The Negro in The American Rebellion

De Lord, him gib de word;
And Massa Linkum write’em down,
O Sambo! praise de Lord!”

When the teachers were introduced into Jackson, Miss., soon after the Union forces occupied the place, they found some very ignorant material to work upon. One old woman, while attending the Sabbath school, being asked who made her, replied, “I don’t know, ’zacly, sir. I heard once who it was; but I done forgot de gent-mun’s name.” The teacher thought that the Lord’s name had been rather a stranger in that neighborhood. During the siege of Port Hudson, a new schoolhouse was erected for the black soldiers who had been enlisted in that vicinity; and, when it was opened, the following speech was made by a colored soldier, called Sergt. Spencer: —

“I has been a-thinkin’ I was old man; for, on de plantation, I was put down wid de old hands, and I quinsicontly feeled myself dat I was a old man. But since I has come here to de Yankees, and been made a soldier for de Unite States, an’ got dese beautiful clothes on, I feels like one young man; and I doesn’t call myself a old man nebber no more. An’ I feels dis ebenin’ dat, if de rebs came down here to dis old Fort Hudson, dat I could jus fight um as brave as any man what is in the Sebenth Regiment. Sometimes I has mighty feelins in dis ole heart of mine, when I considers how dese ere ossifers come all de way from de North to fight in de cause what we is fighten fur. How many ossifers has died, and how many white soldiers has died, in dis great and glorious war what we is in! And now I feels dat, fore I would turn coward away from dese ossifers, I feels dat I could drink my own blood, and be pierced through wid five thousand bullets. I feels sometimes as doe I ought to tank Massa Linkern for dis blessin’ what we has; but again I comes to de solemn conclusion dat I ought to tank de Lord, Massa Linkern, and all dese ossifers.‘Fore I would be a slave ‘gain, I would fight till de last drop of blood was gone. I has ‘cluded to fight for my liberty, and for dis eddication what we is now to receive in dis beautiful new house what we has. Aldo I hasn’t got any eddication nor no book-learnin’, I has rose up dis blessed ebenin’ to do my best afore dis congregation. Dat’s all what I has to say now; but, at some future occasion, I may say more dan I has to say now, and edify you all when I has more preparation. Dat’s all what I has to say. Amen.”

After the fall of Port Hudson, Sergt. Spencer was sent with his company into the interior; and, while in a skirmish, he captured his old master, who was marched off by the chattel to headquarters, distant about six miles. The master, not liking the long walk and his heavy gun, began upbraiding his slave for capturing him, and, complaining of his misfortune, stopped, laid down his gun, seated himself on an old log, lighted his pipe, and said he could walk no farther.

However, old Spencer soon told the prisoner a different tale. Waiting a reasonable time for resting, the sergeant said, “Come, boss, you’s smoked enough dar: come, I is in a hurry. I can’t wait no longer.” The rebel still remonstrated with his slave, reminding him of what he once was, and the possibility of his being again in his power. But these admonitions made little or no impression on the sergeant, who resumed, “Come, boss, come: dis is no time to tell ‘bout what you’s been or what you’s gwine to be. Jes git right up and come long, or I’ll stick dis bayonet in you.” – “Well, Spencer,” said the master, “you carry my gun.” – “No, boss; you muss tote your own gun. I is bin toting you an’ all your chilen des forty years, and now de times is changed. Come, now, git up an move on, or I’ll stick you wid dis bayonet” (at the same time drawing the bayonet from its scabbard). “Massa reb” shouldered his unloaded shooter, and reluctantly continued his journey.

CHAPTER XXXVI – A THRILLING INCIDENT OF THE WAR

Heroic Escape of a Slave. – His Story of his Sister. – Resides North. – Joins the Army and returns to the South during the Rebellion. – Search for his Mother. – Finds her. – Thrilling Scene. – Truth stranger than Fiction.

