by Terry Smyth
The identity of the last slave sold in America is not known. Nor is it known where or by whom the last slave was bought. It is known, however, that slave traders remained active in the South right up until the end of the Civil War. In the interior of the Confederacy there were areas where Union forces had not yet reached, and where plantations with slave labour were operating almost as if the war had never happened.
The Agnew Plantation, in Tippah County, Mississippi, for example, still had more than 50 slaves until early 1865, when many of the men ran off to join the Union Army.
For prominent slave auction houses such as Browning & Moore, E.H. Stokes, Betts & Gregory, Dickenson & Hill, and others, it was business as usual.
Charleston’s enclosed slave market, established in 1859 by Charleston’s sheriff, Thomas Ryan, after public slave auctions were banned, includes an auction gallery, a four-storey ‘barracoon’ – a jail for slaves awaiting sale – and a ‘dead house’ – a morgue for slaves who, through disease or ill-treatment, never made it to the auction block.
The troops free the slaves in the barracoon, but rather than destroy the market, leave it standing as a reminder of an age of institutionalised inhumanity.
With the hectic, heady days of the Confederates’ visit now behind them, Melburnians are beginning to wonder if their recent brush with fame was, in hindsight, a date with the devil.
‘We may now speak of the Confederate war steamer Shenandoah as something that has come and gone,’ The Australasian opines. ‘With all the sympathy we may have had with her as the representative of those who are gallantly fighting against long odds, she, in the fulfilment of a warlike errand, was most unwelcome in our still peaceful port, and we are infinitely glad of her departure.
‘During Friday night a large number of men found their way on board the Shenandoah, and did not return on shore again.
‘The public have not yet heard the last of the alleged enlistments on board the Confederate steamer Shenandoah.’6
The return of cold, hard reality also rekindles invasion fears. The Argus – erstwhile advocate for all things Confederate – now asks ‘what should we have done if the Shenandoah’s mission had been of a hostile character? What, in short, could be done to protect the city and port should Great Britain be forced into a war with a naval power? Experience has made it certain that the battery at the Heads is not to be relied upon to cripple an enemy. It would have been powerless to prevent the Shenandoah’s entrance to Port Phillip Bay.
‘Once in Hobson’s Bay, the chances are all in favour of the enemy. From where the Shenandoah anchored, the most distant parts of Melbourne could have been shelled.’7
Out of sight, out of favour.
Chapter 12
All Confederates now
As the Shenandoah rolls into international waters, the ship’s complement suddenly increases by 42. From their cramped hiding places in the hollow bowsprit, the water tanks and the lower hold, the Australian recruits emerge and muster on deck.
Captain Waddell – who, when accused in Melbourne of breaching the foreign enlistment law was clearly standing on his dignity while lying through his teeth – welcomes them aboard. The ship’s log maintains the fiction, noting, ‘Forty-two men found on board; 26 shipped as sailors and six enlisted as marines.’1
In his memoirs, Waddell compounds the lie, claiming to have been taken by surprise at the appearance of the 42 ‘stowaways’ – despite convincing evidence to the contrary by police, watermen, Williamstown residents, deserters and men who had wanted to join the ship but for various reasons did not make it aboard. In their journals and memoirs, ship’s officers unconvincingly echo their captain’s feigned surprise, all apparently preferring a thin veneer of honour to the unvarnished truth.
Perhaps they take their inspiration from Robert E. Lee, who asserted, ‘True patriotism sometimes requires of men to act contrary, at one period, to that which it does at another, and the motive which impels them – the desire to do right – is precisely the same.’2 It’s doubtful, though, that Lee would agree with their interpretation of his maxim.
Lieutenant Chew would have us believe that the crew had somehow managed to smuggle the 42 men aboard under the very noses of their watchful superiors, who, being officers and gentlemen, would naturally have disapproved and sent the stowaways scurrying back to shore.
