelligence the US military commanders needed.
However, many of the critical elements of the Combahee story
have been largely absent. Who were these people who gained their
freedom? The majority of plantation records were destroyed when
the plantations were burned (Colonel Montgomery’s men spared only
one on that stretch of the river). Incinerated were slave lists,
plantation daybooks, diaries, ledgers, and business and personal
correspondence. The Confederates had moved records for Beaufort
and Colleton Counties to Columbia, South Carolina, during the war to
protect them from the Union. Ironically, those burned in February
1865, when General William T. Sherman’s army marched through the
Carolinas (though Charleston County’s archives survived). Thus,
many documents filed in municipal archives located in the parishes
where the raid took place are also lost forever.12
However, papers from other rice plantations in the area owned by
the same planter families or their relatives help paint a picture of life
on the lower Combahee. Moreover, planters whose property was
burned during the raid applied for compensation from the
Confederate government, cataloguing their losses. (One planter was
a double-dipper, as I learned. He applied for compensation from
both the Confederate and US governments.) In addition to buildings
and equipment, bushels of rice, livestock, and personal possessions,
the affidavits listed the names of the enslaved men, women, and
children who seized their chance for their freedom on June 2, 1863.
A number of planter families filed marriage settlements, wills, bills of
sale for slaves, and court proceedings in Charleston or kept private
collections that survived. Some planters scrawled back-of-the-
envelope lists of the enslaved people they had lost in the raid or who
had moved out of the area before and after June 2, and these, too,
have survived. Finally, there are surviving letters in which planters,
their family members, and neighbors lamented and commiserated
about their losses. Still, while these help with names, family
connections, and ages, they reveal too little about the lived
experiences of enslaved people and their communities.
So telling the Combahee story presents challenges. What we have
most of all, however, are the pension files, which allow us to
reconstruct the story of Tubman’s Civil War service, the Combahee
River Raid, and the hundreds of husbands, wives, siblings, in-laws,
cousins, childhood friends, neighbors, and sweethearts who all ran
for their lives and their freedom when the steamboat whistle blew.
They constitute the foundation of the story that follows.
********
The United States Civil War Pension Files offer a fresh perspective on
Harriet Tubman’s Civil War service, putting this chapter of her life in
the context of the Combahee River Raid, the freedom seekers who
liberated themselves as a result of it, the Black regiments, and the
evolution of a new Creole culture and language. They are an
underutilized source. Like slave narratives (often dictated by formerly
enslaved people to abolitionist amanuenses) and interviews collected
among formerly enslaved people by the Federal Writers’ Project from
1936 to 1938, the US Civil War Pension Files provide a window into
the intimate lives of enslaved people, their families, and
communities.13
Under the General Act of 1862, Congress created the US Pension
Bureau to evaluate pension claims and administer pension benefits
to white and Black US veterans disabled by military service and to
the widows and dependents (children under sixteen at time of their
father’s death and adult dependents) of men killed in action. The
Dependent and Disability Pension Act of 1890 greatly expanded the
pension system, making disabled veterans eligible for pensions
whether or not their disabilities were related to military service and
their widows and dependents eligible for pensions whether or not
the veteran’s death was related to his military service. Successfully
navigating the pension system was expensive, time-consuming, and
frustrating. It presented untold challenges for African American Civil
War veterans, the majority of whom were born enslaved and
remained illiterate all of their lives. Roughly 83,000, slightly more
than 42 percent, of African American veterans who applied for
pensions were approved. Tens of thousands more veterans, widows,
and dependents’ applications were not approved and/or they did not
live long enough to collect their benefits.14
USCT veterans and their widows applied for pensions for their
Civil War service through local attorneys mostly located in Beaufort
and Colleton Counties and attorneys in Washington, DC. Veterans
and widows were required to produce many different kinds of
documentation, including the soldier’s discharge papers and a
marriage certificate. The documents had to be notarized by a local
notary in order for a successful pension application to be filed. The
notaries also took affidavits from veterans, widows, comrades, “Old
Heads” (the oldest people in the community, who knew everyone
else’s business), neighbors, church members, and others who had
known the veteran, the widow, and their children for much of their
lives. The Bureau of Pensions sent special examiners in to
investigate when the process went awry, as it frequently did,
because Black veterans’ applications often lacked the necessary
documentation (marriage certificates, birth certificates, even
discharge papers) and required depositions from many more
witnesses to verify the information. The testimonies were often
contradictory. So special examiners took more affidavits from
witnesses, attempted to assess whose testimony was most reliable,
wrote a report back to the Bureau of Pensions, and made a
recommendation whether the veteran, widow, or dependent should
be granted a pension or the veteran an increase in pension benefits
because of disability.15
Once the veteran or widow had secured pension benefits, they
had to visit a notary every quarter to execute their pension vouchers
and collect their monetary benefits. Four times yearly, many traveled
from the towns of Dale and Sheldon to downtown Beaufort, from St.
