The Heroes and Villians Series - Civil War: African Americans in the Civil War

Africans And African Americans Before the War: A Story By Harriet Tubman

I reckon most folks don’t know where we truly come from. Before the slave ships ever touched our shores, we were a mighty people—Africans living in rich lands, with kingdoms like Mali, Songhai, and Benin. We were farmers, builders, warriors, artists, and scholars. I want you to know, we didn’t begin in chains—we were born of kings and queens. Our people knew the stars, healed with herbs, and traded gold, salt, and wisdom.

Though we held slaves in our civilizations throughout the country, it wasn’t bondage as we know it today. Before the 800s AD, that there was no institution of slavery in Africa, that is, until the Muslim traders moved in. They brought with them slaves from around the world, of every nationality and race, that fulfilled our appetite for more mining, more labor, and more of their slaves. That is when they began to enslave more of us and ship our people, mostly those who opposed them, all around the world for labor.

Stolen and Shackled

Then came the European men in their ships, in the late 1500s. They called it “trade,” but it was stealing, plain and simple. They took mothers from their babies, husbands from wives, and packed them into dark, filthy holds. The Middle Passage, they called it. Many died before they ever saw the shores of this new world. Those who survived? They were sold like cattle.

They shipped us all over the Caribbean and South America and then one day, a transport ship called the White Lyon was captured by pirates and sailed up to Virginia. It was there that they off-loaded my people. But, in North America, in the colonies of 1619, they did not allow slavery, though the did allow for indentured servitude. Much like those that were shipped over from Europe, these Africans had to serve for a time before they could win their freedom. 7 years they worked for those that bought their services, and then they were released free to make their own way in life. Some making a great life for themselves, ever becoming “masters” to other African indentured servants. That is until, about 40 years later, one of our own was about to lose his labor and took him to court. The courts called the servant free, but then in appeals, the court gave him back to his “master” and made him a permanent slave. This is when African around the colonies began to be accepted as permanent slaves.

My own people—my parents, grandparents—we carried that pain. Now, we were brought straight from Africa and sold into permanent slavery. Others, like me, were born into slavery in Maryland. But we never forgot. Deep down, we knew we were more than the chains that held us.

Slavery in the South and North

Slavery was everywhere in this country once—but by the time I was born in 1822, it was mostly in the South. We worked the cotton fields, picked tobacco, tended the rice, and labored in the big houses. From sunrise to sunset, we toiled. And the lash—oh, Lord, the lash—was always near.

Now, the North had its own sins. Though many states outlawed slavery, they still looked the other way when folks were kidnapped or mistreated. Even free Black folks had to carry papers to prove they weren’t someone’s "property." Freedom was fragile.

The Strength of Our Communities

But even in bondage, we found ways to live, to love, to praise. We made music out of sorrow and songs full of secret messages. We built churches, families, and communities. Some learned to read in secret, risking whippings or worse. Others passed stories down by word of mouth, keeping our past alive.

We never stopped dreaming. Never stopped fighting.

Rebellion and Resistance

I ain’t the only one who ran. Long before me, there were others—men like Gabriel Prosser, women like Sojourner Truth, folks who refused to bow. Nat Turner led an uprising. Others burned crops, broke tools, and helped each other flee north.

Every time someone escaped, it was a blow to the system. I helped over 70 people find their way to freedom on the Underground Railroad, and every time we crossed that line into free soil, we claimed a little more hope for our people.

Before the War Came

By the 1850s, the country was boiling. The South clung to slavery like a child to a rag doll, and the North was split between abolitionists and those who didn’t want to see their peace disturbed. We knew war was coming. We could feel it in the air. But long before the first shot was fired at Fort Sumter, we had already been fighting—fighting for our right to live free, to worship, to read, to be whole.

We Were Not Slaves—We Were Enslaved People

And don’t let nobody tell you we were “just slaves.” We were farmers, blacksmiths, seamstresses, preachers, healers, and parents. We were people. Enslaved, yes—but always human. And in that truth, we found strength.

Our Story Matters

So now you know. Our story didn’t begin with slavery, and it sure didn’t end there. We lived through it, and we rose out of it. And the same spirit that carried me through the woods at night, trusting in the Lord and the North Star—that spirit still burns in our people today.

The 54th Regiment: The Pioneers of Black Military: Told by Frederick Douglass

I have long believed that no man can truly be free unless he is willing to fight for his freedom—and that of his fellow man. When President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863, a door swung open. A proclamation on paper is one thing; to give it muscle, sinew, and meaning, it must be defended. That is when the colored man was finally allowed to bear arms for the Union cause. And I, Frederick Douglass, answered the call—not with a musket, but with my voice and pen, to rally brave men to the banner of liberty.

The Birth of a Regiment

The 54th Massachusetts was no ordinary regiment. It was the first African American regiment raised in the North after the Emancipation Proclamation. Governor John A. Andrew of Massachusetts, a man of noble conviction, spearheaded the effort. And I, too, took it upon myself to encourage men of color to enlist—not to prove our loyalty, for that had long been known—but to show the nation, once and for all, that the Black man had the heart of a patriot and the courage of a soldier.

