Summerville--A Haunting Tale Amidst An Earth Shattering Cataclysm

Branchville Station

The day’s overwhelming humidity continued to linger even at this late hour. Deep in thought, I reflected on some troubling peculiarities of the day. There has been a strange quiet, not about the people I brushed shoulders with, but more so concerning the animals. The usual chatter of the local birds has been eerily absent. Come to think of it, I don’t recall seeing any birds, and the carriage horses were a bit skittish, as was the dog in the train depot.

The train whistle's blast signaled the final warning for departure. Its penetrating sound averted my thoughts back to the present moment. A billowing puff of hot steam filled the air. The locomotive jerked into motion. The train eased away from the loading platform. The final leg of my journal was underway.

I looked at my pocket watch, 8:50 pm. My destination is Charleston, estimated arrival time near 10:30 pm. I have been looking forward to my stay at the luxurious Charleston Hotel on Meeting Street with eager anticipation.

As a writer/publisher, I had certain advantages when it came to reading material. With a collection of Edgar Allan Poe's writings in my possession, I settled back into my seat as we steamed away from Branchville. In my research on Poe, I had learned he was stationed on a barrier island near Charleston called Sullivan's. I planned on visiting some of the places associated with the writer, which included Fort Moultrie and the war-damaged plantations on the oak-lined Ashley River Rd, Runnymede in particular--a favorite haunt of Poe.

I peered out the window and stared at the passing trees. The moonlight sifting through their branches cast a soft dancing glow onto the lower growing bushes. The visual effect was as shadowy as the writings I was about to venture into. The rapidly increasing clickety-clack of the heavy steel wheels rolling over the tracks informed me the train had reached full throttle. Some passengers had retired into a nap while others quietly read—much too late for conversation. I flipped open the cover to the dossier sitting on my lap. I began reading The Gold-Bug, and for an unknown length of time, slipped into the reality that was Poe.

Suddenly and abruptly, a thunderous explosion shook me, followed by an uncharacteristic feeling of weightlessness and the realization I was levitating above my seat only to come crashing down with a spine-jarring thud. A scenario repeated countless more times.

The piercing screams of helpless passengers bouncing around uncontrollably in their seats filled the compartment. An ungodly hissing sound accompanied the jolting up and down, back and forth turbulence. Outside my window, I caught a glimpse of water spewing from the ground skyward. The car’s forward progress sputtered violently. I sensed the engineer was attempting to slow the train but to no avail. There was no shortage of prayers. Then, as quickly as the upheaval started, it ended.

Despite the chaotic mayhem, the train miraculously remained on the tracks. The startled passengers took stock of their physical condition. Aside from bumps and bruises, it appeared everyone was okay. Again, the car jerked, unnerving the already traumatized group of travelers. Only this time, the train was in the normal process of slowing and crept to a stop. I pulled out my pocket watch only to find the glass shattered and the hands pointing at 9:50 pm. I gathered up the scattered pages of the dossier strewn about and stepped off the train.

An unearthly orange glow possessed the night sky. Fires were burning, and uprooted trees littered the ground. In front of the smoking engine, brightly burning flares illuminated the surroundings. We had stopped just short of what looked like a depot. I straightened my disheveled wardrobe and walked to the locomotive’s front. The engineer was conversing with an unfamiliar person. Steadying my rattled composure, I introduced myself. I asked what happened and our present location. The person introduced himself as the stationmaster. His name was Frank Doar. He went on to relate this most unusual story as we walked towards the depot.

Frank recounted, “It was 9:45 pm. The inbound train had just passed Jedburg. Awaiting its arrival, I was peacefully sitting in my chair, drifting in and out of sleep, when I was suddenly startled by an elderly black man who appeared out of nowhere on the depot platform. He was filthy, sweaty, breathless, and agitated. The agitated old fellow excitedly told me he had just run several miles up the rail line from where the tracks were severely bent and that I should release warning flares immediately to alert the incoming train of the impending danger.

I knew everybody who worked the line and thought I knew everybody in the community, but I never saw this man before tonight. The moonlight glistened off his sweaty hair, giving the top of his head a halo effect. I would have ordinarily been apprehensive about such a demand. However, on this occasion, I sensed the stranger to be sincere. At his urging, I quickly deployed the torpedoes. As I finished putting out the devices, I turned to speak to the old man, but he was gone. It was as if he vanished into thin air.

I removed my pocket watch and glanced at it. The old man’s visit, the warning, and the emergency preparations had taken only five minutes. It was 9:50 pm. At that very moment, an eerie hissing sound enveloped the town, followed by a massive explosion. The ground began to shake violently. I could hear the walls and chimneys of nearby buildings collapsing and the swaying trees being torn out of the earth by their roots. A massive earthquake had struck Summerville.” His account beguiled me.