Embroidering the fiction, Master’s Mate Cornelius Hunt tells us, ‘Hundreds of men made application to join us here, but as we had no right to ship any in a neutral port, all were denied, reluctantly, as will be readily imagined when it is remembered how much we desired to augment our numbers.
‘One day, I remember, an old lady came aboard with her little son. She was a Southern woman, she said, and her boy had been born in the Sunny South, and she desired Captain Waddell to take him as the only contribution she had to offer to her country, and educate him for the service. It was hard to deny such a request made in such a way, but it had to be done, and the woman with her little rebel went her way, sorrowful and disappointed.’3
Ingenuously, Hunt claims to have been offended by the melodramatic ‘discovery’ of the Australian recruits. ‘Personally, I felt a good deal of annoyance over the affair, as it had been my watch a part of the preceding night, and strict orders had been given to prevent any sailors from coming on board except our own, as we were far from wishing to complicate ourselves in any way with the English Government.’4
Hunt claims it remains a mystery to him how so many men came aboard unseen. He says the Captain was equally outraged, and demanded that the recruits tell him their nationalities and what their intentions were. ‘The old sea-dogs chuckled, rolled over their tobacco, hitched up their trousers, and with one accord, protested that they were natives of the Southern Confederacy, and had come on board thus surreptitiously for the purpose of joining us.’5
Presumably, Hunt expects his readers to believe that the recruits spent the hours in their hiding places rehearsing their lines and perfecting their ‘down home’ accents.
Surgeon Charles Lining notes, ‘Large bets had been offered that our ship would never pass through the Heads in safety, consequently all our guns were loaded to prepare against any emergency. But nothing occurred, and at 11.45am we passed the Heads and were once more on the “rolling reef”.
‘Soon after discharging the pilot a funny sight was presented by the appearance of 42 stowaways, in every conceivable dress and look from the gentleman to the real sailor. We soon shipped them and much rejoiced to get their services. I got a steward from among them and so did Smith, and we all got some boys for the ward room.’6
Lieutenant Whittle seriously suggests that the ‘stowaways’ were smuggled aboard by Yankee agents to entrap the rebels into a violation of the neutrality laws, and, that when the men appeared on deck, he and his fellow officers suspected they were part of a plot. ‘We shipped them all, but watched them closely,’ he writes. ‘They turned out to be good, faithful men.’7
Captain Waddell tells us, ‘This increase placed on deck 72 men of different ratings, all adventurous and accustomed to a hard life. The first lieutenant, Mr Whittle, now saw a force under his direction nearly sufficient to keep the Shenandoah in good condition. These men had smuggled themselves on board the steamer the night before we left Hobson’s Bay. A sergeant, a corporal and three privates formed the nucleus for a marine guard, and their uniforms were immediately ordered. We were supplied with a tailor.’8
The stowaway tailor now appointed sergeant of marines is George Canning, who claims to have been aide-de-camp to Confederate General Leonidas Polk; that he was invalided out of the army after being shot in the right lung at the Battle of Shiloh in 1862, and migrated to Australia. Canning’s appointment as sergeant of marines is no doubt due to his claimed Confederate Army service.
Lieutenant Whittle, for one, is unconvinced by Canning’s tale of being wounded while fighting for Polk, and suspects that he might instead have served on the staff of General Albert Sidney
Johnston, who was killed at Shiloh. However, there is no record of a George Canning serving with either general or with any force other than the Confederate Navy on the Shenandoah. And according to research by Kim Salisbury, a descendant of Canning’s brother Rafton, George Canning also claimed to have been wounded in the Crimean War. Salisbury is sure both claims are untrue.
It’s not uncommon in the 19th century for newcomers to the colonies to rewrite their own histories or invent new identities. Indeed, since the world is still wide and communications imperfect, it’s not particularly difficult to do. There is no hard evidence that George Canning had anything to hide, such as a criminal record, yet he reinvented himself in grand style.
