Tales from Brookgreen Read online

  So flats and barges loaded with timber and naval stores that had floated down from the upper Pee Dee River could easily cut across through Bull Creek over to the Waccamaw River and then float on down the Waccamaw the rest of the way to Wachesaw Landing.

  Cotton from inland plantations in South Carolina took a similar but even more elaborate route. First it traveled by railroad car from inland gathering points to a railroad bridge over the upper Pee Dee River near Cheraw, South Carolina. There it was transferred from railroad cars to river flats and barges. Then the cotton floated sixty miles down the Pee Dee River to the Bull Creek cut off, headed through the swamps on Bull Creek over to the Waccamaw River, and then continued on down the Waccamaw River to Wachesaw Landing.

  So by all these routes, cotton from inland plantations, naval stores and timber from the upper Waccamaw and Pee Dee Rivers, and rice from the lower Waccamaw and Pee Dee Rivers all converged on Wachesaw Landing.

  At Wachesaw Landing workers unloaded all these cargos from river flats and barges and piled them onto ox-drawn wagons that carried them the three miles across the Waccamaw Neck to Murrells Inlet.

  At Murrells Inlet the various cargoes were loaded onto ocean going schooners, which ran the blockade and headed for Europe or the Caribbean. There their captains sold the valuable cotton, rice, naval stores, and timber, then used the money to purchase even more precious weapons and medicines vital to the Confederacy.

  Returning schooner captains then ran their ships back through the Union blockade to bring these precious goods into Murrells Inlet. Workers then transferred this cargo from ships to the ox-drawn wagons and carted it across the Waccamaw Neck to Wachesaw Landing. From there the goods traveled on to their final destinations, following the various original pathways but in reverse.

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  Cousin Corrie returned to her story …

  We can imagine handsome and daring young blockade runners waiting at Murrells Inlet for their ships to be loaded with valuable commodities from throughout the state. Local planter families, coastal merchants, and traders (only the highest type of course) would have welcomed them to Sunday services at St. John-the-Evangelist Chapel and applauded them for their daring feats in support of the Cause.

  Perhaps the dashing blockade runners lingered on the stone steps of St. John-the-Evangelist after services, exchanging news of the War with local men and pleasantries with their lovely daughters. These young men were heroes, celebrated in the desperate struggle for Southern Independence. Many a young lady’s heart (and possibly several older ones) fluttered when one of these young heroes smiled her way. Old men shook their hands warmly and wished them Godspeed on their dangerous missions. Young boys followed them eagerly and dreamed of being old enough to take the helm of sea-going schooners. No young men wished them well there on St. John-the-Evangelist Chapel’s steps however; all the young men were off fighting in Tennessee or Virginia.

  Bonds formed quickly in wartime between daring blockade runners and the people of the Waccamaw Neck. When these young heroes made their way out through inlet creeks, the hearts of local residents sailed with them.

  At first blockade runners moved easily in and out of Murrells Inlet delivering load after load of goods to foreign buyers. For a while, in the middle of the War, a fully loaded schooner sailed from Murrells Inlet almost every day.

  However in 1863 events turned disastrous for blockade runners operating out of Murrells Inlet. Admiral Dahlgren, Commander of the South Atlantic Blockading Squadron, was determined to shut off all flow of trade to the South. With larger ports successfully blockaded, he ordered the Union Navy to turn its attention to smaller ports. Federal gunboats attacked inside Murrells Inlet, sinking or burning ship after ship throughout the summer and fall of that year. Shelling destroyed five schooners loaded with cotton on one single day here, but ships still continued to slip in and out of Murrells Inlet regularly.

  Admiral Dahlgren became so angry at the success of our blockade runners that he organized a special expedition to attack Murrells Inlet in December of 1863. The attack was not particularly successful because winter storms disrupted its efforts but on New Year’s Eve the expedition did manage to set fire to a schooner docked at Murrells Inlet fully loaded with turpentine. Residents long remembered the resulting blaze that “turned night into day” along the seashore.