Everyone disembarked the train and walked to the station. We waited for further information on how we were going to get to our final destinations. We puzzled over the story Frank Doar told us. In time, the stationmaster received a message. Farther up the rail line from Summerville towards Ten Mile Hill and the Woodstock Station, the violent upheaval twisted the tracks into an S curve. A train that left Summerville for Charleston moments before the violent upheaval struck derailed on the damaged tracks. The engineer on the train was critically injured, and a crew member was killed.

The flares Frank Doar deployed saved our commuter train from the same fate. However, the mystery question remained; how did the elderly black man know about the impending danger before the earthquake occurred? He had vanished and nowhere found. No one was ever able to thank the old man.

As for Frank Doar, even though he was the one who deployed the flares that saved the train, he refused to take any credit for being a hero. He faithfully believed the old man was an angel. At least, that is the story Frank told.

Although this story is fictional, verified events and eyewitness accounts are the basis for its authenticity. The haunting tale experienced by Frank Doar is as much a part of Summerville’s history as the earthquake. Bruce Orr made it famous in his book "Haunted Summerville, South Carolina." I hope you enjoyed this retelling with my own added personal touch.

The Great Charleston Earthquake:

Charleston earthquake damage

The Charleston Earthquake of 1886 was the most damaging quake to hit the Southeastern United States. It occurred at 9:50 pm. on August 31, 1886, and lasted just under a minute. The earthquake caused severe damage in Charleston, South Carolina, damaging 2,000 buildings and causing $6 million worth of damages. About 110 lives were lost.

Considerable damage occurred in Summerville and as far away as Tybee Island, Georgia (over 60 miles away. Structural damage was reported several hundred miles from Charleston (including central Alabama, central Ohio, eastern Kentucky, southern Virginia, and western West Virginia). It was felt as far away as Boston to the north, Chicago, and Milwaukee to the Northwest, as far west as New Orleans, as far south as Cuba, and as far east as Bermuda.

In Horse Creek, Aiken County, a train pulling stock cars plunged off the tracks into 40 feet of water. The fireman was killed, and four horses drowned. Other animals kicked holes in the stock cars and swam to safety. In Ravenel, Charleston County, the ground broke open for 2.5 miles. A jet of water cut off a man trying to reach his grandchildren. In Columbia, Richland County, the Congaree River rose with 10-foot waves.

The Charleston Hotel survived the Earthquake, but not unscathed. The center portion of the parapet of the hotel's block-long Corinthian colonnade had been hurdled to the sidewalk during the massive upheaval reportedly crushing two ornate gas lamps that flanked the entrance door.

Summerville house

Summerville train depot

Eye witness accounts:

"The first awareness I experienced was the noise that developed over my head and can only be described as sounding like a huge herd of rats was thundering across the overhead ceiling. In a panic I rushed outside and felt an awful and profound shaking of the house, and was frozen in fear that the earth was going to open and swallow us all up. All I could reason was that God had set his mind that the judgment day was at hand. I looked up and expected to see the heavens fall, and then the second shock came and I was just barely conscious that I was falling, and felt a tremendous pain in my back from falling debris. Shock wave after wave hit and I became nauseous and thought I was going to die."--Virginia Ingraham Burr

"The waves seemed to come from both the southwest and crossed the street at the intersection where they collided. This is where I was standing and they were lifting me up and down by at least two feet. I was paying very careful attention and being as observant as I could under these conditions, and noted that I was at the intersection of Tradd Street between Logan and Greenhill."--Hossein Hayati and Ronald Andrus

Take A Journey Into The Obviously Not So Obvious "Accomplice"--Now Showing At The James F. Dean Theatre

"In South Carolina you cannot take a picture of a man with a wooden leg. Why not?" Obviously, this opening dialogue, by all appearance, is a silly way to start a play review, but then again, maybe not. As you will see, my not so obviously at-first-glance meaningful illustration has everything to do with the obvious. This is called a brain teaser. As with all brain teasers, the clue to the answer is so blatantly obvious, the obvious may escape you. The obviously not so obvious has everything to do with Rupert Holmes brain teasing murder mystery, Accomplice--presently being performed by the Flowertown Players. If you are not yet confused, just take a seat at the James F. Dean Theatre in Summerville from October 20-29 and you will be, but don't bring your wooden leg with you.

The setting is an English cottage in Dartmoor, England owned by Derek and Janet Taylor. Jon, Derek's business partner, is the first to arrive on the scene and begins a dialogue with the audience. It was at that moment I first sensed something odd was afoot. Janet enters shortly after and reveals a few unflattering revelations about her husband. He has not been fulfilling her sexual needs. It becomes obvious she is involved in an adulterous affair with Jon. The two of them plan on murdering her financially successful but decidedly boorish husband. Jon leaves and Janet makes a discovery that forces her to improvise the plan upon her husband's arrival. From that time on, nothing is as it seems. There was a couple of brief moments I puzzled over where Holmes was going with the material and its relevance, but write it off as part of British satire.