Helena Island to Frogmore (also in Beaufort County), or from Green
Pond to Walterboro (in Colleton County) to pick up mail addressed to
them and delivered to the general store, including their mail from
the Bureau of Pensions. General stores were the one-stop shops of
small southern towns in the post–Civil War era. Located in the center
of town, they sold everything, including groceries, clothing,
household goods, tools, and seed, to white and Black customers in
the local area. In addition, the notary public’s office was often
located at the back of the store. This being Reconstruction, the
general store had two doors and the office two rooms, and that
segregation endured through the period of Jim Crow.16
White farmers browsed the wares at their leisure, catching up on
the week’s news with the store clerk and fellow white customers,
and transacted business with the notary public in the main office.
For them, the general store was a central social spot during the
evening hours. Black customers, on the other hand, came in the
back door and stated their business. If shopping, they requested
items and had to purchase them without inspecting them or trying
them on. If they came to transact business with the notary public,
including pension business, they waited in a back room, often a
storeroom, for the notary to finish attending to the needs of white
customers. USCT veterans who had fought courageously and proudly
for the Union, their freedom, and the freedom of others entered
through the back door and sat in the back room waiting for the
notary to have the time (or take the time) to notarize their pension
vouchers and count out the payments due for their service.17
When called upon, the veterans and widows held up one hand,
swore to tell the truth, signed—usually with a mark, as only a
handful could sign their names—and had their signature or mark
witnessed, usually by other veterans and/or widows sitting in the
back room. If the pensioner needed to have a letter written or a
form filled out to apply for a disability pension or an increase, the
notary could perform all of these tasks in the same visit. Most
veterans came alone and met their comrades at the general store;
most widows did not come alone, instead accompanied by a male
relative (brother, brother-in-law, son, grandson) or one of their
husband’s comrades. During these quarterly reunions, veterans and
widows stayed abreast of one another’s health, family, and financial
circumstances, identified who among their community needed help,
and pledged to keep in touch until they met again.
If a veteran or widow was applying for a pension, disability, or an
increase, they often brought witnesses with them, in which case
they all sat together in the back room and waited. If the witnesses
did not come with the veteran or widow, they could come separately
for the notary to take their affidavits. If the notary was attending to
white customers, quite possibly the USCT veterans, widows, and
witnesses would have to wait for a considerable amount of time, and
if the notary did not have time that day, they would have to travel
home or spend the night in town and come back another day, all at
their own expense, to try their luck again. The costs associated with
applying for a pension—particularly traveling to and from rural areas
to attorneys, notary publics, and surgical boards, and paying notary
publics to read, explain, and fill out forms, take depositions, and
notarize documents—were prohibitive for many veterans and
widows.18
In one trip, veterans and widows could execute and cash their
pension vouchers, as well as spend their quarterly pension benefits
on foodstuffs, clothing, shoes, and supplies for themselves, their
families, and their households. Veterans and widows frequently left
discharge papers and other important documents on file with the
notary public with whom they executed their quarterly vouchers or
at the general store where they did their shopping, so that the
documents would not be destroyed by rats, fire, or water. Veterans
and widows had to testify that they did not pledge their pension
certificates to the storekeepers who kept their pension papers on file
and/or where they collected their quarterly benefits, and
storekeepers had to testify that they did not require veterans and
widows to pledge their certificates in order to be granted store
credit. However, it’s highly likely that some of them were indeed
leaving their pension papers at the stores as collateral, even though
they told the pension officers they didn’t and the practice was illegal
under federal law. As the Federal Writers’ Project interviews
demonstrate, it is no surprise that poor Black people—especially
ones dependent on government benefits—told federal interviewers
what they thought the government officials wanted to hear,
particularly about slavery.19
Formerly enslaved people told their stories to notary publics,
pension attorneys, and officials from the Department of the Interior’s
Bureau of Pensions. Veterans who enlisted in the US Army after the
Combahee River Raid told their story to apply for Civil War pensions;
they told it to apply for increases in their pensions if they became
disabled or had reached the age of seventy. When one of their
comrades died, they told his story, and theirs in relationship to his,
to be sure his widow and/or minor children received pension
benefits. Widows, like Harriet Tubman Davis, applied for their
husbands’ pension benefits after their husbands died. After a
comrade or widow died, their story was told to ensure that whoever
nursed him or her in their last days and paid the burial expenses
would receive accrued pension benefits to defray the costs.
