South Carolina Ghosts

From the Coast to the Mountains

Nancy Roberts

• Éditeur: University of South Carolina Press
• Année: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781611173611
• Sujet: Scienze sociali
• Sous-sujet: Folklore e mitologia

The stories in this book are based upon actual events. During the course of her research into some of South Carolina's classic tales, Nancy Roberts heard accounts of happenings in the recent past and even the present day. They're all here: from the famous Gray Man of Pawleys Island who warns of coming storms to the ghost of the poor fellow whose small plane went down in the 1950s near Walhalla leaving him to forever hitchhike Highway 107.Everybody has heard of Alice of Murrells Inlet who is still looking for her lover's ring, but who haunts the house in Summerville, even now, and why?The eighteen stories told here will have you looking over your shoulder and shuddering at even a gentle breeze—so take care. Supernatural occurrences in South Carolina are not all in the past!

XIV

There Goes Martin Baynard’s Carriage!

Martin Baynard folded the fine white fabric into a tie, arranging it in a jaunty fashion about his neck. He tucked it neatly into his rich silk vest, his fingers giving it a final pat. It was just the right touch and he would cut quite a figure in his new suit. He was aware of this with a sort of comfortable confidence that was not really conceit.

Victoria could scarcely have found a handsomer bridegroom and as his thoughts turned to her his pulse beat more quickly. He, too, was lucky and he knew it. Even during the years spent abroad, he could not recall a girl that even compared with Victoria. Her black hair, long-lashed green eyes and creamy skin were all part of her great beauty. But it was more than that. There was an animation and excitement about her that he had sensed immediately. She was a creature of countless moods, and Martin loved her in every one of them.

They had met here on Hilton Head Island scarcely a year ago and it was surprising the meeting had not occurred sooner for their fathers were both well-to-do planters. Young men from surrounding plantations swarmed around Victoria and at first she did not appear to take his attentions seriously and barely acknowledged his presence. Not that Martin would not make a good match for his family was respected and wealthy, but the gossip of the chaperones behind their fans was that Martin had left some broken hearts in his wake.

Victoria had heard the whisperings and disapproving glances of which Martin himself was not even slightly aware. The Christmas season was full of balls, musicals, and oyster roasts on the beach, and almost the entire spring passed before Victoria even allowed him to see her without the entourage of suitors and friends that usually surrounded her. He was a tall, strikingly good-looking young man but seemed to be as serious-minded as herself. Victoria could certainly see nothing of the Don Juan about him.

Like his father, Martin had been educated in England. He was not given to gossip or small talk about their circle of friends. Nor did he appear to be interested in expounding on horses and hunting or rice or cotton. He liked to discuss serious issues and he knew many of the most important South Carolinians. Why he even knew George Washington!

On his part, he was delighted to discover such a quick mind behind the lovely face. Sometimes they would voice a thought at the same moment and glance at each other in happy surprise. By the time the yellow jessamine was festooning the trees, they were seeing each other almost daily. In mid-June, to the suprise of no one who had observed them together, John and Elizabeth Stoney announced the engagement of their only daughter, Victoria Ann.

From then on the pair would ride out each afternoon in Martin’s cabriolet. Sometimes the graceful carriage would be seen speeding along the beach near the surf in the late afternoon. Victoria’s bonnet would be off, her hair swept back from her face by the wind. The wedding was to take place in August, and at the Stoney plantation the most elaborate plans and preparations were taking place. In his happy and carefree state, Martin scarcely cared to be bothered with details and Victoria had never shown any great interest in the planning of social events.

When they did not ride along the beach there were leisurely drives down pleasant, winding, sandy roads. One afternoon they stopped to drink from a stream, tethering the horses to a tree at the edge of a patch of woods.

“Isn’t that a graveyard over there among the trees,” said Victoria.

“We can see,” said Martin and hand in hand they walked through dead leaves, skirted briars and soon were in the midst of some sandy depressions marked by headboards of wood with crudely carved letters. But most interesting to Victoria was a fresh grave which appeared to be that of a child. She reached down and picked up a small, primitive doll. There was also a plate and a cup. “Do you think the little thing drank out of this cup, Martin?”

“Probably.”

