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'Looking Back ' It never occurred to this writer to ask that little black man any questions at that time. But his story was learned from one of his daughters who died on the SENN Farm at the age of 100 years. It was during the early years after the tragic War Between the States that a group of black veterans use to meet occasionally in eastern Laurens County and reminisce. Children, and especially young lads, would gather and listen to the stories told over and over. These men had not really been officially soldiers but had served as cooks, or in other capacities in the Confederate service. Several of these black men had served their masters in South Carolina Regiments, defending the vitally important Charleston/Savannah RR, which fringed the South Carolina coast. That coastal country was a land of long white beaches upon which great sea billows rolled. Off those beaches schools of sharks and porpoise were visible, while flocks of white sea birds screamed overhead. Behind the beaches were vast swamps of cypress trees and gigantic gum trees many feet in height and with huge buttress-like bases. The lofty branches of these trees were covered with dangling streamers of gray Spanish moss many feet long. Flocks of wild sea-birds screamed as they flew among these great trees and these beautiful birds made their nests upon the massive tree branches or suspended beneath the branches from these towering trees. The vast swamps in which these great trees grew were always flooded by black water, a few inches to several feet in depth. The darkness was not caused by dirt but by the tannic acid leaking from the massive roots of those gigantic trees. Floating in this dark water were occasional tree branches, torn from the great trees during hurricanes. Resting on these floating branches were turtles, snakes, lizards and even a few alligators. Through the tiny roads and paths that threaded the edges of this great swamp wandered the husky, young black boy from the Carolina Hill country. He had decided to leave home and see the marvelous things the Laurens County veterans had spoken about. The young man could hardly believe what he saw in these great coastal swamps, although it had been frequently described by the black veterans of the recent Great War between the States. Occasionally the wandering youth earned a good meal by chopping firewood for someone or by hoeing a few rows in some lady’s garden. Soon he struck a good road and followed it to a great river. He suspected the large stream was the Savannah River of which he had heard the black veterans speak. A long covered bridge spanned the big river and the wandering youth crossed over into Georgia. Following a road eastward he walked the coastal swamps toward the sea. A few days later the young wanderer reached the outskirts of the city, Savannah. the largest seaport city of Georgia. Along the banks of the big river were wharves and to some of the wharves, ships were moored. Many people were working in various warehouses that lined the waterfront. The boy from the Carolina hills was feeling the pangs of hunger and the necessity of employment was urgent. A handsome gentleman in a uniform came down the gangplank of one of the ships. The young wanderer spoke to the man and told him of his desperation in needing a job. After listening to the boy and asking a few questions the gentleman took the boy by the arm up the gangplank of a steamer moored nearby. In a little office the handsome gentleman paused to make a few entries in a record book. What name was used for the new recruit is forgotten by this writer. It was probably ‘George’. Soon George was hard at work and learning his duties aboard ship. At length the longshoremen began to unfasten the mooring lines and threw them on the wharf The ship’s whistle sounded as a tugboat came alongside to tow her out into the middle of the great river. Then the towline was cast off and the huge engines started. In an hour the ship was at sea and the shore of North America was becoming dim on the horizon. As usual, a cloud of sea gulls followed the ship. A school of porpoise also followed and often they played in the mass of white dead water that spouted beneath the bows. Sharks were occasionally seen, but they seemed to avoid the porpoise. The sailors said that all the porpoise were friendly but the sharks were mans’ enemy. George was told those voracious fish were especially fond of eating young black boys, so it would be very dangerous for George to fall overboard. He would surely be gobbled up before the ship could stop to rescue him. Many days passed and the weather became very hot. Sometimes schools of flying fish sprang from the waves near the ship and with swiftly vibrating wing-like fins, flew over the water and into the sea again. At long last a long coastline of palm trees was seen on the eastern horizon. This, the white sailors said, was Africa, the land from which all the
black people had come. The ship sailed along the coast of the land the
sailors had named as Gabon ( Gabon is located in Western Africa, bordering
the Atlantic Ocean at the Equator, between Republic of the Congo and
Equatorial Guinea. In 2003 the ethnic groups of the country are Bantu
tribes including four major tribal groupings (Fang, Bapounou, Nzebi,
Obamba), other Africans and Europeans including French and persons of dual
nationality). Many small villages of thatched huts could be seen
from the ship and a few black fishermen in canoes could be seen out at
sea. As the ship entered a large bay a small African City could be seen.
