University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
FROM SHIP TO SHORE.

“Thus,” continued our raconteur — “thus ended the career
of one of the most terrible pirates that ever infested these waters.
He has left memorable traces, in curious and startling legends,
all along these shores. There is a sequel to this narrative
which I have related, in the further history of that horde of
treasure of which we have seen the burial.”

The narrator was sharply interrupted with a cry from one of
the party.

“There's the light!”

“The Charleston light!”

And the group of listeners were no longer to be spelled by
the raconteur. They broke away with a rush; each eagerly
straining his eyes for the pale star-like beacon, set by the guardian
civilization, on the edges of the great deep, for the benefit
of the benighted mariner. Meanwhile, the swarthy beauty,
Night, enveloped in dark mantle, was passing with all her train
of starry servitors; even as some queenly mourner, followed by
legions of gay and brilliant courtiers, glides slowly and mournfully,
in sad state and solemnity, on a duteous pilgrimage to
some holy shrine. And, over the watery waste, that sad,
sweet, doubtful light, such as Spenser describes in the cathedral
wood:—

showed us the faint line of shore upon our right.

“That is Long Island which we are so rapidly passing.
There it was that Sir Henry Clinton marshalled his array, grenadiers
and marines, in order to make their valiant demonstration
upon the little army of rifles, under Thompson, on the everfamous
28th of June, 1776, while Sir Peter Parker was hammering
away at Fort Sullivan within the harbor. The white

mass which you see at the extremity of the dark line, shows
you what is called `the breach,' — where the ocean breaks
through with foam and roar, and separates Long from Sullivan's
island. To cross this `breach' was Clinton's necessity. It
was sometimes fordable; but on this occasion, according to the
British report, a miracle took place in behalf of the Carolinians,
not unlike that which divided the sea for the Israelites, yet
raised it up, immediately after, in mountains to overwhelm the
pursuing Egyptians. Here, the waters on `the breach,' rose in
the twinkling of an eye from two feet to seven. It ceased to
be fordable to the grenadiers who, strangely enough, contended
that they could not possibly hope to do fighting, to sight a
carabine, or charge a bayonet, with their eyes under the water.
In that only half-civilized period, the average height of a grenadier
corps did not exceed six feet.”

“But Clinton had his vessels for the passage.”

“Oh! to be sure! And he did try to cross. But the rifles
of Thompson proved an obstacle no less potent than the arm of
the sea. Two little six-pounders, besides, planted on the opposite
sand-hills, were mischievously stuffed with grape and cannister.
Under the two fires, Sir Henry's rafts, flats, and schooners,
were swept of their crews, and after two desperate attempts
the assailant drew sullenly off, and waited the result of
that more terrific conflict, which was going on, the while, within
the harbor, and which continued throughout the day till nine at
night.”

“There you get a faint glimpse of the sand-hills on Sullivan's,
crowned sparingly with shrubs, among which the rifles were
posted. Behind those sand-hills there is quite a forest. The
white line which you mark, fringing the dusky plain of the sea,
is that famous beach, so broad, so hard, so long, of which the
Charlestonians boast as so beautiful a seaside drive. It is second
to few or none in the country. Now you see the houses dotting
the sandy shores. That long dusky building is the Moultrie
House, cool, airy, ample — a delicious retreat in the hot season.
The darker compacter mass which you note west of it is the
famous fort, formerly Sullivan, where the stout old patriot Moultrie,
pipe in mouth, at the head of his little regiment, beat off
the British fleet. From this point you perceive that the settlement

grows denser; the white cottages standing out, distinctly,
though rather crowded, in the pleasant starlight.”

“What line of shore is this upon the left?” asked Duyckman
of Miss Burroughs. Our Gothamite never left that young lady's
side, and preferred evidently to get his information from a feminine
source.

“That is Morris island, upon which the lighthouse stands. It
is also a pleasant and healthy retreat during summer, and beyond
the sand-hills there is a little hamlet.