My own sons, Charles and Lewis Douglass, stood among the volunteers. They, like so many others, knew they were not merely fighting the Confederacy—they were striking a blow against centuries of bondage and prejudice.

Training with Purpose, Marching with Pride

The men of the 54th trained at Camp Meigs in Readville, Massachusetts. They drilled under the command of a white officer, Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, a young man from a prominent abolitionist family who saw our men not as tools, but as brothers in arms. Under his leadership, they trained with discipline and resolve, knowing the eyes of the nation were upon them—some hoping they would fail, others praying they would rise.

And rise they did. In parade, they carried themselves with the dignity of free men. In camp, they bore the indignities of unequal pay and harsh conditions without surrendering their honor. They were soldiers of conscience, each one.

Glory at Fort Wagner

The true test came on July 18, 1863, at Fort Wagner in South Carolina. The 54th led the charge against the heavily fortified Confederate stronghold, a near-impossible task. But they did not flinch. They surged forward through a hail of gunfire, scaling embankments with bravery that shook the nation.

Colonel Shaw fell with his men, refusing to leave the front lines. Hundreds perished, yet the 54th proved to all of America that the Black man could fight and die for the Union—and for the cause of freedom. Their valor forced even the cruelest skeptics to reconsider the worth and will of African American soldiers.

Not Just Soldiers—Symbols of a New Nation

The 54th was more than a regiment; it was a declaration. Their sacrifice made it impossible to deny the contributions of Black Americans to the war effort. And their courage paved the way for over 180,000 Black soldiers who would later join the Union ranks.

No longer could we be written off as passive recipients of freedom. We seized it. On the battlefield, the 54th Massachusetts earned not just glory, but the right to citizenship, respect, and recognition.

The Struggle Beyond the Battlefield

Even in victory, the struggle continued. Our men were denied equal pay until great pressure was brought to bear. And even after the war, the legacy of their bravery was too often buried beneath the weight of prejudice.

But I have never forgotten. And neither should you.

Their Legacy Is Our Light

When you speak of the 54th Massachusetts, do not speak of them with pity, but with pride. These men, many born into bondage, became the vanguard of a new era. They stood tall when the nation needed courage. They bore the burden of race and righteousness on their shoulders and marched into history.

I called them to arms because I believed in the nobility of their cause. And they, in turn, proved the nobility of their souls.

Let their story be remembered—not merely as a chapter in the history of war, but as a cornerstone in the building of a just and equal America.

My Name Is Lewis Douglass

I was born on October 9, 1840, in the free city of New Bedford, Massachusetts—but freedom, I learned, was a fragile thing. Though I was born a free Black man, the chains of slavery still rattled all around us. My father, Frederick Douglass, was born in bondage and broke his own chains with courage and words so powerful they shook the conscience of the nation. My mother, Anna Murray Douglass, was the pillar of our family—steady, silent strength.

Being the eldest son of a man like Frederick Douglass came with a weight I felt even as a child. But I never saw it as a burden. My father's fight was my fight. And so I studied, listened, learned, and prepared myself—not just to live in this world, but to help change it.

Manhood and the Fire of War

By the time I was twenty-two, the country had torn itself apart. The Civil War had begun, but at first, Black men were not allowed to enlist. We could not fight for our country—even as it bled for its very soul. But when President Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, a new chapter opened.

My father was one of the strongest voices calling for Black men to enlist, and I could not stand aside. I became one of the first recruits of the 54th Massachusetts Regiment, the first African American regiment raised in the North. I took up the musket not to earn freedom—I was born free—but to defend it, to dignify it, and to prove our worth beyond all argument.

The Blood of Fort Wagner

We trained hard, harder than many believed we could. The 54th was no ordinary regiment. We knew that we bore the hopes of our entire race on our shoulders. Our commander, Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, believed in us when few others would. And we believed in ourselves.

Then came Fort Wagner, July 18, 1863. The day we marched onto that beach in South Carolina, I knew many of us would not come back. The fort was heavily fortified. But still, we led the charge. I remember the sound of cannon fire and bullets ripping through the air. I saw men fall, friends cry out, the sand soaked red. Colonel Shaw was struck down leading the charge. I myself barely escaped with my life. I was wounded, but I kept fighting, and I never let go of my pride in our cause.

Afterward, I wrote to my fiancée, Amelia, telling her of the battle. I told her how proud I was, even amid the sorrow. I knew we had done something mighty. We proved to the world that Black men would fight and die for this country—even when it had done little to fight for us.

The Fight After the Battle

The war didn’t end when the guns fell silent. Even after the 54th made history, we were paid less than white soldiers, and that injustice stung like a fresh wound. I stood with my brothers in protest—we would not accept the insult of lesser pay. Only after long struggle did Congress agree to give us equal pay, but it came too late for many who had already given their lives.

After the war, I tried to continue my service through education and journalism. I worked as a typesetter and editor. I was even appointed to government positions, like the Recorder of Deeds for Washington, D.C., a role my father had also held. I traveled, wrote, and spoke when I could—but I always carried the memory of the 54th with me. Always.

A Legacy Carved in Stone

I lived a life in the shadow of greatness, but I did not mind. My father taught me how to stand tall, and I tried to honor him by doing the same. I stood for justice, for dignity, for my people. And I stood with my brothers at Fort Wagner.