It was in the month of December, 1832, while Col. Rice and family were seated around a bright wood-fire, whose blaze lighted up the large dining-room in their old mansion, situated ten miles from Drayton, in the State of Ohio, that they heard a knock at the door, which was answered by the familiar “Come in,” that always greets the stranger in the Western States. Squire Loomis walked in, and took a seat in one of the three rocking-chairs which had been made vacant by the young folks, who rose to give place to their highly influential and wealthy neighbor. It was a beautiful night: the sky was clear, the wind had hushed its deep meanings. The most brilliant of the starry throng stood out in bold relief, despite the superior light of the moon. “I see some one standing at the gate,” said Mrs. Rice, as she left the window, and came nearer the fire. “I’ll go out and see who it is,” exclaimed George, as he quitted his chair, and started for the door. The latter soon returned, and whispered to his father; and both left the room, evincing that something unusual was at hand. Not many minutes elapsed, however, before the father and son entered, accompanied by a young man, whose complexion showed plainly that other than Anglo-Saxon blood coursed through his veins. The whole company rose, and the stranger was invited to draw near to the fire. Question after question was now pressed upon the new-comer by the colonel and squire, but without eliciting satisfactory replies. “You need not be afraid, my friend,” said his host, as he looked intently in the colored man’s face, “to tell where you are from, and to what place you are going. If you are a fugitive, as I suspect, give us your story, and we will protect and defend you to the last.” Taking courage from these kind remarks, the mulatto said, “I was born, sir, in the State of Kentucky, and raised in Missouri. My master was my father: my mother was his slave. That, sir, accounts for the fairness of my complexion. As soon as I was old enough to labor, I was taken into my master’s dwelling as a servant, to attend upon the family. My mistress, aware of my near relationship to her husband, felt humiliated; and often, in her anger, would punish me severely for no cause whatever. My near approach to the Anglo-Saxon aroused the jealousy and hatred of the overseer; and he flogged me, as he said, to make me know my place. My fellow-slaves hated me because I was whiter than themselves. Thus my complexion was construed into a crime, and I was made to curse my father for the Anglo-Saxon blood that courses through my veins.

“My master raised slaves to supply the Southern market; and every year some of my companions were sold to the slave-traders, and taken farther South. Husbands were separated from wives, and children torn from the arms of their agonized mothers. These outrages were committed by the man whom nature compelled me to look upon as my father. My mother and brothers were sold, and taken away from me: still I bore all, and made no attempt to escape; for I yet had near me an only sister, whom I dearly loved. At last the negro-driver attempted to rob my sister of her virtue. She appealed to me for protection. Her innocence, beauty, and tears were enough to stir the stoutest heart. My own, filled with grief and indignation, swelled within me as though it would burst, or leap from my bosom. My tears refused to flow: the fever in my brain dried them up. I could stand it no longer. I seized the wretch by the throat, and hurled him to the ground; and, with this strong arm, I paid him for old and new. The next day I was tried by a jury of slaveholders for the crime of having within me the heart of a man, and protecting my sister from the licentious embrace of a libertine. And, would you believe it, sir? that jury of enlightened Americans, – yes, sir, Christian Americans, – after grave deliberation, decided that I had broken the laws, and sentenced me to receive five hundred lashes upon my bare back. But, sir, I escaped from them the night before I was to have been flogged. Afraid of being arrested and taken back, I remained the following day hid away in a secluded spot on the backs of the Mississippi River, protected from the gaze of man by the large trees and thick canebrakes that sheltered me. I waited for the coming of another night. All was silent around me save the sweet chant of the feathered songsters in the forest, or the musical ripple of the eddying waters at my feet. I watched the majestic bluffs as they gradually faded away through the gray twilight from the face of day into the darker shades of night. I then turned to the rising moon as it peered above, ascending the deep-blue ether, high in the heavens, casting its mellow rays over the surrounding landscape, and gilding the smooth surface of the noble river with its silvery hue. I viewed with interest the stars as they appeared one after another in the firmament. It was then and there that I studied nature in its lonely grandeur, and saw in it the goodness of God, and felt that he who created so much beauty, and permitted the fowls of the air and beasts of the field to roam at large, and be free, never intended that man should be the slave of his fellow-man. I resolved that I would be a bondman no longer; and, taking for my guide the north star, I started ‘for Canada, the negro’s land of liberty. For many weeks, I travelled by night, and lay by during the day. Oh! how often, while hid away in the forest, waiting for nightfall, have I thought of the beautiful lines I once heard a stranger recite! —

“‘Oh hail, Columbia! happy land, —
The cradle-land of liberty!
Where none but negroes bear the brand,
Or feel the lash, of slavery.

Then let the glorious anthem peal,
And drown “Britannia rules the waves:”
Strike up the song that men can feel, —
“Columbia rules four million slaves!”’