  In spite of spotty success, attacks on Murrells Inlet continued steadily. By the spring of 1864 Admiral Dahlgren had accomplished his goal. Burned hulls, broken masts, and torn rigging littered creeks from the mouth of Murrells Inlet all the way to the shore. Finally, the rapidly failing Confederacy abandoned Murrells Inlet as a port, and then abandoned the whole of the Waccamaw Neck to Federal troops. Admiral Dahlgren was able to celebrate his success, for a while at least (but that’s still another story).

  So, many think the ghostly wrecks they see from the steps of Belin Memorial Methodist Church are the sad remains of ships that carried those daring blockade runners. After visiting joyfully with local families on these steps of St. John-the-Evangelist Chapel, many lost their vessels, and sometimes their lives, in their doomed attempts to save a dying cause. Perhaps, sad and frightened residents of Murrells Inlet later lingered on these same steps comforting each other before entering the chapel to mourn the lost seamen and broken wrecks that represented the destruction of their hopes for their traditional way of life.

  ~

  The War ended the plantation system. Once-wealthy All Saints Parish lost its minister and was so destitute that years passed before the parish could afford to hire another one. Even then he did not serve the small chapels. As at Turkey Hill, freed slaves soon organized their own churches. Remaining white families tried to keep the small chapels open but attendance declined. Attendance at St. John-the-Evangelist ceased entirely so this chapel-of-ease was abandoned and fell into disrepair.

  Dr. Allard Flagg continued to operate Wachesaw Plantation after the War as best he could, now sharing the Hermitage with his wife and growing family. Rather than let the timbers and boards from the abandoned St. John-the-Evangelist Chapel go to waste, Dr. Allard decided to salvage them and use them to build a beach house for his family across the marsh at Flagg’s Landing, today called Garden City Beach.

  The Wachesaw Plantation owner had already had his workers construct a plank walkway on wooden pilings all the way across the marsh, with a gap at the main creek to let boats pass through of course. It stretched nearly a mile from the Hermitage to the sandy barrier island that formed the easternmost extent of his holdings. He and his family could walk along the planks out into the marsh, row across the gap at the main creek, and then continue on along the walkway through the marsh on the other side of the creek to reach the beach.

  Dr. Allard directed his plantation workers to dismantle St. John-the-Evangelist Chapel carefully and haul the timbers and boards by wagon to the ocean-front spot he had selected for his beach house. Although his workers complied, there was much quiet muttering among them. It was not right to make a beach house out of church timbers! Still, the workers followed Dr. Allard’s orders. They began framing the new house on the beach, but before they could complete the job, a September storm hit and blew it down.

  This was a Sign, the workers agreed among themselves, but Dr. Allard directed them to gather up the scattered timbers and begin framing the house again. The muttering grew louder and more open but they still complied with his orders. They finished the framing and began siding the house. An October storm hit and blew the structure down once more. Another Sign!

  Incredibly, Dr. Allard directed his workers to gather up the lumber and start framing the house a third time! Again most complied, although some workers refused at that point. Then a third storm hit and destroyed the building, this time scattering timbers and boards up and down the strand, here and gone. Finally, even Dr. Allard got the message. The Lord didn’t want a beach house built with church timbers!

  Miss Genevieve provided the conclusion of the story �
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  Although Dr. Allard tried to re-use timbers from St. John-the-Evangelist Chapel, he left the stone steps where they lay, never trying to include them in any other project. Perhaps he learned his lesson from the timbers.

  Allard Belin Flagg died just after the turn of the century and the plantation passed out of family hands. Over the years, most folks forgot about St. John-the-Evangelist Chapel. Year by year, decade by decade, leaves and grasses covered the stone slabs in the deserted grove overlooking the Waccamaw River.

  In 1910, my parents bought Wachesaw Plantation and we moved into the Hermitage. We had not only acquired a home but also its legacy of stories, secrets, and spirits. The stone steps of St. John-the-Evangelist were one of those secrets. Local people still living and working on the plantation led my parents to that lonely grove overlooking the Waccamaw River. As they told stories of St. John-the-Evangelist Chapel they scraped away layers of leaves to reveal the sandstone slabs hidden for so many years.