Moreover, the comrades, friends, and neighbors who knew the
veteran, widow, and/or minor children during enslavement and after
discharge told their stories as well.
When notary publics exercised best practices, they recorded
witnesses’ testimony given under oath. On a separate document,
they rated the reliability of the witnesses; sometimes they asked
postmasters to weigh in on the witnesses’ standing in the
community. Occasionally special examiners stepped out of their roles
as neutral scribes and wrote their real feelings about a witness in a
deposition or a special examiner’s report. It is not surprising that
when they let their guard down, special examiners admitted they
thought Black people were ignorant. Many of special examiner
James A. Bell’s colleagues would have agreed with his judgments of
the veterans, widows, and neighbors who lived on the isolated and
unhealthful lands along the Combahee River. He pronounced that
Sina Bolze Young Green had once “belonged to a rice planter” and
that people who had been held in bondage by rice planters were
among the “most ignorant and degraded.” He continued by saying
that those who had been enslaved on Lowcountry rice plantations
and freedpeople in general had lost the morality they possessed in
bondage by coming into contact with the world in freedom. Notary
public N. G. Moore articulated how his colleagues likely felt when he
wrote to his superiors to note that Moses Simmons’s first wife’s
name was Christy, not Cushie as it had appeared previously in
Moses’s pension file, and opined that “these people talk very
indistinct and it is very hard to write from pronunciation. They are all
negroes and very ignorant. This explains the difference in the name
as it appeared.” Thus, most notary publics and special examiners
filtered witnesses’ testimony through their language, Standard
English, obscuring the witnesses’ Gullah Geechee dialect. The Gullah
Geechee are the descendants of Blacks enslaved on Lowcountry rice,
Sea Island cotton, and indigo plantations from the Cape Fear River in
North Carolina to the St. John River in Florida and in the port cities
of Charleston, Beaufort, Savannah, and Jacksonville.20
Inconsistencies in witnesses’ stories may have contributed to
special examiners’ negative opinions about USCT veterans and their
widows, though the rampant discrimination and racism among
whites during Reconstruction and in the Jim Crow South were surely
the root cause. When veterans, widows, and neighbors
misrepresented information, such as their marital status or nature of
their disability, the special examiners usually unearthed the truth,
usually with help from the Old Heads. In 1911, Fannie Lee Green
Simmons, widow of Moses Simmons, testified that “every old head
on this plantation knows that I had no wife [sic] between Caesar
[Green] and Moses [Simmons].” The Old Heads knew who was
married before the war, who had remarried even though their first
spouse was still living, who had never married even though they
lived together as husband and wife, who told members of the
community to say they were or were not married when the pension
officer came around, and whose children were born out of wedlock.
