Wreck of the Celt, 1865.  This image is sometimes misidentified as  the Ruby.
-From the Library of Congress

The Celt (also called the Sylph and the Colt) was built in Charleston, and launched from her wharves in 1862-63.  This was at a time when it seemed to many that the Confederacy’s independence was still a possible outcome of the Civil War.   Even though the South won signal victories on land during that period, they continued to lose the war at sea. This was especially true when it came to breaking the blockade; a fleet of Union ships that bottled up the major Southern ports. As the blockades effectiveness grew, less and less of the desperately needed food, munitions’ and medicine managed to reach the interior.   The Confederate Navy was severely under manned and under equipped, and could do little to break the stranglehold.

  A class of entrepreneurs called Blockade Runners would try to alleviate these mounting shortages.     These Rhett Butler types, some motivated by patriotism, others by profit, would try to slip past the blockade at night in sleek specially crafted boats.  Their goal was to reach a foreign port such as Nassau, exchange their cargo of cotton for necessities and slip back through the net once more.  Dozens of these vessels ran, or attempted to run, the blockade through the Civil War, and The Celt was one of these.

The Celt’s success as a blockade runner is difficult to gauge.  Another larger British ship bore the same name, and over the years the history of the two has become intertwined.  There is no record of the Charleston-based Celt clearing or returning the port before February of 1865.  Likely the ship tried to run the blockade several times, but was turned away by weather or circumstance.  It seems the first documented run of the Celt was also its’ last.  Late on the evening of Feb 14, the Celt, loaded with 190 bales of cotton, attempted the blockade.  In the process of hugging the coast to escape detection it ground ashore near the rocks of Sullivan’s Island.  The surviving crew went their separate ways, one group would brave the water and try to go ashore in the dark, and another seven would row out to the blockading fleet in a small boat and surrender.        

 Days later, the city of Charleston and all the batteries and forts in the harbor would be abandoned as the Confederates evacuated.   The incoming Union navy scoured the coastline and examined the wrecked corpses of the numerous failed blockade runners, including the Celt, that littered the seaboard.  According to one Union officer “The Celt lies stranded on the beach at Sullivan’s Island back broken, full of water and decks ripped up.  The machinery is in irreparable condition, some few pieces might be removed and be of service.  Boilers are mostly below water, but judging from the condition of those parts visible, we are of the opinion they are not worth the expense of removing.”

 Over the years, the waves carried away much of the stranded ship, erasing it from memory.  Yet, even in the late 20th century, wreckage from the Celt could still be seen off Sullivan’s at low-tide, although this debris was so covered with marine growth that it appeared to be simply part of the rocky shore.  Few who passed by, or fished in the surrounding waters, realized that a relic from the War Between the States was in their midst.



 

Effects of earthquake clearly shown on brick house at 157 Tradd Street.
From USGS Public Office.

“ For a few moments all the inhabitants of the city stood together in the presence of death, in its most terrible form, and perhaps scarcely one doubted that all would be swallowed together and at once, in one yawning grave.... From every quarter arose the shrieks, the cries of pain and fear, the prayers and wailings ...the air was everywhere filled, to the height of houses, with a whitish cloud of dry, stifling dust arising from the lime and mortar of the shattered masonry... ”   Carl McKinley recorded in the 1886 City of Charleston Yearbook. In a letter to a friend Harriott Kinloch Smith recalled;    “You cannot imagine the horrors of that night, the crowds of half-dressed people, the sky lurid from the glare of immense fires, the noise of falling bricks, the frequent shocks...”  

     Both McKinley and Smith wrote of the same night, August 31st, 1886. At 9:51 P.M. the first of five destructive shocks struck Charleston and the surrounding area. For almost eight minutes the Low Country experienced a massive earthquake, whose tremors were felt in cities as far away as Boston and Chicago. Modern authorities have placed this 1886 quake between 6 and the upper 7's on the Richter scale.

 Its’ results were catastrophic. Thousands of homes throughout the Low Country were destroyed, thousands more injured, and over ninety people lost their lives. In total the quake caused damages of around six million dollars, a sizeable fortune by 1886 standards. In the city yearbook McKinley recounted the suddenness of the devastation.  “Millions of dollars worth of property, the accumulation of nearly two centuries, had been destroyed in the time a child would take to crush a frail toy.”

      “The slow-dawning day broke over a scene of desolation, -the great substantial brick houses broken as you or I would break a small nut in our hands; our house north and south, completely gone...those small houses opposite us cracked and broken from foundation to roof.”   Harriott Smith recalled in her letter.  “I don’t know what at all what we will do”  she worried, but even as the city was in ruins around her she expressed her wish not to leave.  “ I only hope we don’t leave Charleston, which at times seems not unlikely.”