  In 1925, when Mrs. Oliver had the Turkey Hill Church moved to Parsonage Point, my parents remembered the stone slabs at the site of St. John-the-Evangelist Chapel and donated them to be used as the steps for Belin Memorial Methodist Church. Teams of oxen pulled them to their present location, which looks out over the Inlet marshes and creeks. Today, it is while standing on these stone steps that some people see skeletons of wrecked ships out in the marsh.

  ~

  So these ghostly wrecks may have connections with the haunted land at Parsonage Point. They may have connections with Parson Belin’s Turkey Hill Church building. Or they may have connections with the stone steps from St. John-the-Evangelist Chapel. No one knows but all agree that ghost ships always bring to mind the long, and often turbulent, history of our coast.

  Chapter 5. Brother Gator and His Friends

  (Miss Genevieve retells local trickster tales)

  “Mrs. Chandler! Miss Dusenbury!” called the workman, rushing up the brick steps into the Museum almost out of breath. The Hostesses and I had just finished unlocking the post card display cases and the cash register to begin another day of welcoming visitors to Brookgreen Gardens.

  “There’s a six-foot alligator in the ladies’ restroom! Don’t go in there until we can get him out. We’ll let you know as soon as it’s safe!”

  The workman hurried back to his task. I jumped up to follow him, as this sounded like the most exciting event of the summer!

  Somehow the two elderly Hostesses did not share my enthusiasm for alligator chasing however, and I was quickly recalled to the safety of the Museum. Perhaps in compensation, or to distract me from further attempts to “help,” Miss Genevieve began telling me stories of Brother Gator and his fellow inhabitants of the Waccamaw swamps.

  Miss Genevieve had learned these stories from local people who lived on Sandy Island and along the seashore here at Brookgreen. Cousin Corrie and my own grandmother had heard similar stories as young children from family servants who told the stories in Gullah, a creole language of former slaves living along the South Carolina coast. Miss Genevieve collected these stories from the local people during the Depression as part of the federal government’s WPA Writers’ Project.

  So that morning as I looked longingly through the open Museum window toward the ivy-covered wall that shaded the walkway to the ladies’ restroom, Miss Genevieve told me how Brother Gator learned that there was Trouble in the world …

  “Brother Gator”

  Brother Gator was a happy and trusting fellow. He enjoyed himself in the swamps all day long playing the fiddle and singing a happy song.

  “Every day is good! Every day is good!” he sang.

  He even played his fiddle for dances and to entertain his friends in the swamps, always singing the same song, “Every day is good! Every day is good!”

  Brother Gator was so happy and trusting that his friends worried about him. They worried he did not understand the dangers and threats in the world well enough to take good care of himself. As much as they tried to make Brother Gator see dangers and problems, they could not convince him.

  “Trouble?” Brother Gator would respond as he smiled his toothy smile, “What is Trouble? I’ve never seen any Trouble in my life.”

  He continued to fiddle and sing, “Every day is good! Every day is good!”

  Brother Gator’s friends finally decided that they had to do something to teach Brother Gator to see the world as it really is, for his own good of course.

  One afternoon when Brother Gator had tired himself out fiddling and singing, he stretched out for a nap in the warm sun on a cushiony pile of dead reeds along the Waccamaw riverbank. As usual, he gave no thought to concealment or to possible danger.

  Brother Rabbit saw his opportunity. As Brother Gator slept, Brother Rabbit ran to a nearby hearth and brought back a flaming ember, which was what local people used to start fires before matches were readily available. Round and round Brother Gator he scampered, lighting the dry reeds on fire. Soon flames encircled the sleeping alligator.

  “Trouble!” yelled Brother Rabbit. “Trouble, Brother Gator, Trouble!”

  As the flames closed in on him, Brother Gator awoke in a panic, feeling the heat all around him. “Oh no!” he cried. “This is Trouble!”

  Luckily, alligators can move like lightening, especially when it is hot! So Brother Gator quickly escaped through the ring of fire into the river with only his toes and tail a little singed (although some say it was the heat of that fire that made his skin look cracked ever after).