They did not hesitate to tell what they knew when the pension
officers showed up. As the decades wore on, there were always Old
Heads around who could tell the tale. The men who enlisted and the
women they married all became Old Heads if they just kept living. It
was the special examiners’ job to find the Old Heads and ask the
right question. Occasionally, witnesses told pension officers about
the night when Colonel Montgomery and the “Yankee gunboats”
came up the river and “took all of the colored people off” to
freedom.21
********
As noted, the US Civil War Pension Files hold a treasure trove of
historical information about enslaved people’s lives. Take, for
example, the file—255 pages in all—of my great-great-great-uncle
Jonas Fields, who enlisted in the United States Colored Troops,
128th Regiment, Company C, in April 1865, not long before the war
ended. Medical examinations in Jonas Fields’s pension file state that
he was “height 5 feet 8 inches; complexion Dark; color of eyes
Black; color of hair Black.” For African American Civil War soldiers,
that is the extent of what the pension files provide of their physical
descriptions, except for their injuries and disabilities. It is enough for
me to imagine that Jonas was taller than most, dark, and lean, like
the men in my granddaddy’s family. Like his namesake Jonas Fields,
who was my grandfather’s first cousin, my great-great-great-uncle
likely had a back strong enough to work on the railroad (a line of
work the Fields men followed south to Miami), arms strong enough
to need only one to scoop his well-proportioned wife out of the
baptismal pool and carry her up the stairs (as family and members
of the Baptist Church in Ruffin, South Carolina, witnessed Cousin
Jonas do), and hands big enough to grip the top of an errant child’s
head before we got away.22
My uncle Jonas testified in June 1902 that he had been born on
Keans Neck in Beaufort, and that Dr. James Robert Verdier had held
him in bondage. Jonas also revealed the names of his parents,
Anson and Judy Fields (my great-great-great-great-grandparents),
noting that “their owner was my owner.” In his 1914 deposition,
Emmanuel Gettes testified that Jonas had been a house slave; he
had waited on Verdier and his son-in-law, a Mr. Sams, who was
certainly Berners Bainbridge Sams. Jonas “used to travel about
during slave times,” even to the neighborhood of the Heyward
Plantation, where he became acquainted with his future wife, Nellie
Small. On that same day in 1914, Phoebe Washington testified that
she was Jonas’s sister and that they had a brother named Hector, my
great-great-great-grandfather. Verdier, she said, had enslaved both
Hector and Jonas Fields; “Mrs. Sams,” who was Sarah F. Verdier
Sams (Verdier’s daughter), held Phoebe in bondage. During the Civil
War the Verdiers evacuated the male and female house slaves they
held in bondage at their home in downtown Beaufort to different
locations, separating Jonas from his first wife, Margaret, whom the
Verdiers also held in bondage. Hector, a field hand on a rural
plantation, had already run away and joined the US Army. After the
Civil War, Jonas testified that he “went into the Heyward
neighborhood to work in the rice fields” near the small town of
White Hall, and there married Nellie. White Hall is where my father
was born. I often visited cousins on my paternal grandfather’s side
when I was a child, and many in my family still live there.23
When Jonas arrived in White Hall after the war, he worked as a
coachman for Barnwell Heyward, grandson of Nathaniel Heyward
(the Heywards had been one of the Combahee’s most prominent rice
families before the war), and for Barnwell’s great-uncle Colonel Alan
Izzard, and he lived next door to Nellie for a few years before they
married. Nellie testified Nathaniel Heyward had held her in bondage.
Stephen Graham, who was younger than Nellie, testified in his
pension file that he had been enslaved on the same Heyward
plantation as Nellie and held in bondage by Blake Heyward, another
of Nathaniel Heyward’s grandsons. Jonas and Nellie lived in White
Hall until January 17, 1891, when they moved to Lady’s Island,
where my uncle died on September 22, 1911. On June 25, 1902,
Jonas testified that his brother Hector Fields lived on Lady’s Island.
Affiants testified that Verdier had also held in bondage Margaret
Fields, Jonas’s wife during enslavement, John Bryan, and Clara
Gillison, and that the Heywards, Nathaniel and Blake, had enslaved
Moses Youngblood, Nellie Small’s fiancé or possibly her first
husband, and a man named Stephen Graham. With one US Civil War
pension file, I discovered ancestors in my Fields family line whose
names were previously unknown. This facilitated my reconstruction
of the beginnings of two enslaved communities.24
The 162 pension files of the men who escaped enslavement in
the Combahee River Raid and joined the USCT are like pieces of a
jigsaw puzzle. Each affidavit, letter, and special examiner’s report
plays a part in constructing a greater picture. Yet that picture is
partial. For example, these pension files are not representative of all
of the enslaved people who escaped in the Combahee River Raid.
Instead they reflect only the men who joined the Union Army
immediately following the raid, the women who married them, and
the neighbors and friends who knew them and testified on their
behalf. The overwhelming majority of these people were illiterate,
and very few left written accounts. Nonetheless, together with the
planters’ documents, I will use the pension files to reconstruct the
enslaved communities and identify those who ran to the Combahee
River and got on the US Army gunboats. Partial as it is, this picture
reflects the experiences of the freedom seekers who escaped during
the Combahee River Raid and the newly liberated men turned
soldiers who freed them, allowing them all to tell the story of the
raid in their own words.