The loss of home was so widespread that many families would be forced into the streets or parks, living out of tents or makeshift structures. Even homes that survived relatively undamaged were suspect. Many were afraid to spend the night in any dwelling for fear that another quake might topple it.  “Half the people in the town are out in the streets or squares with sheets or table clothes for tent coverings...”   Augustine Smythe wrote in September of that year. According to Smythe, the survivors continued to cope as best as they were able. “Mrs. Elliot Welch had twins out on the Battery two nights ago. There have been several births in tents.”

      The nation was quick to react to this tragedy. Hundreds of thousands of dollars poured in along with food, water, and medicine.  “The Earthquake has opened the hearts of the whole country to us,”   Daniel Huger Bacot wrote of the relief efforts. Aid would also come from several countries overseas. Despite this overwhelming support, the scope of the damage was so severe that it would take many years to completely recover. The Low Country would draw upon the same resilience that had carried it through two wars, hurricanes, tornados, epidemics, and fire to rebuild.  With this determination and support worldwide, Charleston and the Low Country would recover and prosper.

Street view that captures the catastrophic damage dealt to Charleston by the earthquake. From USGS Public Office.

One of the many tent-cities residents were forced to live in after the earthquake.
From USGS Public Office.

Exposed crater left in the wake of the tremors.From USGS Public Office.

Call on thy children of the hill,
Wake swamp and river,
 coast and rill,
Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,
Carolina! Carolina!
 
This stirring summons forms the opening stanza of Henry Timrod’s epic poem, Carolina.  Predestined to a literary life, Henry was born in 1828 to William Timrod, a published poet, and bookbindery proprietor. His father’s shop was a gathering place for aspiring Charleston writers: luminaries such as William Gilmore Simms, James Louis Petigru, and Rev. Samuel Gilman.

Although not wealthy, the Timrods managed to send Henry to a elite private school in Charleston, and with financial assistance from a wealthy friend, Timrod attended the University of Georgia in 1845.  He withdrew, unsatisfied with the school, after less than two years.  In 1849, The Southern Literary Messenger launched his professional career by publishing his works.  Supplementing his income, Timrod tutored prominent planters’ children, until, in 1860, a small volume of Timrod’s poems was published to critical, if not financial, acclaim.

Preceding the Civil War, Timrod was employed at Orange Grove Plantation near Florence.  After the first shots were fired on Fort Sumter, Timrod turned his pen to extolling the virtues of the Southern cause.  Enlisting for military service, his poor health prevented his service on Confederate front lines.  Discontent at home, Timrod worked as a war correspondent in the Western theater.  Life in the field further deteriorated his health, forcing him to return home, where he continued writing prolifically.  His patriotically inspired verse earning him the sobriquet “The Poet Laureate of the Confederacy.”
 
In 1864, Timrod secured an associate editor position at the Columbia newspaper, South Carolinian, but an 1865 fire destroyed much of the city, claiming Timrod’s job at the newspaper.  Desperate for work, he sent submissions to Northern papers, without success.  Absent the assistance of friends, Timrod would have been destitute.  His final years a financial and physical struggle, tuberculosis claimed the gifted poet’s life in 1867.  He was laid to rest at Trinity Church graveyard in Columbia.    

In 1901, the Timrod Memorial Association of South Carolina raised funds by selling Timrod’s poems, and erected a bronze bust in Washington Square Park, behind City Hall.  The image below  taken after its unveiling, pictures the  bust, alongside the Washington Light Infantry Monument and the Fireproof Building.

Interestingly enough Timrod would garner national attention once again in 2006.    An article in the New York Times brought to light similarities between Bob Dylan's lyrics on his Modern Times Album and the poetry of Timrod  (This article on the Poetry Foundation's website covers this debate pretty thoroughly).

  In 1911, at the urging of the Daughters of the American Revolution, Timrod’s poem, Carolina was set to music by Miss Anne Custis Burgess, and honored as the state song of South Carolina.  The closing lines of the song are a fitting tribute to the valor of the state and to the life of Timrod himself.
 
Girt with such wills to do and bear,
Assured in right,
 and mailed in prayer,
Thou wilt not bow thee to despair,
Carolina! Carolina!
__________________

Top Image- Making of America-Cornell
Bottom Image- Library of Congress

Above- 1872 Bird's Eye View of Charleston.  Bath house is on extreme left- sticking out of the peninsula  Scans at end of post are close-ups of bath house.  Image from Library of Congress.