The ship docked at a sturdy modem-looking wharf According to the sailors,
the town and wharves were built by the French who owned that part of
Africa. As soon as the ship was made fast at the wharf a gangplank was
lowered. Then the sailors started to ask for passes for shore leave. It
took George until the next day to ask for a pass. The officer who wrote
the pass told George that he was free to go ashore but it would be wise to
be very careful, as there were cannibals in the country. That officer was
only trying to have a little fun with George but George did not know what
a cannibal was. It was then explained that cannibals were wicked people
who ate other people. Poor George did not believe this and believed the
officer was just having a little fun at his expense. George went ashore,
crossed the long wooden wharf and entered the town. For several hours he
roamed about and observed how different it appeared from Savannah. The
walls of the dwellings consisted of slender poles standing on end and tied
to a supporting framework with jungle vines. Some of the primitive
structures had been plastered with mud and white washed. Some of the roofs
were of bark while others were covered with thatch. George had never
before seen a thatched roof. The dark people of this African coast were
dressed in unusual attire. Some wore only loincloths and most of the
children were naked. Some of the natives wore nothing above the waist
while others wore full flowing robes. The natives’ aims, faces and
shoulders were with tribal markings. The women were loaded with a
collection of nose-rings, earrings, many sets of necklaces, bracelets, and
ankle ornaments. When the young man entered he found it full of big black men. The place was buzzing with the sounds of conversation in an unusual language. However, when George entered all sounds ceased abruptly. Somewhat startled by this George looked around. The shadowy interior of the large building was full of men staring at him intently. George noticed that all of the men were dressed alike and all seemed to have similar tribal markings. Feeling very uncomfortable and self-conscious, the young American found a vacant bench and sat down. Around him conversation gradually resumed but at a somewhat subdued key
and George saw many of these people glance in his direction. He also
noticed that occasionally men arose and went to a place where a big iron
pot was surrounded by a bed of glowing coals. These people would take a
big three - pronged fork and fish around in the pot until they found a
piece of meat that they wanted. Then they would pull this chunk of meat
out and start eating it. Just as he reached the door the butcher knife that the old man had been sharpening came flying through the air and stuck fast to the doorpost besides George’s head. Several pairs of hands were reaching out to him as George escaped through the doorway. A quick glance to the rear showed men pouring from the open doorway and running swiftly in pursuit. For hours George dodged through alleys and backyards in his attempt to escape his relentless pursuers. At length he found what seemed to be a good hiding place and paused to rest. After a considerable period of time he finally emerged and saw the tall masts of his ship towering in the distance. Then, very cautiously, he returned to the waterfront. On the big wooden wharf several sailors were engrossed in playing a game of town ball. The white men shouted an invitation to George to join them but George thanked the men and hurried up the gangplank of the steamer. Two days later, as the ship headed out to sea, George looked out over the rippling waters of the Atlantic Ocean and thought that it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Only the pine-clad hills of South Carolina in springtime with the dogwood trees in blossom surpassed what was seen before him. Many years later, on the Ben Abrams farm near Smyrna Presbyterian Church, my father, J. Foster Senn, used to thresh grain for Ben Abrams every year. On these occasions a little wrinkled old black man with snow white hair and beard would hold the sacks for me as I measured the grain, fll the sacks and keep the records. This grand old man had been the young wanderer from Laurens County who had slipped away from home and had gone to Africa. The old man lies now in Trinity AME Church Cemetery. It is only by accident I was able to learn and save this story and beg forgiveness for any distortion or poor memory of the account. (Charlie was not able to recall the name of the ‘Wanderer’ but did remember that his grand daughter was Anna Mae) Charlie Senn is 90 years old (as of this writing 2003), a
resident of J. F. Hawkins Nursing Home in Newberry. Confined to a
wheelchair, his mind is still very sharp. He has almost a century of
Newberry history in his memories and seems to have quite a flair for
description in his writings. If you enjoyed his ‘memory’ please let him
know. He can be reached by writing to him c/o J. F. Hawkins Nursing Home,
1330 Kinard St., Newberry SC 29108.
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