George Baltriune Canning, also known as George P. Canning and Henry C. Canning, was born in or around 1837. While the name Baltriune suggests a French connection, and Canning sometimes claimed to have been born in France, his actual birthplace was the port of Rotherhithe, southeast London – near Greenland Dock, home of the Arctic whaling fleet. He is believed to have married in the United States and had two sons, the first of whom was born in France, in 1858, where Canning worked as a civil engineer, and the second in America.
Canning is accompanied on the Shenandoah by an African-American servant, Edward Weeks. It is not known how Weeks came to Australia or whether he had been a slave in the South. According to officers’ accounts, Weeks was on board for the rest of the cruise, and Canning treated him badly. Weeks is not listed among the 42 volunteers.
Other newly minted marines include David Alexander, awarded the rank of corporal, and privates Henry Reily, Robert Brown and William Kenyon; the latter was recruited by the mysterious Mr Powell.
Confederate States marines are employed as gun crews on warships and on shore batteries guarding Southern ports, so Kenyon’s artillery training in the Victorian naval reserve makes him well suited for the role. Marines also serve as guards, sharpshooters, in landing forces and on boarding parties.
To formally enlist in the Confederate States Marine Corps, Kenyon, like the others, must raise his right hand and take an oath:
‘I, William Kenyon, do solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the Confederate States of America and that I will serve them honestly and faithfully against all their enemies or oppressors whomsoever, and that I will observe and obey the orders of the President of the Confederate States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the rules and Articles of War.’9
Soon, the Australian marines will be issued with uniforms of grey frock coats, dark blue trousers and forage caps, and with weapons – British Enfield rifles, swords and bayonets, .36 calibre Colt Navy revolvers and .42 calibre LeMat pistols.
Master’s Mate Cornelius Hunt will later say of the new marines, ‘Good men and true they proved, and very useful before our cruise was ended.’10
Williamstown sea dog and yarn-spinner ‘Little Sam’ Crook is among the new hands on deck. So, too, is sailmaker Franklin Glover, who was arrested with Charley but released after claiming American citizenship, which no-one bothered to check. With them is ship’s carpenter Henry Sutherland, who, as the Shenandoah sailed out through the heads, gave the departing pilot a letter to deliver to his family, assuring them he liked the ship and was very comfortable on board.
Besides Crook, Glover and Sutherland, the names of seamen listed – some actual, some aliases – include John Collins, Thomas Foran, Lawrence Kerney, John McDonal, John Ramsdale, John Kilgower, Thomas Swanton, John Moss, James Fegan, John Simmes, John Hill, William Hutchinson, Thomas Evans, Charles Morton, George Gifford, Henry Canning (not to be confused with George Canning), James Ross, Thomas McLean, William Brice, William Green, William Burgess, Joseph Mullineaux, James Stranth, and a boy named John Williams.
Besides Marine Sergeant George Canning and Marine Corporal David Alexander, the petty officers recruited in Melbourne include: Robert Dunning, captain of the foretop; Thomas Strong, captain of the mizzen-top; Charles Cobbey, gunner’s mate; John James, carpenter’s mate; John Spring, captain of the hold; Ernest Burt, doctor’s steward; James McLaren, master-at-arms; and William Smith, ship’s cook, replacing the hapless Charley.
Completing the roll-up is Captain John Blacker, master of the steamer Saxonia. On 17 February, without notice or explanation, Blacker left his ship – then at anchor in Sandridge – taking with him his navigational instruments and personal effects. Now, he’s standing on the deck of the Shenandoah, joining her as captain’s clerk.
The 42 Australian recruits – as diverse a group as could be found anywhere – have become comrades with a common cause. For better or worse, they’re all Confederates now.
The Shenandoah has three decks, a raised forecastle and a large poop deck over the captain’s cabin, used by officers for scanning the horizon for ships, and for keeping an eye on the crew. On the quarterdeck, near the stern, is the wheelhouse, where the steers-man keeps the ship on course, and off the wheelhouse is the tiny chart room, where the captain and his officers sit rustling charts and debating the finer points of navigation.