Salt water bathing was all the rage in Charleston in the 19th century.   The briny wash was presumed to have medicinal properties – it was thought that by simply immersing oneself in the salt water of the ocean would help safeguard against illness, or assist the body in staving off an existing aliment.  This was not a new fad, but rather the revival of a much older tradition.  The Greeks and Romans visited spas and springs seeking the same benefits, as did many of the sick of the medieval period.  In the 17th century many doctors began advertising through pamphlets the benefits of exposure to salt water.

Two centuries later this notion was back in vogue.  Charlestonians, as health-consciousness as any of their neighbors, were eager to reap the health benefits of their coast.   Over the course of the 1800’s several of these baths sprung up around the peninsula.   One was built on the grounds of the public park, also known as White Point Gardens or the Battery.  The one featured in this photograph is circa 1880, and was anchored near the Battery in the Ashley River.  This floating wooden structure was reached by crossing a long pier.   

Several of the baths provided private tubs, as well as swimming pools.   In proper Victorian form, men and women were strictly segregated, although their bathing gowns were quite concealing (at least by modern standards).  Many of the baths also offered saloons where drinks were served with delicacies such as ice cream and pastries.  The experience was not meant to be a quick jump in the water, but rather a relaxing affair consuming most of the day - proof that our antebellum ancestors, rather than Generation X,  invented modern spa culture.  

For all of their supposed benefits, the bath houses near the Battery were destined not to survive.   Being situated on the water’s edge meant they were likely to be destroyed by the frequent hurricanes, a bad storm, or even cyclones that sometimes swept Charleston.  Rebuilding them was a costly affair, sometimes out of reach of the proprietors.   Another factor contributing to their disappearance was concern that the baths may be spreading more disease than it was curing.  No matter how much the city regulated their operation, outbreaks of infectious diseases such as Cholera were traced back to bath houses.   Some complained of a more ascetic reason why the bath houses should be razed, they were “unsightly” and marred the view of the water.    

 By the late 1800’s the bath houses near the Battery were gone.  Yet, the salt water revival continues without them.   Several spas and natural medicine practitioners across the globe continue to extol the virtues of salt water baths and dips.  

Paragraph.

On Nov. 2, 1853 Otis Mills opened the doors of his grand hotel.  For almost a year workers had been toiling on the corner of Meeting and Queen Street, laboring to erect the five-story structure that would carry his name. No expense had been spared.  Outside of the hotel ran a beautiful wrought-iron balcony imported from Philadelphia, the terra cotta window cornices selected from New England.   Inside were 125 rooms, besides lodging the Mills House could also offer the luxury of piping in steam heat, and a even rarer commodity in the 19th century; running water.  Architect John E. Earle had designed the building, but it was Mills who dreamed of the venture.  It is claimed that he envisioned a respectable hotel for those who could not afford to pay the high prices being charged by the leading hotels in Charleston at this time.

Mills gambled a lot on the success of his hotel.  As the chief financier he contributed almost $200,000 dollars (several million by modern standard) to this project.  With so much invested, Mills hoped that the guests would be numerous, all pleased enough with their stay to spread the word.  

He need not to have worried.  The Mills House quickly became a Charleston institution.  Travelers to the busy port city could always rely on the hotel for accommodations.  When Charleston was selected to host the Democratic National Convention in 1860, it was quickly jammed with delegates.  Diarist Mary Boykin Chestnut, whose wartime memoirs have garnered numerous awards, also stayed in the Mills House.   General Robert E. Lee, during his tenure as commander of the Department, which encompassed S.C., had quarters in the hotel.  As the carriage drivers passing it today will tell you, he was there when the great fire of 1861 burned through the city.  Luckily, the Mills House escaped destruction in 1861, and was available for the dashing Creole General P.G.T Beauregard to use as his headquarters later in the Civil War.    

After the Civil War, the hotel struggled, closing for a period, then reopening in 1870, and continuing until 1897 (This 1865 image shows the Meeting Street front of the then war ravaged hotel with several African American men out front).

 Mrs. Lawton purchased the property, changed its name to St John Hotel, and went back into business.   In 1901-1902 Charleston hosted the South Carolina and Interstate and West Indian Exposition, bringing many visitors into the city.  One of them was none other than President Theodore Roosevelt, who was entertained at the St. John.  It passed hands through the 1900’s several times, barley surviving a 1939 fire, and wound up nearly derelict in by the 1960’s.  Unable to salvage the old structure, the building was razed.   In 1970 the hotel reopened, under its first name, the Mills House.  Besides using the original name, the developers enlarged the hotel, but managed to take it back to its antebellum appearance.  In 2009, the Mills House still offers comfortable lodging in the heart of Charleston, serving as a base of operations for visitors from all over the world.     
.

Mills House, ca. 1865. Images From Library of Congress.