I passed on September 19, 1908, but my story—our story—did not end there. The sacrifice of the 54th inspired thousands of Black soldiers who came after us. And now, statues stand where we once bled. History has not forgotten. And I hope you don’t either.

The Battle of Fort Wagner - Told by Sergeant Major Lewis DouglassThe summer of 1863 was thick with heat and purpose. We in the 54th Massachusetts had trained for this moment, knowing full well the eyes of the world were upon us. We were not just soldiers—we were a symbol, a question shouted across the nation: Would the Negro fight for freedom, for the Union, for the very soul of America?

When we received the order to march on Fort Wagner, just outside Charleston, South Carolina, none of us hesitated. This Confederate stronghold guarded the harbor and was considered nearly impregnable. We were told the assault would be bloody, and likely fatal—but we marched anyway, heads high, hearts fixed.

Preparing for the Assault

We arrived near the fort late in the day on July 18, 1863. The sun was beginning to set, and the ocean breeze did little to cool our nerves. I stood among men of incredible courage—free men, formerly enslaved men, men who had left their families to risk everything for a cause greater than themselves.

Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, our commander, was with us. A young white officer from an abolitionist family, he believed in us when many did not. He led from the front, never flinching, never sending us where he would not go himself.

As dusk fell, we fixed bayonets. The word came down. It was time.

The Charge into Fire

We formed up in columns and began our march across the sand and mud toward the fort. The Confederates opened fire from the moment we came into range—artillery, muskets, grape shot—the air was alive with death.

We charged through a narrow strip of land, with the ocean on one side and a swamp on the other. There was no cover. I heard men cry out and fall beside me. I saw limbs torn away, blood soaking into the sand. And still—we ran forward.

The front of the charge reached the parapet of Fort Wagner and began to scale it. Colonel Shaw was among the first over the wall. I saw him fall, shot down leading his men, never once turning his back.

I made it to the ditch at the base of the wall, fighting hand-to-hand, stepping over bodies, calling out to comrades to hold the line. The fight raged in the dark for nearly two hours—brutal, close, and desperate.

A Night of Sorrow and Resolve

Eventually, we were pushed back. Reinforcements arrived, but the cost had already been paid in blood. Of the 600 men from the 54th who charged that evening, nearly half were killed, wounded, or captured. Colonel Shaw was among the dead, buried by the Confederates in a mass grave with his men—intended as an insult, but to us, it was a badge of honor.

I was wounded in the battle, but alive. And more than that—I was proud. Proud of my brothers who gave their last breath in that sand. Proud of our regiment for proving what needed no more proving.

We Shook the Nation

In the days that followed, the newspapers could not ignore what had happened. The 54th had stood firm under fire, led a charge that few thought possible, and forever shattered the myth that the Black man was not fit for combat.

Our actions at Fort Wagner opened the floodgates. Thousands more Black men enlisted after that day. We had made our mark in blood and fire. We had earned our place—not as shadows or symbols, but as soldiers.

The Flag Never Fell

I remember Sergeant William Carney, who though gravely wounded, never let the American flag touch the ground. He carried it through the fire, bleeding and stumbling, and brought it back with honor. He would later receive the Medal of Honor. And every man who fought that day earned glory no medal could match.

The Battle Ended, But Our Purpose Did Not

Fort Wagner was not taken that day. But something far greater was won—respect, recognition, and the right to be seen. We proved we were more than fit for the uniform. We were worthy of liberty, of equality, of the title: American.

And I, Lewis Douglass, will never forget the roar of the guns, the cries of the fallen, or the fire that burned in our hearts that night. We were soldiers. We were men. We were the 54th.

Contraband Camps: A Journey Through Struggle And Hope - Told by Douglass

When war broke out in 1861, the question for many enslaved people wasn’t who would win, but where could we go to breathe free air? The moment Union troops advanced into Southern territory, enslaved men, women, and children began fleeing toward them—not just running from slavery, but toward freedom.

I saw it with my own eyes—families traveling by night, barefoot and afraid, clutching children, dragging hope behind them like a heavy sack. These freedom-seekers came to Union lines with no certainty of welcome, only the whisper of liberty calling them forward.

Contraband of War

At first, the army didn’t know what to do with them. You see, the law still called enslaved people “property.” So when these brave souls arrived at Union camps, some generals wanted to send them back—back to those who claimed to own them. But one man, General Benjamin Butler, changed everything.

He refused to return them, calling them “contraband of war”—a clever legal turn that gave these men and women a measure of protection. If enslaved people were property, then, under the rules of war, the Union could seize them just like weapons or supplies. It wasn’t justice, not yet—but it was a beginning. And so the Contraband Camps were born.

The Camps: Havens of Hope and Hardship

I visited some of these camps. They sprang up all along the front lines—Fort Monroe in Virginia, Corinth in Mississippi, Memphis, Port Royal—each one a mix of desperation and determination.

Conditions were often dire. The Union army wasn’t prepared to house thousands of refugees. People lived in tents, shacks, or dugouts, exposed to the elements. Disease spread fast—cholera, typhoid, smallpox—and many who had escaped the lash would fall to illness instead.