********
I never intended to write a book about Harriet Tubman or about the
Civil War, especially not one involving some of my ancestors. My
scholarly focus has always been rice. I’ve studied peasant farmers
who engineered mangrove rice farming technology in the Upper
Guinea Coast (West Africa) during the precolonial period and
enslaved Blacks forced to grow rice on coastal South Carolina’s tidal
rice plantations. However, Tubman and the Combahee River Raid is a
rice story; indeed, it is one of the best rice stories I have ever come
across. As much as possible, I will tell this rice story using sources
by and about the Combahee planters impacted by the raid and their
family members. After all, this raid didn’t happen in Georgetown, on
the Santee, or on the Savannah River; it happened on the
Combahee, with its localized identity and tight-knit enslaved and
planter communities. The pension files offer an invaluable window
into the tidal rice plantations and enable me to envision African
Americans’ lives on these tidal rice plantations before, during, and
after the Civil War. The journey to freedom begins by alternating
scenes from Harriet Tubman’s life (primarily from her biographies)
with the lives of the Blacks enslaved on the lower Combahee rice
plantations before the Civil War told through their testimony in the
pension files and slave transactions. The intersection of their stories
illuminates why Tubman and the formerly enslaved men turned
soldiers risked their very lives that others might be free.
This story places Harriet Tubman and the Combahee River Raid in
the context of the Civil War. It deals with big Civil War battles, such
as the Battles of Port Royal and Fort Wagner, the sieges of
Charleston, and Sherman’s March to the Sea, the stories of which
will also be told from the perspective of the Combahee freedom
seekers, Combahee planters, and the soldiers and officers of the 2nd
South Carolina. But the story I recount here is more than that.
Tubman is at the center of this drama. Her service in Beaufort
and the surrounding Sea Islands during the war and in the
Combahee River Raid in particular started the process by which
enslaved people on the Combahee River took control of their lives.
However, Combee is not intended to be another biography of Harriet
Tubman. Biographers, particularly Kate Clifford Larson and Catherine
Clinton, have covered her life artfully. But it does recount scenes
from Tubman’s life, showing what motivated her to risk her life by
going to South Carolina during the Civil War and how her life
intersected with the lives of the enslaved people she helped to
liberate in the Combahee River Raid.
There are a number of challenges to writing about this period in
the life of such an iconic figure. First, much of what we know about
Tubman’s Civil War service comes from her autobiographies, which
do not provide a detailed chronology of her time in Beaufort and
Port Royal. Second, according to the fragmentary documentary
record, Tubman, the 2nd South Carolina Volunteers, and the
Combahee refugees went in separate directions after the Combahee
River Raid. Thus, while Tubman’s Civil War experiences are directly
tied to the Combahee freedom seekers’ story, her Civil War
experiences have less to do with the Gullah Geechee culture and
language, for which the Civil War was an important catalyst and
which ultimately crystallized in the early twentieth century.
The story is as local as it is national. Central as she was to the
Combahee River Raid, in this book Harriet Tubman shares the
spotlight with the men, women, and children who utilized the raid to
seize their freedom and create a new community, one with roots in
the South Carolina Lowcountry, with its indigo, rice, and Sea Island
cotton plantations, urban areas, rivers, creeks, and those who spoke
Creole dialects and practiced Creole cultures. Black freedom, the
cause to which Tubman had already devoted so much of her life
before the raid, was the cause for which she risked it yet again in
the raid, though she could not have imagined what it would create.
Even “Moses” did not envision all of the promised land.
PART ONE
“The Prison-House of Bondage”
The cause of freedom is not the cause of a race or sect, a party or a class—
it is the cause of human kind, the very birthright of humanity.
—Anna Julia Cooper, A Voice from the South, 1892
1
Last Captives
When Harriet Tubman told Sarah Bradford that she could not
“understand” those who were enslaved in the South Carolina
Lowcountry, she may have been referring to their speech, but there
were larger differences between what she had experienced on
Maryland’s Eastern Shore and the systems of enslavement in the
South Carolina Lowcountry, where some African Americans were
freed months before the Emancipation Proclamation went into effect
on January 1, 1863, as we will see. Enslavement was not the same
across the South, and the Lowcountry’s was distinct.1
But Tubman knew that all enslaved people yearned to be free and
were ready to seize opportunities, to fight against white
slaveholders, and to liberate themselves. Liberating themselves was
not enough, though. They wanted their family members, friends,
neighbors, and all enslaved people to be free. And, like Tubman,
they were willing to risk it all—to put their own freedom and their
very lives in jeopardy.