“At last I arrived at a depot of the underground railroad, took the express train, and here I am.” – “You are welcome,” said Col. Rice, as he rose from his chair, walked to the window, and looked out, as if apprehensive that the fugitive’s pursuers were near by. “You are welcome,” continued he; “and I will aid you on your way to Canada, for you are not safe here.”

“Are you not afraid of breaking the laws by assisting this man to escape?” remarked Squire Loomis. “I care not for laws when they stand in the way of humanity,” replied the colonel. “If you aid him in reaching Canada, and we should ever have a war with England, maybe he’ll take up arms, and fight against his own country,” said the squire. The fugitive eyed the law-abiding man attentively for a moment, and then exclaimed, “Take up arms against my country? What country, sir, have I? The Supreme Court of the United States, and the laws of the South, doom me to be the slave of another. There is not a foot of soil over which the stars and stripes wave, where I can stand, and be protected by law. I’ve seen my mother sold in the cattle-market: I looked upon my brothers as they were driven away in chains by the slave-speculator. The heavy negro-whip has been applied to my own shoulders, until its biting lash sunk deep into my quivering flesh. Still, sir, you call this my country. True, true, I was born in this land. My grandfather fought in the Revolutionary War: my own father was in the war of 1812. Still, sir, I am a slave, a chattel, a thing, a piece of property. I’ve been sold in the market with horses and swine. The initials of my master’s name are branded on this arm. Still, sir, you call this my country. And, now that I am making my escape, you feel afraid if I reach Canada, and there should be war with England, that I will take up arms against my country. Sir, I have no country but the grave; and I’ll seek freedom there before I will be taken back to slavery. There is no justice for me at the South: every right of my race is trampled in the dust, until humanity bleeds at every pore. I am bound for Canada, and woe to him that shall attempt to arrest me! If it comes to the worst, I will die fighting for freedom.” – “I honor your courage,” exclaimed Squire Loomis, as he sprang from his seat, and walked rapidly to and fro-the room. “It is too bad,” continued he, “that such men should be enslaved in a land whose Declaration of Independence proclaims all men to be free and equal. I will aid you in any thing that I can. What is your name?” – “I have no name,” said the fugitive. “I once had a name, – it was William, – but my master’s nephew came to live with him; and as I was a house-servant, and the young master and I would, at times, get confused in the same name, orders were given for me to change mine. From that moment, I resolved, that, as slavery had robbed me of my liberty and my name, I would not attempt to have another till I was free. So, sir, for once, you have a man standing before you without a name.” – “I will name you George Loomis,” said the squire. “I accept it,” returned the fugitive, “and shall try never to dishonor it.”

True to their promises, his new friends provided for his immediate wants, and, as soon as a favorable opportunity occurred, started him on his journey north. George reached Canada in a few weeks without further adventure, and settled near the city of Toronto, where he resided, engaged in honest labors and enjoying the fruits of his industry, until the breaking-out of the Rebellion, when he returned to the United States, eager to take part in the struggle. Owing to the fairness of his complexion, he readily passed for a white man, and enlisted as such in a Michigan regiment in 1863. He was with Gen. Grant’s army at the siege of Vicksburg; and, after the surrender of that, stronghold, the regiment to which George belonged was stationed in the town. Here the quadroon had ample opportunity of conversing with the freedmen, which he often did, for he had not lost his interest in the race. Going into a negro cabin one day, and getting into conversation with an old woman, he found that she was originally from the state of Kentucky, and lastly from Missouri, and that they were from the same neighborhood. As each related the experience through which they had passed, the interview became more and more interesting. Often they eyed each other, but there was nothing to indicate that they had ever met before.

However, this was not to last long, for George, in describing the parting scene with his mother, riveted the attention of the old woman, who, at its close, said, “Dat scripshun peers like my gal, but you can’t be no kin to her. But what’s your name?” eagerly asked the woman. “William was my name, but I adopted the one I am known by now,” replied he. “You don’t mean to say dat you is William?”

