The Good
Late morning, the sun was near high noon when I pulled my car into a meter-parking spot in downtown Beaufort, South Carolina. There was a light breeze, the flags at the end of West Street were waving high and proud on the sound. That crescent moon and palmetto tree against a dark blue banner may be one of the prettier state flags among America's fifty states.
It was still near the beginning of my spring break, a Tuesday, and I had just left paradise, Fripp Island, South Carolina, where an old bosom buddy spends his days working for the extremely wealthy. It was a weekend of playing golf, drinking, spending time near the beach and then drinking and shooting-the-shit evenings away.
But now I was en route to Columbia, the Palmetto State’s capital, where I would have some wholesome recharging before heading back to Raleigh for a week full of studying. I was in Beaufort for coffee and coffee only, that brown liquid much needed for the three-hour drive.
At the end of West Street, near the sound, is a little coffee house in an old building. Beaufort struck me for its beautiful old pre-Civil War houses, palmetto and oak trees and the Spanish moss hanging liberally from their branches. It was like somebody took a snap shot of 1830s South Carolina and recreated the town. The coffee house was no exception.
When I walked into the coffee house, I was greeted by two ladies who worked behind the counter. I ordered a large coffee, a coffee cake and a banana. But then I asked of the girls, “What’s good in Beaufort?”
First, one of the girls corrected my pronunciation, “It’s B-you-fore,” she said. “Not Bo-fort. Bo-fort is in North Carolina.” Then she started to tell me what’s good in Beaufort.
It was the home of Robert Smalls, a freed slave who learned how to make ships (whatever that type of craftsman is called). He commandeered an important war ship in South Carolina and delivered it to the Union navy. He then went to the north during the war and made a fortune crafting and building warships and merchant ships for the Yankees. After the war, he came back to South Carolina and served four terms in the United States House of Representatives. He also helped create the state’s public education system.
In Beaufort, he bought the house he was raised in and that his parents and relatives were indentured to work for generations. The last family who lived there were the ones who freed him. And he did not forget this, he allowed the woman -- his last owner -- to live in the house until the day she died.
This was the good in Beaufort.
The Bad
As all Americans should know, the Union army did a good deal of unjustified damage to the south. General Sherman burned every city his army marched through, including great burnings in Atlanta, Georgia, and Charleston, South Carolina. Except, he did not burn Beaufort.
My barista, who I’ll call Rosie for the sake of this story, said that the reason so many of the historic houses still stand is because when Sherman’s army headed toward Beaufort the residents there heard about the general’s scorched-earth strategy and left town. The Confederate army, which was nearly defeated, left the town. Its residents packed up what they could and left for the country, or perhaps even Fripp Island, if it wasn’t already controlled by the Yankee navy.
Sherman had a weary army by the time he got to Beaufort. He needed hospitals, mess halls and roofs for his soldiers’ heads. So he did not burn Beaufort. He used its old buildings for hospitals and utilized them for other military uses.
But still, Sherman was the bad. More southern cities would be as gorgeous as Beaufort but for his scorched-earth policy. Furthermore, southern reconstruction certainly would have been much smoother. This still effects the region today. Rosie explained that the Civil War is so real when you hear family stories about land that was taken by carpetbaggers and estates that were burned to the ground. The Union had to win that war, no doubt this is a better country than one divided. And war is always going to be awful. But Sherman was bad.
The Ugly
No, Rosie was not ugly. But her personal story was.
Rosie was the type of person who talked to fill a room with words. If you asked her a question, she’d answer ten more. And she had a story for everything. She was a pleasant person to meet in a town where you don’t know a soul. After getting my cup of coffee, and after I told her I was a law student, she began telling me about how she needs a lawyer.
She hasn't seen her husband in a few months. She left him after he beat her. He has since hired a lawyer. She needs to hire one too.
I didn’t inquire too much into this personal ordeal of hers, especially since I’m not supposed to offer legal advice until I've passed a bar somewhere.
It was an ugly story. And I won't get into it.
Epilogue
We then went outside to smoke a cigarette. She offered me one. The Coffee House was not busy.
“It’s a beautiful day, huh?” she asked.
“There are many of those here,” I said.
She nodded and as I left she said, “watched out for the cops on I-95. They like to pull people over there.”
I didn’t get a ticket.
Coda
Bob Dylan’s song about melancholy days in the American south, “Mississippi,” was stuck in my head and playing on repeat on my car’s stereo all the way to Columbia:
“Well, the devil’s in the alley, mule’s in the stall
Say anything you wanna, I have heard it all
I was thinkin’ 'bout the things that Rosie said
I was dreaming I was sleepin' in Rosie’s bed
Walkin' through the leaves, falling from the trees
Feelin' like a stranger nobody sees
So many things that we never will undo
I know you’re sorry, I’m sorry too
Some people will offer you their hand and some won’t
Last night I knew you, tonight I don’t
I need somethin’ strong to distract my mind
I’m gonna look at you ’til my eyes go blind
Well I got here followin' the southern star
I crossed that river just to be where you are
Only one thing I did wrong
Stayed in Mississippi a day too long.”
“Mississippi” from the album, “Love and Theft.”
No comments:
Post a Comment