“Morris is divided by a creek from James island. Let your
eye move alongshore in this direction, and you see Fort Sumter,
a new fortress, raised upon a mole in the sea. It confronts
Fort Moultrie obliquely, and the fires of the two combined would
serve to keep an approaching fleet in hot water for a while. We
are now passing between the two, and have reached a point
where the whole harbor opens upon the eye. To the left, you
follow the water-line till it brings you to Ashley river, descending
west of the city to the embraces with the deep. Look across
now, due north, and you see another long sandy tract stretching
away till lost in the distance. This is Haddrill's, or Mount
Pleasant village — a third retreat for the citizens in summer.
Just before you, Castle Pinckney looms up, forming another fortress
for the protection of the harbor. It lies within half a mile
of the city, the long line of lights of which you see stretching
up Cooper river, which passes down from the north between
Haddrill's and the city.”

“The harbor is an ample one,” said Duyckman.

“Few more so, and few in this country more beautiful. The
effect at this moment is very fine. The seas are as placid and
subdued as the happy slumber of childhood. The breezes swell
gently over these slight elevations of land along the south, and
stoop down to the little waves, creasing them with rippling
beauties, which the luminous brightness of the stars enables us
to follow in long lines that are unbroken till they subside from
sight in distance.”

“I should like to explore these islets and rivers, and visit
all the places you have named. Can this be done safely in
midsummer?”

“This season — yes! Charleston is now very healthy. Were

it a yellow-fever season, you should not be here. If you say so,
we will take a week or so for the city and the island, before
we go to the mountain region.”

“Hem! Ah! When — Miss Burroughs — do you think to
leave the city for your excursion to the interior?' queried Duyckman
of the lady.

“O, not for a week or two.”

Gotham nodded to me as if to say —

“That will just suit us.”

“Hark! the gun! Captain Berry has a private signal on his
arrival which he communicates to all the public! Well, my
friends, our voyage is over. In ten minutes we shall be ashore.”

“I hear the ringing of bells,” said Duyckman. “A fire, perhaps
— or possibly the salutation of the city and its welcome,
in response to the gun of the captain. Your method of returning
a salute.”

“No! it is our curfew? That bell rings for ten o'clock. It
is a signal to Sambo and Cuffy, the darkies, that they had better
retire to their several lodgings for the night; and when it
begins, at a quarter before the stroke of ten, the parties thus
especially notified begin to make tracks homeward. It is quite
an amusing picture to see them, at that hour, scattering, each
taking his separate way. One hurries home, bearing a string
of blackfish. He has pleasant anticipations of a fry that night.
Another carries a basket filled with a variety; he will scarcely
be willing that you should see what he carries. A third has a
bottle of whiskey in one pocket, and a pound of tobacco in the
other. And, thus armed and charged, they linger with their
comrades and acquaintance about the streets, till the stroke of
that curfew bell. A last word, a hurried shake of the hand, as
they meet and pass, and they retire from the sight as the bell
ceases, — or rather, when the tattoo ceases which always is
beaten when the ringing closes. But of Charleston — more
anon. Give your arm to Miss Burroughs. This is her brother
who approaches. Her carriage is on the wharf. I will see for
ours.”

Our chronicle, for the present, is completed. The raconteur
is silent. The circle is dispersed. The spirits have nothing further

to reveal, of the secrets of their prison-house, at the present
sitting. But, doubtless, we shall re-form the circle, and
have new revelations. We shall seek new sources of inspiration
— new media — and fresh materials; and soothe, for the
reader as for ourselves, “as humor prompts,” the “idle vein”
of both. We shall assemble, among our southern forests and
mountains, a portion at least, of our present company — perhaps
add others to our circle. But we shall make no definite promise;
being resolute not to fetter ourselves to hard conditions.
We need say no more; and, just now, our Alabama cynic is at
our elbow, with a courtly entreaty that we shall do him grace,
ere we part, “over a coil of snake and tiger.”