But in those camps, something remarkable happened. People organized. They formed communities. They prayed, they sang, they built schools with scraps and taught their children to read by candlelight. Black women became nurses. Black men worked for the Union, building fortifications, driving wagons, and even fighting fires inside the camps.

From Refugees to Patriots

Many contrabands—yes, that was the word we used, even if it never sat right in our mouths—later became soldiers. After the Emancipation Proclamation, recruiting officers like myself visited the camps to enlist willing men into the United States Colored Troops (USCT).

Some joined the 54th Massachusetts with me. Others joined different regiments. All knew the risks, but also the meaning—this was a chance not just to survive, but to fight for the freedom of all our people.

A Complicated Kindness

The Union army was not always kind to our people, even when they helped us. Many officers doubted our intelligence, our strength, or our loyalty. Some used us for labor and gave little in return. There were also moments of real compassion—teachers from the North came to educate, missionaries came to serve. But still, these camps were built on the line between freedom and neglect.

A Step Toward the Promised Land

Despite the suffering, these camps became seeds of something greater. They gave birth to Black churches, Black schools, and Black leaders. Some who had once been enslaved in those very regions returned after the war as teachers or landowners.

The Contraband Camps were not the end of slavery, nor were they a perfect freedom—but they were where thousands of African Americans took their first unshackled breath, and where we began to rebuild our lives with our own hands.

Our People, Our Power

The world might call them “contraband,” but I saw them for what they truly were—pioneers of a new America. Refugees, yes. But also survivors, builders, patriots. They remind us that liberty is not just declared—it is lived, struggled for, and made real in the mud, sweat, and hope of everyday people.

I carry their memory with me always, and I hope you do too.

My Name Is General Benjamin Butler (1818-1893)

I was born in Deerfield, New Hampshire, on November 5, 1818, the son of a veteran from the War of 1812. My father passed when I was young, and we moved to Lowell, Massachusetts, where I saw firsthand what poverty, labor, and ambition could do to a man. I was raised by a mother of deep resolve, who taught me to think for myself, speak my mind, and stand firm in any storm. Those lessons would carry me far—through courtrooms, battlefields, and Congress halls.

I studied law at Waterville College—what you now call Colby College—and later became an attorney. I took on clients few others would defend and fought the injustices of powerful corporations. I never feared a tough fight, and I wasn’t interested in being liked if it meant being silent.

Before the War: The Lawyer and Politician

Before the Civil War, I was a Democrat, a strange mix of labor advocate and Union man. I supported workers’ rights and campaigned for the common man, even as I built a thriving legal career. I entered Massachusetts politics and was soon seen as a loud, controversial figure—too Northern for the Southern Democrats and too unpredictable for the abolitionist Whigs. But I never liked fitting into tidy boxes.

When the storm clouds of secession gathered, I knew where I stood: with the Union, with the Constitution, and against those who would tear this country apart over slavery.

War and the Contraband Decision

In 1861, I was appointed a major general in the Union Army. Early in the war, I found myself in command at Fort Monroe, Virginia. That’s where I made one of the decisions I’m most remembered for.

Three enslaved men escaped Confederate territory and reached our lines. The law said I should return them. But the law, at that moment, was on the side of slaveholders—not justice. So I refused. I declared these men “contraband of war,” just like enemy weapons or supplies, and I kept them free under the protection of Union arms.

That one choice opened the door for thousands of enslaved people to flee into Union lines and seek sanctuary. Many called it controversial—I called it common sense and moral duty. I wasn’t an abolitionist by birth, but the war opened my eyes wider than ever. When people take up freedom for themselves, you'd better not be the one to stand in their way.

New Orleans: Order and Outrage

Later, I took command of Union forces in New Orleans after we captured the city in 1862. I cleaned up the corruption, organized relief for the poor, and put people to work. But my rule was strict. I enforced harsh discipline and issued the now-infamous General Order No. 28, warning that any woman who insulted Union troops would be treated “as a woman of the town plying her avocation.”

It was meant to stop the public humiliation of my soldiers, but it ignited a firestorm. Some called me a tyrant, others a hero. The Confederacy dubbed me “Beast Butler.” I wore the name with pride if it meant loyalty to the Union and justice for the oppressed.

A Voice in Congress

After the war, I returned to politics and was elected to Congress from Massachusetts. I left the Democrats and joined the Republicans, supporting the Reconstruction Acts, Black suffrage, and civil rights for freedmen. I even helped author the Civil Rights Act of 1875, which sought to guarantee equal treatment in public accommodations.

I was not always refined in my words or polished in my politics. But I was fearless. I called out corruption wherever I saw it—even in my own party—and supported working people over the wealthy elite. In 1878, I became Governor of Massachusetts, and while my term was short, I pushed for prison reform, education access, and labor protections.

Legacy of Controversy and Change

I won battles and lost them. I was loved and hated, mocked and respected. But I never stood still, and I never backed down from what I believed was right. Whether on the battlefield or the House floor, I fought for justice, for order, and for the power of the law to shape a better nation.

I passed away in 1893, and the verdict on my life remains mixed. Some call me an opportunist. Others call me a visionary. Me? I call myself a man who acted when others hesitated—a man who chose a side when the nation was splitting in two.