The space between the main and mizzen masts houses the steam engine, boiler rooms and coal bunkers. In this hot, poorly ventilated and dangerous area – where canvas partitions are strung to lessen the risk of fire from flammable coal dust – coal trimmers, coal heavers, oilers and firemen, under the supervision of the chief engineer, spend their days and nights below, feeding the furnaces, their faces black with soot and grease. The only times they get to see the sun or the stars are when the ship proceeds under sail alone. How they must bless a strong wind.
Beneath the half deck is a dining saloon, staterooms and the officers’ cabins. Petty officers’ quarters are between the fore and aft masts, as is the galley. The crew’s berths are in the topgallant forecastle – the central triangular space at the bow of the ship, forward of the foremast. It’s a cramped space with low headroom; berths are arranged in rows, and each ordinary sailor or marine private has a space he can call his own of just six feet by two feet (180cm × 60cm). A supposedly weathertight bulkhead at the aft end shields them from the worst of the elements but doesn’t keep out the damp and the cold. And because the crew shares the space with the anchor-chain cables, it’s often wet and dirty.
Unusually for vessels of its day, the ship has inside toilets. These facilities are for the use of officers only, however. The crew, as ever, must make do with a bucket. Such is life before the mast.
Still, there are compensations. Frank Chew plays a mean fiddle, and Sydney Smith Lee, who is remarkably light on his feet, can set the men dancing by the main hatch for hours, with the aid of a little whisky for social lubrication.
‘The Bonnie Blue Flag’ is a firm favourite of the Southerners on board. A stirring marching song about the first, unofficial, Confederate flag, it begins:
We are a band of brothers and native to the soil,
Fighting for our liberty with treasure, blood and toil.
And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near and far,
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.
Englishmen, Irishmen and Scots among the crew are fond of the sentimental ‘Bold Privateer’.
It’s oh my dearest Polly,
You and I must part.
I am going across the seas, love,
I give to you my heart.
So fare thee well my dear,
I am just a’going on board
Of the Bold Privateer.
Australian seamen are primed to belt out the rollicking sea shanty ‘Bound for South Australia’.
In South Australia I was born,
Heave away, haul away.
In South Australia, round Cape Horn.
We’re bound for South Australia.
Haul away you rolling kings,
Heave away, haul away.
Haul away, you’ll hear me sing,
We’re bound for South Australia.
Of course, every man jack kn
ows ‘Dixie’.
Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton,
Old times there are not forgotten.
Look away, look away, look away Dixie Land.
In Dixie Land, where I was born in,
Early on one frosty mornin’.
Look away, look away, look away Dixie Land.
I wish I was in Dixie, Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand,
To live and die in Dixie.
Away, away, away down south in Dixie.
Away, away, away down south in Dixie.
And there may well be faraway looks and moist eyes around the capstan should someone give voice to an old folk song that captures a rebel’s longing for home, particularly on a ship named for the Daughter of the Stars.
Oh Shenandoah,
I long to see you,
Away you rolling river.
Oh Shenandoah,
I long to hear you,
Away, I’m bound away,
’cross the wide Missouri.
Oh Shenandoah,
I love your daughter,
Away you rolling river.
For her I’d cross
Your roaming waters,
Away, I’m bound away,
’cross the wide Missouri.
The Shenandoah turns her prow north towards Middleton Reef, Lord Howe and Norfolk islands. All have whaling stations, but Waddell intends to give them a wide berth.
‘They are contiguous to the coast of Australia and are in easy communication with Sydney. Our long delay in Melbourne gave the American consul ample time to warn American shipping of the danger to which it was exposed. If the ship had been favoured with a good wind, I should have visited the whaling grounds of each of those islands, but it was very certain the birds had taken shelter, and I would probably find them further north.’11
What Waddell finds further north is not whalers but wild weather. Above the Fiji Islands, the Shenandoah runs into a gale that batters and bruises her for four days and nights.