“Yes: that was the name I was known by.” – “Well,” continued she, “I had a son named William; but he run away, and massa went arter him, and catch him, and sold him down the riber to de cotton-planter. So he said when he came back.” The features of the two had changed so much in thirty years, that they could not discover in each other any traces whatever of former acquaintance. “My son,” said the old woman, “had a scar on his right hand.” George sprang from his seat., and held out the right hand. Tremblingly she put on her glasses, seized the hand, and screamed, “Oh, oh, oh! I can’t ‘blieve dis is you. My son had a scar, a deep scar, on the side of the left foot.” Quick as thought, George took off the boot, and held up his foot, while the old woman was wiping her glasses; for they were wet with tears. A moment more, and mother and son were locked in each other’s arms. The dead was alive, the lost was found. God alone knew the sorrow that had visited the two since they had last met. Great was the rejoicing at this unexpected meeting; and the old woman would, for several days, cause Loomis to take off his boot, and show her the scar; and she would sit, hold the hand, and view the unmistakable cut which helped her to identity her long-lost son. And she would weep and exclaim, “Dis is de doins ob de Lord!”

CHAPTER XXXVII – PROGRESS AND JUSTICE

Great Change in the Treatment of Colored Troops. – Negro Appointments. – Justice to the Black Soldiers. – Steamer “Planter.” – Progress. – The Paymaster at last. – John S Rock.

The month of May, 1864, saw great progress in the treatment of the colored troops by the Government of the United States. The circumstances were more favorable for this change than they had hitherto been. Slavery had been abolished in the District of Columbia., Maryland, and Missouri: the heroic assault on Fort Wagner, the unsurpassed bravery exhibited at Port Hudson, the splendid fighting at Olustee and Honey Hill, had raised the colored men in the estimation of the nation. President Lincoln and his advisers had seen their error, and begun to repair the wrong. The year opened with the appointment of Dr. A. T. Augusta, a colored gentleman, as surgeon of colored volunteers, and he was at once assigned to duty, with the rank of major. Following this, was the appointment, by Gov. Andrew of Massachusetts, of Sergt. Stephen A. Swailes, of Company F, Fifty-fourth Massachusetts Regiment, as second lieutenant.

M. R. Delany, M.D., was soon after appointed a major of negro volunteers, and assigned to duty at Charleston, S.C. W. P. Powell, jun., received an appointment as surgeon, about the same time.

The steamer “Planter,” since being brought out of Charleston by Robert Small, was under the command of a Yankee, who, being ordered to do service where the vessel would be liable to come under the fire of rebel guns, refused to obey: whereupon Lieut. – Col. Elwell, without consultation with any higher authority, issued the following order, which, for simple justice to a brave and loyal negro, officially acknowledged, has seldom been equalled in this or any other department. It is unnecessary to say that Robert Small took command of the vessel, and faithfully discharged the duty required of him.

“Office of Chief Quartermaster,Port Royal, S.C., Nov. 26, 1863.

“Capt. A. T. Dutton, Chief Assistant Quartermaster, Folly and Morris Islands.

“Sir, – You will please place Robert Small in charge of the United-States transport ‘Planter,’ as captain. He brought her out of Charleston Harbor more than a year ago, running under the guns of Sumter, Moultrie, and the other defences of that stronghold. He is an excellent pilot, of undoubted bravery, and in every respect worthy of the position. This is due him as a proper recognition of his heroism and services. The present captain is a coward, though a white man. Dismiss him, therefore, and give the steamer to this brave black Saxon.

“Respectfully, your obedient servant,

“J. J. ELWELL

“Chief Quartermaster Department South.”

It may interest some to know that the above order was immediately approved by Gen. Gillmore.

The following is very complimentary to Capt. Small: —

“It was indeed a privilege to enter Charleston, as we did recently through the courtesy of Major-Gen, Saxton, in such a steamer as ‘The Planter,’ and with such a captain as Robert Small. It was their first appearance in the harbor since the memorable morning of their departure in 1862. The fog detained us for a few hours on our arrival at the bar. When it cleared away, you can imagine with what cheer our anchor came up, and with what smiles and satisfaction the vessel and her commander swept by the silenced and dismantled Sumter, and hauled in to the waiting, wondering wharves of the ruined city. Wherever we went on shore, we had only to say to the colored people, ‘The Planter and Capt. Small are at the dock;’ and away they all hurried to greet the well-known, welcome guests. ‘Too sweet to think of.’ cried one noble-looking old man, who had evidently waited long for the good news of our day, as he hastened to join the crowd.