In the documented history of the New World, a very small
number of Blacks who were born and reared in bondage and who
escaped enslavement went back into slave territory. Tubman and the
Black men who escaped in the Combahee River Raid—and who then
enlisted in the 2nd South Carolina Volunteers—were anomalies
among Black abolitionists. Even among those who were born
enslaved, lectured about the evils of enslavement, and worked to
end it for all, very few put their freedom on the line.2
The more than 186,000 Black men who enlisted in the United
States Colored Troops made up approximately 18 percent of the
African American population between the ages of fifteen and forty-
nine in September 1862. Approximately three-quarters of the Black
soldiers had been formerly enslaved when the Civil War broke out in
1861. Many more USCT soldiers were born to formerly enslaved
parents. And they were exceptional, as they—like Tubman—were
among the relatively few African Americans willing to venture back
into slave societies.3
With the exception of Henry “Box” Brown and Sojourner Truth,
who never learned to read and write, the majority of the well-known
Black abolitionists—such as Prince Hall, Olaudah Equiano, Ottobah
Cugoano, Henry Highland Garnet, and Frederick Douglass—became
literate after their emancipation. They gave lectures and wrote or
dictated their stories. Tubman and most of the men and women
enslaved on Combahee River rice plantations, on the other hand,
remained illiterate, though some of those individuals learned to sign
their names. Tubman told her story in public lectures and dictated
her life story to others, such as Sarah Bradford, but for most of
those who never learned to read and write, we do not know their
names, have not heard their voices, and do not know their stories.4
Nonetheless, the story of the Combahee River Raid is focused on
two river ecosystems, the Blackwater River, on the eastern shore of
the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland, and the Combahee River, located
in the central coast of South Carolina, and the people who inhabited
the watersheds of these rivers.
Tubman was born in Dorchester County, on the shores of the
Blackwater River. The Blackwater River is part of the larger
Chesapeake Bay ecosystem and is sandwiched between the
Choptank River to the north and the Nanticoke River to the south on
the Eastern Shore of Maryland. The tidal portion of the estuaries in
this region of the Chesapeake are generally composed of broad tidal
rivers with a tidal range of 1.6 to 2.5 feet. There is where Tubman’s
fight for freedom began.5
********
From 1662 to 1775 the network of rivers emptying into Chesapeake
Bay were the landing points for 116 slaving vessels, which
transported a little over 21,000 captives from West Africa to
Maryland’s shores. That transatlantic transport began with 158
captives between 1662 and 1675. Between 1676 and 1700, 2,917
captives arrived after the terrible voyage, an increase of 1,746
percent. London slave traders dominated the transatlantic slave
trade into Maryland in its early days; they were responsible for
transporting more than 12,500 men and women into the colony.
Bristol and Liverpool slave traders entered the trade in the early
eighteenth century and played a distant second to London until the
end of the legal trade: Bristol slave traders transported
approximately 2,500 captives from western Africa to Maryland, and
Liverpool slave traders brought more than 3,700.6
The Potomac and Patuxent Rivers on Maryland’s Western Shore
and the Choptank River on the Eastern Shore gave slave factors
(brokers) ready access to planters in Maryland’s interior. Planters
purchased African captives between April and October so that they
would be seasoned (that is, habituated to the disease environment)
before the late fall, when temperatures began to dip.7
The earliest arrivals in Maryland, who were forced to grow
tobacco on the region’s plantations, encountered patchworks of
dense mixed hardwood forests (largely oak and hickory) in the
uplands, inhabited by bears, deer, wild turkeys, and passenger
pigeons. Red maples, gums, white cedar, and bald cypress trees
provided habitat for beavers, ducks, geese, waterfowl, and wading
birds in the region’s swampy southern lowlands. When storms and
fire damaged the virgin forest, loblolly pines regenerated in the
clearings. This landscape covered the tidewater region through the
1700s.8
The earliest enslaved Africans arriving on the Combahee River,
farther south, would have observed a landscape similar to that
around the Choptank River. Both estuaries were part of the American
coastal plains. In both places, enslaved Blacks were forced to clear
wetlands with rudimentary hand tools, having a profound and lasting
impact on the environment and harming their health. There are
differences, of course. The average temperature on Maryland’s
Eastern Shore is colder, with more frozen precipitation in the winter,
and the level of salinity in the Chesapeake Bay is higher. Some plant
and animal species would have been familiar to Tubman when she
arrived in Beaufort, South Carolina. Others would have been foreign.