The African Americans' Fight For Freedom During the Civil War - Told by Butler

When the first shots were fired at Fort Sumter in 1861, the Union declared its cause: preservation. We were fighting, it was said, to keep the states together. But from the moment the smoke rose into the air, I knew there was more at stake. This was not just a battle over geography or governance—it was a battle over the soul of a nation.

And at the heart of that struggle stood the enslaved people of the South—millions of African Americans whose labor had built the wealth of their masters and the economy of the South. If we were to truly save the Union, we could not do so without addressing the injustice that had poisoned it from the beginning.

From Contraband to Contributor

The camps we set up—Contraband Camps, they came to be called—were not always comfortable. Disease, overcrowding, and hunger often plagued them. But in those rough shelters, freedom was being born.

Many of the men who found refuge in our lines did not stop at safety—they wanted to fight. They asked for muskets, uniforms, and the right to stand shoulder to shoulder with other Union soldiers. And when the Emancipation Proclamation was signed in 1863, the door was flung wide open.

Black regiments began to form. I saw them train. I saw them march. I saw them fight. The 54th Massachusetts, the United States Colored Troops (USCT)—they were disciplined, fierce, and proud. They did not fight for revenge. They fought for liberty—for themselves, for their families, and for a country that had too long denied them its promises.

A New Kind of Soldier

Many of my fellow officers doubted the ability of Black men to serve. I never did. I saw firsthand their resolve, their intelligence, and their sacrifice. They worked in the trenches, built fortifications, carried supplies—but more importantly, they bled and died for the Union.

Some were born free in the North, others born in chains in the South. But in uniform, they stood as equals in duty and spirit. Their courage on the battlefield became undeniable proof that liberty was not a gift—it was earned.

A Nation Transformed

By war’s end, nearly 200,000 Black men had served in the Union Army and Navy. Thousands more supported our efforts behind the scenes. Their contribution turned the tide—not just of war, but of history. They forced the nation to face its hypocrisy. And when the Thirteenth Amendment was passed, abolishing slavery forever, it was not merely a political act. It was the final confirmation of what these men had already declared through blood and bravery: they were free, and always had been in spirit.

The True Meaning of the War

I have been called many names in my life—some less than kind. But let history remember me for this: when freedom came knocking, I opened the door. And I stood beside those who had been enslaved, as they claimed their rightful place in this republic.

Their fight for freedom was not separate from the war—it was the war. And without them, there would be no victory worth claiming.

My Name Is Mary Bowser (1846?–1867?)

They say I was born around 1846, in Richmond, Virginia, though no record tells the whole truth of it. What I do know is this: I was born into slavery, and that meant my life was never mine to begin with. My earliest years were spent under the control of the Van Lew family, a wealthy white household whose lives were wrapped in silver spoons and fine linens—while mine was wrapped in silence and servitude.

But even within those walls, change was brewing. Elizabeth Van Lew, the daughter of the house, believed slavery was wrong. Quietly, secretly, she took steps to educate me, teach me to read, and prepare me for a life beyond the chains I was born into. That education would become the most powerful weapon I would ever carry.

From a Northern Education to a Southern Battlefield

Elizabeth eventually freed me, and not only that—she sent me north to be educated, possibly at a Quaker school in Philadelphia. There, I learned to think, to speak, to question—and to see myself as more than what society tried to make me.

When the Civil War broke out, the South rose in defense of slavery. I could have stayed safe in the North. But I chose differently. With Elizabeth Van Lew leading an intricate spy ring for the Union, I knew I had something rare to offer: the ability to blend in with those who believed I was beneath notice. That was my disguise. That was my power.

Into the Lion’s Den

With Elizabeth’s help, I returned to Richmond and took the greatest risk of my life. I posed as a dull-witted servant, one of the many invisible hands in the grand homes of Confederate officials. My final post? None other than the Confederate White House, the home of President Jefferson Davis himself.

There, I cooked. I cleaned. I moved silently through halls and parlors—and I listened. To conversations, to plans, to war strategies whispered behind closed doors. No one suspected the quiet little maid had a photographic memory and a mind sharpened like a blade.

Secrets in the Shadows

Every scrap of information I gathered, I sent back through Elizabeth’s network. Sometimes in coded letters. Sometimes in spoken word passed through trusted couriers. What the Confederacy saw as a quiet Black servant was, in truth, a Union spy at the highest level of the Southern government.

I learned about troop movements, supply lines, and the inner conflicts of Confederate leadership. Many say my intelligence helped prevent attacks and saved Union lives. I never carried a gun. But I carried something far more dangerous: knowledge.

A Life Lived in Silence

After the war ended, the spy ring was disbanded, and most records were destroyed—for safety, for secrecy, for survival. I went on to speak at churches and public events, telling bits of my story under different names. I wanted my people to know that we were not just victims of war—we were agents of change.

But the world wasn’t ready to remember me. I faded into the shadows, where spies often belong. Even the date and place of my death remain uncertain, likely in the late 1860s, not long after the war.

Remember Me Not for My Silence—But for My Service

I lived unseen, unnoticed by those in power. But now, when you look back, I ask that you see me clearly—not just as a servant, but as a soldier in the shadows, fighting with wit and courage, and risking everything so that the chains of slavery could finally be broken.