“And, look. Here is a lamp. Why would they put that out here?”

“Perhaps, to light her way to eternity. It’s strange they would believe she needed that, isn’t it.”

Victoria fondled the doll. “This is probably something she loved and played with. She must have liked this bright red dress.”

“I wish you wouldn’t touch those things, Victoria.”

“Why? Do you think I am being disrespectful to the dead?”

“Of course not. I didn’t mean that.”

“Someone has treated this grave more rudely than I. Look at the pieces of broken pottery scattered over it.” Even as they stood there looking around them, it had grown darker. Victoria stroked the hair on the head of the doll and there were tears in her eyes.

“I wonder how old she was and if she suffered much?”

“Victoria, for heaven sakes put that doll back on the grave and let’s go!”

“I am. But you needn’t speak to me like that. Are you afraid of ghosts in a cemetery?”

“No, I’m not afraid of ghosts but the Gullahs have different beliefs from ours and. …”

“And you believe their superstitions?”

“No, but there is a dark side to some of their beliefs, Victoria, and it is hard not to think about them sometimes. I have always heard that to appear too healthy or too happy provokes the evil spirits, and we are very happy.”

“Oh, Martin! What sort of talk is that? The first thing we will do is find oursevles a smutty-nosed cat to bring us luck! Does that satisfy you?” she said laughing up into his face. He looked at her adoringly. It was now less than a week until their wedding.

The Baynard family mausoleum was vandalized years ago. Martin was buried here in the cemetery of Zion Chapel of Ease.

With more patience than usual, Victoria had endured the lengthy discussions and fittings for her wedding dress and other new gowns. This was a relief to Mrs. Stoney who placed great importance on that stream of endless minor decisions and duties which make up the warp and woof of daily life. Her greatest satisfaction was to immerse herself in a constant dither of activities, riding the crest of them and emerging with all seemingly overwhelming details conquered.

Some of the wedding guests would be coming from afar and must be lodged at the Baynard and Stoney plantations. Mrs. Stoney spent hours at her small Chippendale escritoire writing lists of preparations to be made. A whole sheep and a pig were to be roasted. Hams, turkeys, and chickens would be baked along with loaves of bread and biscuits without number. A barrel of sugar and one hundred dozen eggs would be needed for the cakes, jelly whip, and custard, not to mention citron pudding and coconut. Mauma, the black housekeeper’s daughter, had been set to cutting paper to dress the stands for several long tables that would seat one hundred and fifty guests.

Finally, the day before the wedding arrived and in the warm August dusk, Victoria sat before the long gilt mirror in her bedroom. Her Gullah maid, Bina, brushed her thick, dark hair in long even strokes. Like many of her people, the girl’s name was the word for Tuesday, the day she was born. Victoria knew that the Wanderer had brought in an illegal cargo of slaves a few weeks ago, but her father was so rigid in his conviction that the South Carolina economy rested upon the institution, she couldn’t discuss it with him. He would become almost choleric with anger and leave the room if she so much as touched upon the subject.

As the girl brushed her hair she could hear her saying something under her breath over and over again.

“Bina, what are you saying?”

“Nothing, Missy, nothing.”

But then she heard the words once more and they were “Hu hu. Dem pak, pak, pak.” She understood for she had heard the Gullah language since she was a child. Bina was saying that she had heard an owl go knock, knock, knock against the window of the house in a vain attempt to get in.

This was a Gullah superstition, a bad omen, an omen of death, but Victoria only smiled and shook her head reprovingly She could not get Bina to smile, however, for the girl’s frightened eyes stared back at her from the mirror. Bina’s practiced fingers arranged each strand of hair so that it framed her face prettily. Ready to go downstairs, Victoria impulsively grasped Bina’s hand and drew her across the hall to show her the wedding finery her mother had arranged. There on the bed, awaiting the morrow’s wedding, lay the spotless linen all crimped, the drawers with the fine tucks and lace insertion, the white silk stockings, the small white satin slippers and dress, the plain lace over the long bridal veil and wreath of white flowers, the short kid gloves with the deep lace frill. A diamond pin, a pair of gold earrings and a gold bracelet completed the attire. Bina gasped at all this spendor and stretching out one small, dark finger stroked the hem of the rich, satin gown.