As I’ve noted, the examples of formerly enslaved people returning
to places of bondage were rare. While Tubman was exceptional—in
this and so many other ways—another who did so Ayuba Suleyman
Diallo, though his story is quite different and his actions had an
opposite effect to Tubman’s.
********
Diallo, also known as Job ben Solomon, was the son of a wealthy
and powerful Muslim Fulani family in Bundu, an Islamic kingdom
located on either side of the middle valley of the Senegal River and
stretching south to the Gambia River from the late fifteenth century.
Diallo’s grandfather founded the town of Bundu and became a
religious leader, a position that Diallo’s father inherited. The king of
Futa Toro, another Muslim theocracy, sent his son to Diallo’s father
so he could be educated; thus, the future king of Futa Toro grew up
in the same household as Diallo.9
In 1731, when Diallo was approximately thirty-one, he set out on
a trade mission for his father, accompanied by two of his father’s
slaves, to sell two captives and purchase paper, essential to Islamic
education. But his father warned him not to cross the Gambia River
and leave the territory controlled by the Fulani; the Mandingo, who
were the Fulani’s enemies, lived on the other side of the Gambia.
The enterprising young Diallo wanted a better price for his father’s
captives than Captain Stephen Pike, the English trader on the north
side of the Gambia River, would pay. He therefore sent his father’s
slaves home and crossed the Gambia River. Mandingo soldiers seized
the opportunity and captured Diallo and a translator who had joined
him, Lamine Ndiaye. They shaved Diallo’s and Ndiaye’s hair and
beards (an extraordinary disgrace for a noble Fulani such as Diallo)
to disguise them as war captives, and offered them for sale to Pike.1
0
Through an interpreter, Diallo reminded Pike that he was the man
who had negotiated with him to sell his father’s captives a short time
before on the other side of the Gambia. Pike allowed Diallo to send
word to Bundu so that his father could redeem him and Ndiaye.
Diallo’s father sent more captives—whom he may have acquired in
war or purchased from English traders—to exchange for his son’s
freedom. But the ransom arrived too late. Pike had already set sail
with Diallo and Ndiaye on board, transporting them and more than
160 others to Maryland. There, an Annapolis slave factor named
Vachell Denton sold Diallo to a Mr. Tolsey, who enslaved him on his
tobacco plantation on Kent Island, north of Dorchester County (the
county where Harriet Tubman was born and enslaved).11
Articulate and educated, Diallo continued to pray in secret, but a
young white boy sometimes followed him and threw dirt on him as
he prayed. Eighteen months into his captivity, Diallo ran away. He
was caught and jailed in Kent County, Maryland, until Tolsey came to
reclaim him. After he was released from jail and returned to the
tobacco plantation, Diallo wrote a letter to his father asking to be
redeemed. He sent his letter via the very same channels through
which he had come: the transatlantic system through which
Europeans extracted trade goods, including people in captivity, from
West Africa and funneled them to markets in the New World. Diallo’s
letter and case came to the attention of James Oglethorpe, deputy
governor of the Royal African Company, a former member of
Parliament, and a philanthropist. Oglethorpe had Diallo brought to
England and paid Denton a ransom of £45 upon his arrival.12
In England, Diallo dined with the Duke of Montagu and the
queen, and received a gold watch, agricultural tools, reams of
writing paper, and other gifts valued at £500, all packed carefully
into wooden trunks. After touring England for fourteen months,
Diallo wanted to go home. He traveled on the slave ship William in
1733 as it returned from London to the Gambia River. The Royal
African Company gave specific instruction to the William’s captain
that Diallo was to be treated with the utmost respect and civility and
returned to his father. Diallo arrived at Fort James, Gambia, in
August 1734, accompanied by Francis Moore, British factor for the
Royal African Company. When they neared Bundu, messengers came
to inform Diallo that his father had died sometime after receiving his
son’s letter containing the news that he had been redeemed. One of
the younger Diallo’s wives, thinking him dead, had remarried. And
his country had been decimated by a long and bloody war with the
Mandingo—a war that may well have been started by Diallo’s
abduction.13
Moore wrote in his memoir that Diallo was “the only man (except
one) that was ever known to come back to this Country, after having
been carried a Slave out of it by White Men.” The inhabitants of
Bundu, Moore wrote, “imagined, that all who were sold for Slaves,
were generally either eaten or murdered, since none ever returned.”1
4