  Much to the relief of Brother Gator’s friends, the lesson worked. From that day forward Brother Gator still enjoyed himself fiddling. He continued to play for dances and for his friends but he sang a new song.

  “Some days are good! Some days are bad! Not every day is good!” sang Brother Gator.

  And he was much more careful as he made his way through life, now that he knew that there was Trouble in the world.

  Then Miss Genevieve told me how Brother Rabbit tried to trick Brother Frog out of some deer meat …

  One summer Brother Rabbit and Brother Frog raised a garden together. Their vegetables grew large and lush because of their diligent work. Soon they had such an abundance of produce that they began discussing what to do with the extra.

  Brother Rabbit thought of trading their vegetables for clothes but Brother Frog didn’t want to do that because clothes would just get wet when he jumped into the pond. He suggested trading their vegetables for a horse but Brother Rabbit said he got around just fine on his own good legs. Finally they agreed that they would each like a hunting dog.

  Brother Rabbit and Brother Frog knew that their neighbor, Mister Man, raised fine hunting dogs. They decided that each would trade some of his peas to Mister Man for a dog. So Brother Rabbit and Brother Frog each picked a bushel basket full of peas and set off together to see Mister Man.

  As they walked along the sandy King’s Highway, Brother Rabbit kept seeing Brother Frog swallowing and swallowing.

  “Well if he can eat some of his peas, I can eat some of mine,” thought Brother Rabbit, and he did.

  Yet when Brother Rabbit and Brother Frog got to Mister Man’s house, Brother Frog’s basket was still full of peas.

  “I thought you were swallowing peas!” cried Brother Rabbit.

  “You foolish Rabbit,” laughed Brother Frog. “Don’t you know that frogs are always swallowing air?”

  Brother Rabbit did feel foolish but he hid his embarrassment while they explained their desire to trade their peas for fine hunting dogs to their neighbor. This trade was agreeable to Mister Man, with one condition.

  “Don’t ever let me catch you using these dogs to hunt deer on my land,” he warned, “or there will be the Devil to pay!”

  Brother Rabbit and Brother Frog readily agreed to this condition and then commenced to bargaining.

  Because Brother Frog’s basket was full, Mister Man traded him a fine hunting dog for his peas. But Brother Rabbit’s basket had short me
asure so the most Mister Man would give him for his peas was a runt pup, much to Brother Rabbit’s disappointment, and to Brother Frog’s amusement.

  Their trading completed, the two friends started for home. Brother Frog, leading his fine hunting dog, was still laughing at Brother Rabbit for thinking that he had been swallowing his peas. Now he was also laughing at Brother Rabbit for having received only a runt pup in trade.

  Brother Rabbit was none too happy about the situation. He didn’t like Brother Frog laughing at him and he didn’t like having only a runt pup, one he even had to carry because it was so puny. He kept looking out for a way to turn the tables on Brother Frog.

  As Brother Frog and Brother Rabbit walked along through Mister Man’s woods, a deer bounded across the road in front of them. Brother Frog’s fine hunting dog immediately gave chase, with Brother Rabbit darting swiftly after him. Brother Frog hopped along behind as best he could.

  Soon, deep in the woods, Brother Rabbit came upon a clearing where Brother Frog’s dog had caught the deer and killed it. He quickly chased off the dog and set his runt pup on the deer.

  Brother Frog finally arrived calling, “Look! My fine hunting dog caught the deer!”

  “No!” Brother Rabbit cried. “My runt pup caught the deer!”

  “What?” exclaimed Brother Frog! “A runt pup can’t catch a deer!”

  “Yes, my runt pup caught that deer! See, he’s right there on him.”

  Brother Frog looked and looked and thought and thought. He didn’t want to fight with Brother Rabbit, so finally he agreed, “Yes, I guess your runt pup did catch that deer,” as he hopped off dejectedly into the woods calling for his fine hunting dog.

  But once Brother Frog got far enough into the woods to be out of sight of Brother Rabbit his demeanor changed. He picked up a large stick and began beating it vigorously against a sweetgum tree.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  And with every lick Brother Frog gave the tree he hollered, “No Mister Man! No Mister Man! It wasn’t my dog that caught your deer!”