I was Mary Bowser. And though my story was nearly lost, my mission was never forgotten.

Secret Soldiers: African American Spies and Scouts - Told by Mary BowserMost wars are fought with muskets and cannon fire, with boots in the mud and banners flying. But there is another kind of war—fought in whispers, in coded letters, in shadows. During the Civil War, many people do not realize how important that secret war was. And fewer still know how deeply African Americans were involved in it—not just as soldiers and laborers, but as spies and scouts.

I should know. I was one of them.

The Gift of Being Overlooked

The greatest weapon a spy can have is to be underestimated. And in the Confederate South, no one was overlooked more than a Black woman working as a servant. To them, we were invisible. They didn’t believe we could read, think, or remember. That made us perfect for the work of espionage.

I posed as an illiterate maid inside the Confederate White House—President Jefferson Davis’s own home in Richmond, Virginia. But I wasn’t just dusting furniture. I was memorizing troop movements, decoding documents, and reporting back to the Union through one of the most sophisticated spy networks of the war.

From Fields to Front Lines

Not every Black spy worked in fine houses. Many worked from the fields, rivers, and roads—guiding Union soldiers through enemy territory or slipping behind Confederate lines to gather intelligence. These scouts—many of them men who had escaped slavery—knew the backwoods and swamps better than any map.

They traveled by night, posed as drifters or workers by day, and delivered information that shaped entire battles. Their courage was unmatched, for if they were caught, there would be no trial. No mercy. They risked not just their lives, but the hope of freedom itself.

Names You Should Know

Some of us were never named, but some left a trace in history. John Scobell, a formerly enslaved man, worked with the Pinkerton Detective Agency and posed as a cook and field hand to spy on Confederate officers.

Harriet Tubman, the famed conductor of the Underground Railroad, also became a Union scout and spy. In 1863, she led the Combahee River Raid, guiding Union gunboats and freeing over 700 enslaved people—while destroying Confederate supplies. Her work combined military precision with the deep trust of local Black communities.

And then there were the Black women—so often forgotten—who worked as cooks, laundresses, and housekeepers in Confederate households, gathering and passing along secrets at great risk. They had no rank or uniform, but their impact was no less powerful.

Why We Risked Everything

Why did we do it? Why take such great risks, when most of us were not even promised freedom, let alone recognition? Because we understood that this war was not just about territory—it was about us. Our families, our futures, our right to live as free people.

We did not wait for liberty to be handed to us—we acted to bring it closer, using every tool we had. Intelligence. Courage. Will.

Unseen but Unforgotten

Many of us were never recognized. Our names were erased. Our letters burned. Our missions left out of the official reports. But the Union victory owes a great debt to Black spies and scouts, who used their knowledge, their instincts, and their courage to turn the tide of war.

We were servants by appearance, soldiers in truth. The war was won with more than bullets. It was won with secrets. With silence. With sacrifice.

My Name Is James Armistead LafayetteI was born around 1748, in Virginia, as a slave. Back then, my last name was just Armistead—taken from the white family who owned me. I was considered property, like a plow or a horse, not a man. I had no rights, no voice, and no claim to the land I worked. But even as a young boy, I watched, listened, and learned. I may not have had freedom—but I had a mind of my own.

A War for Liberty

When the American Revolution began, the air was thick with talk of liberty, justice, and independence. The white colonists wanted freedom from British rule—but I often wondered: What of ours? Still, I believed in the cause, and when my master gave me permission to join the war, I didn’t hesitate.

But I did not become a soldier. Instead, I became something far more dangerous. I became a spy.

A Double Life

Under the direction of the Marquis de Lafayette, a French general fighting for the Americans, I posed as a runaway slave who had offered his services to the British Army. They welcomed me in, believing I was loyal to their cause. I cleaned, cooked, and served—and I listened. I watched their troop movements, their plans, their weaknesses.

They trusted me so much that I was soon delivering false information to the American side—except what they didn’t know was that everything I learned was secretly passed back to General Lafayette. I became what they call a double agent.

The Road to Yorktown

My most important work came in 1781, when the British General Lord Cornwallis moved his army to Yorktown, Virginia. I followed him, still pretending to be a loyal servant. I memorized everything—troop counts, fort locations, battle plans—and passed it to Lafayette.

That intelligence helped George Washington and French forces trap Cornwallis at Yorktown, forcing his surrender. That battle effectively ended the war. I didn’t fire a musket or lead a charge, but in my own quiet way, I helped win America's independence.

Fighting for My Own Freedom

After the war, many white soldiers were rewarded with land, money, or recognition. I returned to slavery. You see, the law at the time only granted freedom to enslaved men who had served as soldiers—not as spies. I had served my country in silence and secrecy, and now that secrecy was holding me in chains. But General Lafayette—God bless him—petitioned the Virginia legislature on my behalf, testifying to the value of my service.

Finally, in 1787, I was granted my freedom. In honor of the man who fought beside me and fought for me, I took the name James Armistead Lafayette.

Life as a Free Man

After gaining my freedom, I bought land in New Kent County, Virginia, and became a farmer. I married and raised a family. I lived the kind of life I had once only dreamed about. I was no longer someone else’s property—I was my own man.