“We met Small afterwards, walking in the streets in peace and safety. When our rambles about the humble place were over, and we prepared to depart, the scene about the steamer was one that we can never forget. A goodly company of the leading colored people were arranging for a public meeting with Gen. Saxton in the largest hall of the city, to learn from his lips the purposes of our Government on the following week. Their interview over, they joined a large crowd of their own color upon the pier. Small was in the midst of them, with a couple of white men in conversation with him. Curiosity led us near. He introduced us to the builder of the vesel (sp.), and the maker of the engine and boilers. ‘I put the polish on,’ he added laughingly. They withdrew towards a couple of their own complexion. He pointed out the principal person in the group, to the general, as Col. Ferguson, the original owner of ‘The Planter,’ and of all her old hands, except Small. His owner did not show himself.

“Upon our casting off, the colored folks raised at first a few feeble cheers, from a lurking regard to the pale listeners behind them; but, when the general before them called for three more for Capt. Small, every arm was swung, and every voice was raised till the welkin rang. ‘The Planter’ has been placed under Gen. Saxton’s orders. She will be often seen in these waters. Her new claims to her name are to be manifested in her planting the freedmen of the captured city upon the neighboring sea-islands and the mainland, on their own homesteads, for the cultivation of their own crops of cotton, rice, corn, and whatever else they and their families, or the world, may need. A great price was once put upon Small’s head. He and all his crew, white and black alike, will be worth their weight in gold if they but continue to serve the general and the Government as we were sure they did on their first return-trip to Charleston Harbor.”

There was one step more which the Government had taken, that sent a thrill of joy to many hearts. It was paying the men on the battle-field what it promised. The following announcement was made by Gen. Saxton, at Beaufort, S.C., May 22: —

Colored soldiers, I have just received intelligence that the National Government, after a long and desperate struggle, has decided to put you on an equality with her white troops, making your pay equal with theirs. Now that she has done justice to you, I want you to do justice to her and justice to yourselves. Show yourselves men; and the way to show yourselves men is to be brave and stout-hearted. I want you to be particular in the execution of your ‘Shoulder arms,’ your ‘Charge bayonets.’ Learn to shoot well at your enemies. You can do it, can’t you?” (“Yes, sir!” was the answer from the columns.) “‘Well, do it, then. There is no reason why you should not make just as good soldiers as the whites. Do it, then; hold your heads up, and be fearless and brave men. Two years ago, when I came here, I was the first to organize a colored regiment into the United-States service; viz., the First South-Carolina Regiment. The first lesson I taught them was to hold up their heads before white men, and to say No. And now they are good soldiers. I would just as soon have the First South-Carolina Regiment to-day with which to go into the field and face the enemy as any white soldiers in the service.” The paymaster shortly after made his appearance, and paid off the men; and thus justice, though long kept back, at last came. Great was the rejoicing, both in the army by the men, and at their homes by their families and friends. Progress is slow, but sure. Everywhere the colored population appeared to be gaining their equality, and rising to a higher level of humanity. The acknowledgment of the civil rights of the negro had already been granted in the admission of John S. Rock, a colored man, to practise law in all the courts within the jurisdiction of the United States. The Supreme Court at Washington, Chief-Justice Chase presiding, did not heap any more honor on Mr. Rock, by this admission, than they gained by having so distinguished a scholar as a member of the bar. Mr. John F. Shorter, who was promoted to a lieutenancy in Company D, Fifty-fifth Massachusetts Regiment, was by trade a carpenter, and was residing in Delaware County, O., when the call was made for colored troops. Severely wounded at the battle of Honey Hill, S.C.,on the 30th of November, 1864, he still remained with his regiment, hoping to be of service. At the conclusion of the war, he returned home, but never recovered from his wound, and died a few days after his arrival. James Monroe Trotter, promoted for gallantry, was wounded at the battle of Honey Hill. He is a native of Grand Gulf, Miss; removed to Cincinnati, O; was educated at the Albany (O.) Manual Labor University, where he distinguished himself for his scholarly attainments. He afterwards became a school-teacher, which position he filled with satisfaction to the people of Muskingum and Pike Counties, O., and with honor to himself. Enlisting as a private in the Fifty-fifth Massachusetts Regiment, on its organization, he returned with it to Boston as a lieutenant, an office honorably earned.

William H. Dupree, a native of Petersburg, Va., was brought up and educated at Chillicothe, O. He enlisted in the Fifty-fifth Massachusetts Regiment, on its formation, as a private, was soon made orderly-sergeant, and afterwards promoted to a lieutenancy for bravery on the field of battle.

