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"Two
thousand persons, the great majority
of them Negroes, were drowned or
killed on the night of the storm. The
others died from exposure, from a lack
of food, or from the malarial fever that
was epidemic on the islands during the
hot September days that succeeded the
disturbance."
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One peculiarity of this storm was
that the aged, the very young, and the
infirm were all killed. The survivors
were young men in the vigor of manhood. Very few were seriously wounded, and hundreds were found
without
a bruise on their bodies. They were killed by the sheer pressure and fury of
the wind. In the settlements where
the storm was worst, not a single child
survived, and very few women. At
Cheniere Caminada, opposite Grand
Island, 822 people perished. Of these
496 were children. From this one settlement 240 fishermen were lost at sea
in their boats - more than one thousand dead out of a community of 1,640 souls. There were 310 houses in the
settlement, and 3 were left standing.
At the Chandeliers, and in the center of
the storm - where 200 fishermen dwelt -
not a soul escaped.
The dead were buried in trenches,
where they were buried at all. In many
instances, the young men who survived
the shock of the storm were compelled
to bury the rest of their families. The
wind blew at the rate of 125 miles an
hour, and those who were exposed to
its fury needed to be robust indeed to
survive. Many died from the peculiar
nervous collapse that is the most vivid
- * experience of those who are caught in
a cyclone. One hundred and twenty
schooners and barges and 265 luggers were sunk.
Fortunately for the survivors, they
were in reach of immediate aid. They
lived near New Orleans, one of the richest and most charitable communities in
the country, a community in which the
organization of benevolence has reached
the highest point of efficiency. Relief
was instantly forthcoming; there was
not a moments delay. Before the violence of the sea had subsided the work
of charity had begun, and it was forwarded by the enterprise of the newspapers -
the Picayune and the Times Democrat - which sent relief boats to the
suffering survivors. Relief was as complete as it was prompt. The fishermen
are a hardy race that do not depend on
agriculture, and all they asked was a
few days grace to enable them to set
their tackle together.
III
And so, hearkening to the clamors in
behalf of the distressed, and following
the tide of relief that was beginning
to flow tardily in, investigation turned
its attention to the Sea Islands on the
South Atlantic coast; and it found
there, after painstaking exploration, a
situation that has probably never had a
counterpart at any previous time or in
any other region on this continent. But,
to be appreciated it must be described,
and to be described it must be approached as the Sea Islands themselves
are approached, by sinuous channels
that turn upon themselves and wind in
and out, and lead in unexpected directions. The facts of the situation do not
lie upon the surface.
The details that stand out most
sharply, and that form the basis of the
fragmentary information current along
the coast and among the Sea Islands, are
the extraordinary freaks of wind and
wave. All are curious, and some are
even humorous. It seems to be a relief to those who are asked to tell about
the storm, to turn from the horrible
story of death, and wreck, and devastation, and recall some of the queer incidents of that dismal night. All the
reports of the great storm are of a
fragmentary character - almost as commonplace as taking a census, or as a
sum in subtraction. This report will
not be an exception. In order to present the situation, it will have to conform to the requirements of that situation. It will have to jump from one fact
to another, and return along a devious
way, and take up the thread of such a
narrative as can be woven out of the
tremendous jumble left by the storm.
But it should be said here, that the
Scribner expedition had every means of
getting at the true condition of affairs
on the islands. It had advantages for
investigation that were not of the ordinary. Tug-boats and steam-launches
were placed at its disposal, and the people, as well as current events, seemed to
combine to forward its purpose.
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IV
A
glance at a map of the Gull coast
will show that the Chandeliers, curving
outward, present a sort of barrier between the Gulf and Lake Borgne. The
fishermen on the Chandeliers perished - there were two hundred perched on that
lonely and insecure foothold - but it is
natural to presume that the reef, owing
to its position and formation, had some
influence in mitigating the force of the
inflowing tide. There was no such barrier between the August storm and the
Sea Islands on the South Atlantic coast.
These islands lie open to the sea, and
the wind struck the richest and most
thickly populated with full force and
fury. The islands that suffered most
lie between Port Royal and Charleston,
and it is on these that the eye of the
public has been turned since the first
intimations of the results of the August
storm.
The
formation - the contour of the
Sea Islands is peculiar. The sea has
crept in between them and the mainland
in the most wonderful way - sometimes
in the shape of a large river that is called
a creek, or in the shape of a sound that
is called a river; sometimes only a wide
and level marsh intervenes through
which are sinuous water-ways, known
only to the native boatmen. What the
lapping tide takes away from one shore
it gives to another, so that the islands
bear about the same relation toward
each other from age to age.
At the ancient town of Beaufort, one
is nearer to the group of islands devastated by the storm than at any other
point. The autumn days pass pleasantly at this old place. The midday
sun throws the shadows far northward,
but there is no sign of winter. The
summer foliage is still fresh and green,
and June seems to have taken the place
of November. But the lonely and far-reaching marshes, with their rank and
waving sedge, yellow as if waiting for
the sickle, give a somber touch to the
scene that does not belong to spring,
nor yet to summer. And the long gray
moss, streaming from the trees like
ghostly signals long hung out for succor unavailing, is another element that
subdues the mind and imparts a sense
of solemnity. The birds may sing never so blithely, the flowers bloom never
so gaily, and the sun shine never so
brightly, but they are all overshadowed
by the brown marshes, and by the gray
beards of these immemorial oaks.
All day long, the
Negroes go by in
their queer little two-wheeled carts,
each drawn by a diminutive steer or a
more diminutive donkey. All day long
the Negro pedestrians tramp back and
forth. All day long the Negro boatmen
shoot out from, or disappear in, the tall
marsh grass. There is not much noise
of vehicles; the sand prevents that.
There is not much noise from the passers-by or from the boats that flit in and
out the marsh grass. There is no loud
laughter on the streets; there are no
melodious songs wafted back from the
water.
The streets swarm with
Negroes, on
the sidewalks, in the middle way, and
on the corners. At the headquarters
of the Red Cross Society, which has in
hand the work of relief, they are huddled together until they block the way.
And yet there is no loud talking, no
loud laughter, no singing. The mind
resents this as unnatural. Where there
are Negroes there ought to be noise,
surely there ought to be laughter and
song. What is the trouble? You look
into these black faces and see it is not
sullenness. You note these quick
smiles and discover that it is not depression. If the puzzle brings a frown
to your face, as it did to mine, an old
Auntie will look at you steadily until
she catches your eye, and then, dropping a courtesy, will exclaim: "You look worry, suh!"
And then,
when you turn to her for an explanation, "I bin worry myse'f, suh. Many time."
Whereupon you will be no longer
puzzled, for here is a type of Negro different from that of the upland regions -
a type that knows how to be good-humored without being boisterous, and
that has the rare gift of patience. Coming or going, men, women, and children
will pause to salute you, and their courtesy is neither familiar nor affected.
Their pensiveness fits in with the somber marshes and the gray moss that swings
solemnly from the trees.
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