I lived quietly, never seeking fame or fortune, though I was proud when people remembered my service. When Lafayette returned to America in 1824, I met him again. He embraced me like a brother, and I knew in that moment that what I had done mattered.

A Patriot in Every Sense

They say freedom is worth fighting for. I believe it’s also worth spying for, sacrificing for, and waiting for. I fought for a country that didn’t yet see me as equal—but I knew one day it could. I helped build the foundation of that hope.

So when you speak of patriots, remember me—not because I wanted glory, but because I risked everything for a nation I believed in. My name is James Armistead Lafayette, and though history almost forgot me, I never forgot what I fought for.

African Americans Who Served the Confederacy - Told by Lafayette

I once risked my life pretending to serve the enemy—spying on the British during the Revolution so I could help the cause of freedom. So believe me when I say: war is never just uniforms and colors. It’s people, choices, and circumstances. And in the war that came nearly 80 years after mine—the Civil War—many African Americans found themselves in a far more tangled web than most people understand.

Not all enslaved people fled to the Union. Some, by force or by choice, ended up working for the Confederate cause. And some even served as spies.

Enslaved, But Forced Into Service

The Confederate States depended on slavery—and enslaved people—more than anything else. So when war broke out in 1861, the South used Black labor to build forts, cook meals, drive wagons, dig trenches, and carry supplies. Most of these men and women had no choice. They were taken along by their enslavers or ordered to support Confederate forces. Some even found themselves following their masters onto battlefields.

These people were not soldiers, but they were still in the middle of war—caught in a system that forced them to serve a cause built on keeping them in chains.

Spies Behind the Gray Lines

Now, some of those who served the Confederates were not what they seemed. Just like I had done during the Revolution, certain Black men used their position to gather information for the Union. They pretended loyalty to the South—but fed vital intelligence back to Union officers.

One of the most famous was a man named John Scobell. He had once been enslaved but became a spy for the Union’s Pinkerton Detective Agency. Disguised as a Confederate servant or laborer, he slipped behind enemy lines and listened carefully. What he learned saved Union lives and exposed Confederate plans.

Some Were Loyal—But Why?

Yes, there were African Americans who truly supported the South—some free men of color in Louisiana and other areas who believed they had something to gain by siding with the Confederacy. Some saw themselves as Southerners first and hoped loyalty might protect their status or families. Others were told lies—that the North wanted to enslave them anew or that their communities would be safer under Southern rule.

I do not judge them easily. When a man is born into a world designed to confuse and oppress him, truth can be hard to see. But I also know this: no war built on slavery can ever serve the interests of the enslaved.

The Power of Choice in the Shadows

Spying is a dangerous business. You live between truths and lies. You must make quick decisions, keep your face steady, and never reveal your heart. The Black men and women who served the Confederacy—some willingly, many not—lived under that pressure every day. And a few of them turned their forced positions into acts of resistance, slipping notes, whispering plans, or helping others escape.

They were survivors, and some were heroes, even behind enemy lines.

What History Must Remember

In every war, people want to paint the world in black and white. But I know from my own life that courage doesn’t always wear a uniform, and loyalty sometimes hides in plain sight.

During the Civil War, many African Americans were trapped in the service of the Confederacy. Some were spies for the Union, risking death with every step. Some were used. A few were confused. But all of them lived through the hardest truth of war: when the world turns upside down, you must find your way to do what’s right, even if no one sees you do it.

My Name Is Patrick CleburneI was born on March 16, 1828, in County Cork, Ireland, a land as green and proud as any you'll find on this earth. My father was a physician, and though I was raised with education and manners, I was no stranger to hardship. Ireland was not a forgiving place for those without wealth or station. When my father died, I was still a boy, and by the time the Great Famine swept across our country, it seemed the land itself had turned its back on us.

Seeking better fortune, I enlisted in the British Army as a young man. I wore their uniform, followed orders, but never quite felt it was my war. I left the army after a short term and, like so many of my countrymen, turned my gaze westward—across the Atlantic to America.

Finding a New Life in the South

I landed in New Orleans in 1849, then settled in Helena, Arkansas. There, I made a modest life for myself. I worked as a pharmacist, studied law, and rose in local society—not because I was born into privilege, but because I earned it. I loved the South. It was a place of warmth, tradition, and pride. And though I was an immigrant, the people welcomed me as one of their own.

When sectional tensions rose between North and South, I found my loyalty fixed firmly to the state that had adopted me. I believed in states’ rights, in sovereignty, and in the honor of defending one’s home. And so, when war came, I took up arms for the Confederate States of America.

The Soldier’s Life

I joined the Yell Rifles, a local militia, and quickly rose through the ranks, owing to my discipline and experience. I was no firebrand, no politician—I was a soldier. That’s where I belonged. I fought with the Army of Tennessee, under men like Braxton Bragg and Joseph E. Johnston, and later under John Bell Hood.

My men called me the “Stonewall of the West.” I took pride in that name. Not for glory, but because it meant I stood firm when others faltered. I led them at Shiloh, Perryville, Chickamauga, and Missionary Ridge. I saw death up close, and I gave everything I had to keep my men together in a war that was pulling our world apart.