On Monday April 26th, 1875 George Walton Williams was finally ready to build his mansion.   A crowd of friends, family, and even a few of the local press had gathered at the large empty lot on lower Meeting Street to be part of the ceremony.  The four young Williams children were given the task of laying the first brick, and placing in the cornerstone a tin box containing copies of various newspapers, family documents, and keepsakes.  William B. Yates, who had been born near this spot, was called upon to give the blessings on these exercises. 

Williams was no doubt glad to finally begin construction of the house.  For over a decade he had been intent on moving his family from their George Street home into a new residence. Back in 1863, when the Civil War had been in its second year, Williams had purchased this land for $40,000 in Confederate script. Although no structure had stood at the site, it was considered a historic property none the less.  The Fenwick House, popularly known as the Pinckney-Lowndes House, had once graced this lot almost a century ago in the past.   Besides being home to several of Charleston’s prominent families, the Pinckney-Lowndes house had been frequented by President Washington during his 1791 visit to Charleston. By the time the Civil War erupted, this venerable old house, home to so many had fallen into disrepair, and had been pulled down. 

Williams’ new residence was to be built atop the site of the old mansion, its’ design influenced by the many European homes seen in his travels, especially those homes in Southern Italy.    Architect W.P. Russell is credited with bringing Williams plans their final form.   In 1876 the project was completed at was then the staggering cost of $200,000, making it most of the most expensive mansions in the South.  It was also one of the most luxurious.   The three story house had several dozen rooms divided over a vast 24,000 square feet.  Ceilings were fourteen feet high, many hung with elaborate chandeliers.  Ornate plaster and wood moldings covered the walls.  Linking the levels together was a soaring Grand Staircase crafted from hand carved walnut.  Atop the house was a 90 foot cupola, from out of which could be seen a breath taking view of the harbor.  Several grand piazzas allowed the inhabitants to catch the breeze sweeping off the nearby water.

Williams spared no expense in decorating the rooms, which included a Gentleman’s library, a ladies sitting room, and a ballroom boasting a glass skylight.  Exquisite works of art adorned the walls and scores of valuable antiques and specially designed furniture fleshed out the rooms.

Sarah Williams, and her husband, Patrick Calhoun, grandson of John C., inherited the mansion after the death of George and Martha Williams.  The Calhoun’s lost the property after the 1929 stock market crash, and it passed through a succession of owners, eventually winding up in the hands of Mr. Gedney Howe III who stabilized the deteriorating structure.  In 2004 the property was sold again to another S.C. native, Mr. Stahl, who has since reopened the mansion for tours. 

Images from the Library of Congress

 

Note-If you don't know who Francis Marion is go Google him-or better yet read chapter 6 "The Battle of Parker's Ferry, 1781" in my book.
 
This past week I the distinct honor of meeting one of my heroes- General Francis Marion AKA "The Swamp Fox."  He looked a little different than I thought he would. He was about 4 feet tall, had blond hair and was in the second grade (Oh- and his real name was Donny).

What am I talking about?  This young man (you know you are old when you can say "young man" and it does not come across as sounding odd) goes to an elementary school in Mount Pleasant.  As part of a class project he was given the task of presenting some information on a individual and coming to school dressed as this person.  His mother is a friend of our family and she knows I work at the South Carolina Historical Society where we are fortunate enough to keep a pistol once owned by the General.  This weapon is ca. 1790, so it is not something he would have been taking potshots at the British with.  It is a rather elegant weapon, of Italian make and is studded with silver-plated mythological creatures such as Medusa and a Griffon.  According to the family that donated to the SCHS it was a gift to Marion from Lafayette himself. 

Wanting to give the most accurate presentation he could Donny asked permission to come to the SCHS in the costume he had put together and have his picture taken holding the pistol.  The Director of the SCHS, Dr. Jensen, agreed to this request and he was able to be photographed holding this surviving relic of Marion (please note-he wore protective gloves and was monitored by staff- all told the pistol was out of its protective wrapping less than 5 minutes).   

What really stood out for me, however, was the fact that Donny was given complete freedom to choose who he wanted represent.  There were no parameters- the figure didn’t even have to be historical.  Apparently, in his class there was one George Washington and a female Abe Lincoln...and three Tony Hawk's.  Who knew that Tony Hawk was so popular (another sign of approaching decrepitness- not knowing current celebrities...and making up words)?  So my tri-corner hat is off to Donny for not going as Tony Hawk or Zac Effron (see- I still got it) or a ninja turtle (too dated, maybe) and actually choosing someone from South Carolina who played an important role in the American Revolution.

So while waving previously-said tri-corner hat I give Donny an appropriate period HUZZAH for taking such an active interest in the Palmetto State.  He should get an A.

 I think the General would agree.