As Victoria walked through the large downstairs hall she could hear the sound of laughter outside. Clinton and Harry, two young cousins from Columbia, had arrived and were being shown the cottage near the house where they would stay during the wedding festivities. Her brother Edmund’s voice could be heard welcoming them.

For a moment, Victoria stood very quietly in the doorway to the parlor looking at her father’s much loved face in repose. Captain John Stoney, a glass of Madeira wine on the table beside him, looked up from his book as Victoria entered the room.

“What are you reading?”

“The Planter’s Bible, my dear.”

“And by that, I presume you mean Montaigne. I find him most interesting.”

“And, what do you know of Montaigne, young woman?”

“Oh, I have read some of his essays.”

“And I suppose you have read what knowledge and occupation is best for a woman?” He patted her hand which rested on the arm of his chair.

“I believe Montaigne says it is the science of housekeeping, dear Papa, but sometimes I find so many things I enjoy doing more.”

“Then you must consider his essay on not being willful, my dear. In our ignorance we often make judgments that are wrong.”

Victoria picked up a copy of Shakespeare which lay at her father’s elbow.

“Well, there are certainly some ladies not afraid to make judgments in here.”

“My dear, a woman should be full of grace—modest and pliable.”

“Like Momma?” Victoria’s lovely lips curved in a delightful, teasing smile, but before her beleaguered Pappa could reply the sound of Martin’s voice could be heard and the butler announced him.

“Come in, my dear fellow, come in,” said Stoney rising. He was a tall, vigorous man even in his sixties. He had enjoyed sports during his years at Cambridge and this love of exercise combined with an excellent education and inquiring mind, suited him admirably for the amount of physical work and management involved in a plantation. John Stoney had a passing knowledge of many trades and this was good for everything was done on the plantation. The planter must know the right lay of his land and how it should be prepared. Much effort went into the training of unskilled laborers in a variety of tasks such as might be found in a small village for the plantation was sufficient unto itself. Captain Stoney occupied himself from early morning until the time his animals were stabled. After supper he often sat in the library and read as he was doing now.

The days of his wife Elizabeth were also busy. It was to her that the servants looked if they had problems or were sick. Elizabeth Stoney often read them chapters from the Bible, prayed with them, preached morality and sometimes had more influence than Stoney himself. As Victoria had sometimes heard the blacks say, “The plantation belongs to Master, but Ole Master belongs to Miss ‘Lizabeth.”

“Won’t you and Mrs. Stoney ride with us?” offered Martin.

“Not this time, Martin. Mrs. Stoney is taking some medicine to the butler’s wife who has been sick.”

Martin helped Victoria into the barouche drawn by four beautiful blood bays. The carriage could be seen for awhile as it rolled down the moss-shrouded avenue of giant oaks until it disappeared in the growing darkness.

Outside the Baynard home slaves stood with flaming torches lighting the way of the arriving guests. Victoria dismounted beside a tabby step and Martin offered her his arm. Her dress was yellow silk and her dark hair rose above it like the dusky center of a magnificent golden daisy. Her cheeks were becomingly flushed and her eyes sparkled. The rug had been rolled back in the large ballroom and the floor waxed until its mirrorlike surface reflected the chandeliers like clusters of gleaming meteorites. Side tables placed along the walls of the immense room were laden with apples, oranges, almonds, raisins, butter mints and the finest sillabub. The mantles at each end of the ballroom were decorated with magnolia leaves and tall china jars filled with flowers.

Here and there clusters of guests chatted merrily and waited for the music to begin. The ladies were resplendent in fine muslin, India silk or satin, and for the most part, the men wore rich white silk vests and cravats.

Victoria was never lovelier and many a man watched enviously as Martin led her out on the floor to dance.

“I am of all men truly blest,” Martin whispered into her ear.

“Why, I suppose we are both blest. Why must you look so serious my dear Martin?”

“It is my nature, I suppose, to believe that life for most people is something of a prison and death reaches them unfreed and still unblest.”

“Martin, you have quite a morbid streak at times. They must escape their ‘prison’ as you call it.”

At that moment the music...