A Dangerous Idea

In 1864, I did something few others dared—I proposed that we free and arm enslaved African Americans to fight for the Confederacy.

It was not an easy thing to suggest, especially in a society built on slavery. But I believed, as a military man, that we were losing the war, and if we did not adapt, we would be destroyed. I said plainly: “If we are right in freeing ourselves from the Union, then why should we be wrong in freeing slaves to secure our independence?”

I knew what I was risking—my career, my reputation. Many Confederate leaders rejected my proposal outright, calling it dangerous, even traitorous. But I stood by it. If freedom could be won by enslaving others, what value would it have? If we truly wanted to be free, then perhaps it was time to extend that freedom, however difficult it may be.

Franklin: My Final Stand

On November 30, 1864, I led my division at the Battle of Franklin, Tennessee. It was a slaughter. We marched into a storm of Union fire, and I knew from the start that many of us would not return. Still, I led from the front—as I always had.

I fell there, among my men, struck down while charging the enemy. They said I died with my sword drawn, my face to the fire, and I would not have wanted it any other way.

Legacy in Ashes and Reflection

They buried me near the battlefield at first, but later I was moved to Helena, the home that welcomed me when I first came to America. Some say I was a contradiction: an immigrant who fought for a rebellion, a Confederate general who wanted to free the enslaved. I do not deny the complexity.

But I was a man of duty, and I loved my soldiers. I believed that honor was not in clinging to the past, but in doing what was right, even when others feared to speak it.

Remember Me as I Was

I was no perfect man. I was not born of this land, yet I died defending it. I did not fight for slavery—I fought for the men beside me and the hope of a better South. One that could have risen from the ashes if only it had chosen the harder path.

The Fight Within the Fight: The Debate To Enlist Black Soldiers in the Confederate Army – Told by Major General Patrick R. CleburneBy late 1863, I had seen enough battles to know something the high command dared not admit—we were losing. The Confederate Army had courage and skill, yes. But the North had numbers, industry, and the ability to replace what was lost. We could not outlast them in a war of attrition. Every day that passed, more Southern towns were in ruin, and more of our best men lay in graves.

The question, I believed, was not how long we could hold on—but how we could possibly win.

A Radical Proposal

In January 1864, while stationed in Dalton, Georgia, I put my thoughts to paper. I drafted what would become the most controversial military proposal of the war: I suggested we enlist enslaved African Americans into the Confederate Army—and offer them freedom in return for their service.

It was not sentiment. It was strategy. I argued that if we could arm even a fraction of the South’s enslaved population, we could tip the scales. If we could claim the moral high ground by offering liberty in exchange for military service, we might sway foreign powers to our side. I believed it could save the Confederacy.

I presented the proposal to my fellow officers.

The Firestorm in the Ranks

The reaction was swift—and bitter.

Many saw it as treasonous, not against the Confederacy, but against the very idea of the Southern way of life. “We are not fighting to free the Negro,” one officer snapped. “We are fighting to keep him in his rightful place.” Others worried that if the enslaved could be soldiers, then surely they could no longer be considered inferior—and if that were true, what had this war been for?

Even though I argued that survival demanded sacrifice, and that principles were useless if the Confederacy ceased to exist, most of my peers refused to even consider the idea. My proposal was buried, never passed up the chain of command.

From that moment on, some officers distrusted me. Some even whispered that I was no longer loyal to the cause.

A Desperate Turn—Too Late

By early 1865, the situation had grown desperate enough that even Confederate leaders began to reconsider. General Robert E. Lee himself quietly supported the idea of enlisting Black soldiers. Jefferson Davis and the Confederate Congress finally authorized it in March of 1865—just one month before the war effectively ended.

But by then, it was too late. The Union had already enlisted nearly 200,000 Black men, many of whom had once been enslaved in the very South we were defending. They fought bravely, proving the very point my proposal had tried to make.

The Confederacy recruited only a few small companies of Black soldiers. Some were promised freedom, but others were given only vague assurances. Many were trained but never saw combat before Lee surrendered at Appomattox.

How They Were Treated

Those Black men who did serve—few though they were—were often met with suspicion by their white comrades. They received no equal pay. They were often denied uniforms or weapons. Some were still legally enslaved even as they trained to fight for the very government that kept them in chains.

It was a contradiction the Confederacy could never resolve. For many Southerners, arming the enslaved was not a path to victory—it was the end of everything they thought they were fighting for.

But for me, it was the only path forward.

A Vision Unfulfilled

I did not live to see any of this unfold. I fell in battle at Franklin, Tennessee, in November of 1864—leading from the front, as I always had. By then, I knew my ideas had been cast aside, and I knew the war was likely lost.

Still, I stand by what I proposed. Not because it was popular, but because it was necessary. If we had accepted the reality that liberty must expand to survive, perhaps the South might have found a way to rise anew—reformed, not ruined.

Judge Me Fairly

I am remembered by some as a brilliant general. By others, as a traitor to the very cause I served. But I ask only this: judge me not by what was easy, but by what I dared to say when silence would have been safer.

The debate over Black soldiers in the Confederacy was not just a military question—it was a mirror held up to the soul of the South.