Charles L. Mitchel, promoted to a lieutenancy in the Fifty-fifth Massachusetts Regiment for gallantry at the battle of Honey Hill, where he was severely wounded (losing a limb), is a native of Hartford, Conn., and son of Mr. William A. Mitchel of that city. Lieut. Mitchel served an apprenticeship to William II. Burleigh, in the office of the old “Charter Oak,” in Hartford, where he became an excellent printer. For five or six years previous to entering the army, he was employed in different printing-offices in Boston, the last of which was “The Liberator,” edited by William Lloyd Garrison, who never speaks of Lieut. Mitchel but in words of the highest commendation. Gen. A. S. Hartwell, late colonel of the Fifty-fifth Massachusetts Regiment, makes honorable mention of Lieut. Mitchel.

The citizens of Boston in Ward Six, where he has so long resided, and who know him well, have shown then-appreciation of Lieut. Mitchel’s worth by electing him to represent them in the Massachusetts Legislature, – an office which he is every way qualified to fill.

CHAPTER XXXVIII – FOURTH-OF-JULY CELEBRATION AT THE HOME OF JEFF. DAVIS

Fourth-of-July Celebration at the Home of Jeff. Davis in Mississippi. – The Trip. – Joe Davis’s Place. – Jeff.‘s Place. – The Dinner. – Speeches and Songs. – Lively Times. – Return to Vicksburg.

By invitation of the Committee of Arrangements, a party of teachers and their escorts, and other friends of the freedmen, embarked on board “The Diligent,” on the morning of the 4th inst. “The Diligent” left the levee at Vicksburg soon after seven o’clock, a.m., and made a pleasant trip in about three hours, down the river, stopping at the landing at Davis’s Bend; whence the party were conveyed in ambulances, wagons, buggies, and other vehicles, to the late residence of Jefferson Davis, about two miles from said landing.

DAVIS’S BEND

This is one of the most extraordinary bends of the wonderful Mississippi River, and has received its name from the fact of the settlement, on the peninsula formed by the bend, of two members of the Davis Family, known as “Jeff.” and “Joe.” This peninsula is some twelve miles in length; and, at the point where it is attached to the main land of the State of Mississippi, it is so narrow, that the enterprising planters have dug a canal across, not unlike the celebrated Butler Canal of Petersburg fame, although not near so long. This canal is called the “cut-off;” and, in high water, the peninsula becomes, in fact, an island. This tract of land is of great fertility, being entirely a deposit of the rich soil washed from the prairies of the Great West. On this tract are some six plantations, of from eight hundred to twelve hundred acres each. Two of the largest and best of these were owned by Jeff, and Joe Davis, and are known now as “The Jeff, and Joe places.” The form of this peninsula is such that a few companies of soldiers, with one or two stockades, can keep out an army of rebels; and the inhabitants, although frequently surrounded by the hordes of Southern murderers and thieves on the opposite banks of the river and canal, dwell in peace and comparative security. In fact, this site, from being the home of traitors and oppressors of the poor, has become a sort of earthly paradise for colored refugees. There they flock in large numbers, and, like Lazarus of old, are permitted as it were, to repose in “Father Abraham’s bosom.” The rich men of the Southern Confederacy, now homeless wanderers, occasionally cry across for the Lazarus whom they have oppressed and despised; but he is not sent unto them, because, between the two parties, there is a great gulf fixed; so that they which would pass from hence cannot. On this freedman’s paradise, parties for cultivating the soil are organized under the superintendence of missionaries; each party cultivating from ten to one hundred acres, with a fair prospect of realizing handsomely. These efforts are aided by the Government; rations, teams, &c., being-supplied and charged to each party, to be deducted from the proceeds of their crops. Cotton is chiefly cultivated, and some very handsome stands appear.

THE “JOE PLACE.”

The “Joe Place” is nearest the landing. The fine brick house, however, is nearly demolished; but the cottage used as a sort of law library and office is remaining uninjured. The negro-quarters also remain.

THE “JEFF. PLACE.”

The “Jeff, place” is also a very fine plantation. The residence has not been injured, except the door-locks, and one or two marble mantels broken up, apparently for trophies. The Jeff, furniture has been removed; but the rooms are still furnished with furniture brought here.