Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Army Life in a Black Regiment

“ Halt!” exclaimed this dusky man and brother, bringing down his bayonet, “de countersign not correck.”

Now the magic word, in this case, was “Vicksburg,” in honor of a rumored victory. But as I knew that these hard names became quite transformed upon their lips, “Carthage” being familiarized into Cartridge, and “Concord” into Corn-cob, how could I possibly tell what shade of pronunciation my friend might prefer for this particular proper name?

“Vicksburg,” I repeated, blandly, but authoritatively, endeavoring, as zealously as one of Christy's Minstrels, to assimilate my speech to any supposed predilection of the Ethiop vocal organs.

“Halt dar! Countersign not correck,” was the only answer.

The bayonet still maintained a position which, in a military point of view, was impressive.

I tried persuasion, orthography, threats, tobacco, all in vain. I could not pass in. Of course my pride was up; for was I to defer to an untutored African on a point of pronunciation? Classic shades of Harvard, forbid! Affecting scornful indifference, I tried to edge away, proposing to myself to enter the camp at some other point, where my elocution would be better appreciated. Not a step could I stir.

“Halt!” shouted my gentleman again, still holding me at his bayonet's point, and I wincing and halting.

I explained to him the extreme absurdity of this proceeding, called his attention to the state of the weather, which, indeed, spoke for itself so loudly that we could hardly hear each other speak, and requested permission to withdraw. The bayonet, with mute eloquence, refused the application.