After the play's director, Susie Hallatt, quoted Alfred Hitchcock, she immediately peaked my curiosity--Hitchcock is a long time favorite. A well seasoned performer having acted on the Lowcountry stages of The Flowertown Players, The Footlight Players, and Dockstreet Theater, Accomplice is Susie's debut as a director and unquestionably a good fit to her personality; charmingly unconventional, delightfully twisted, and just enough acquired English influence to bring Holmes' British farce to life. With high praise, Susie stated, "Productions like this are never possible without the full and enthusiastic participation of cast and crew...I would certainly be swinging from the rafters without the amazing support of my stage manager, Hannah Weston."

Before the play began, it was announced Malcolm Powell suddenly had to take his leave and his understudy, Paul Del Gatto, would be taking over the role of Jon. I had an uneasy feeling about the disclosure. I wondered if it would affect the coherence of the play and whether Paul would be up to the task. As it turned out, with only a couple of detectable stumbles in his lines and one big one at the end, the understudy's performance was commendable.

Playing opposite Jon is the young and demure looking Melinda played by Hailey Selander, but here again, is the obvious the reality. Seemingly unsteady at times, Hailey is interlaced into the most sensitive and seedy scene of R rated Accomplice. She holds her own in her confrontation with Derek and come to think about it, navigating a complicated set in stilted heals would make anyone just a little unsteady.

Pat Cullinane was eye-catching as Janet Taylor. With legs rivaling Betty Grable's, Pat was wickedly charming and sexually tenacious as she slinked across the stage weaving her characters web of infidelity and trickery. Touting an impressive catalog of acting credentials and not to be upstaged, Rob Hazelip's commanding stage presence well suited his role as the domineering and emotionally detached character of Derek Taylor.

The complex set containing several levels with numerous entrance and exiting points was magnificently constructed by Ernie and Chrissy Eliason. The ingeniously designed cottage retreat included an operating mill wheel doubling as a wine rack. Nicole Harrison's costumes were 1970's appropriate and titillating, and the lighting design assured nothing would be missed. All contributed harmoniously to the evening's success.

Truth be told, I went into this one limping, if you get my click. I had never seen the play before opening night at the James F. Dean Theatre and purposely did not read up on any background information. As a fan of Hitchcock and Clue, I pride myself at being very good at solving murder mysteries, and usually early on. With this one, I was not quite sure about anything. Rupert Holmes beguiling tryst into the obviously not so obvious succeeded at playing me the fool. The play is a mixed bag of obvious scheming and tawdry shenanigans sprinkled with a lethal dose of laughs. While the intended murderer and the intended victim are quite obvious, the not so obvious blatantly remained throughout: Who is the Accomplice?

Purchase your tickets for Accomplice.

Do you know the answer to the brain teaser?

Summerville--One Of The Three Best On Earth

Summerville around 1880

Factually printed in an 1893 booklet by the Pine Forest Inn, Summerville was proclaimed "one of the two best resorts on the earth" for the cure of throat and lung disorder by the Tuberculosis Congress at Paris. These fateful words were a part of a statement made by Dr. R. C. M. Page.

Just ponder the implication. Out of all the towns and cities in 19th century United States and the civilized world, Summerville, a quaint town 25 miles outside of one of the most beautiful cities in the United States with just a population of 3,000, awarded such an admirable accolade.

Who was Summerville’s competing counterparts? Actually, there were two other notable resort towns in the world known for their health benefits, Arcachon, France and Bournemouth, England. Rivals in one sense, yet so similar in another. Threads of the same color pattern were eerily woven throughout the tapestry of their histories leading to a common destiny.

Dr. Robert Harvey, medical corps of the British army in India, made a comparison of Summerville, Arcachon, and Bournemouth and wrote in a letter "after thorough examination of the climate and porous soil of Summerville, which states that it is superior to both Acachon and Bornemouth, the celebrated French and English resorts, because it is dryer and has more equable temperature."--quote taken from Pine Forest Inn season 1892-93.

In the beginning of the 19th century, Arcachon was just a sleepy little fishing village located on the south side of the tranquil Arcachon Bay in south-west France--a long-time oyster-harvesting area. As the years serenely unfolded, its idyllic location and soothing sea air quietly changed the character of the village. It began to procure a reputation as a place where sick people went to heal. The sea air was deemed to be a beneficial part of the recovery process. Ironically, it was fittingly referred to as the Ville d'été--summer village.

In 1860, improved transport train links to Bordeaux and Paris helped in the development of the land above the beach. Arcachon was topographically endowed with another natural asset. It was framed by lush pine forests--pineland air was believed to be beneficial in the curing of tuberculosis, as observed by Doctor Pereira. A group of business men, and in particular the Pereire brothers, and the owners of the railway line between Bordeaux and La Teste came up with the idea of extending the rail line to Arcachon and developing it as a winter resort for tuberculosis sufferers. This area above the beach was called Ville d'hiver--winter village.

In the beginning, the commercial project wasn't a huge success, but the Pereire brothers continued to develop the summer tourism and the thermal tourism of the famous les Abatilles spring. The town started to attract rich merchants from Bordeaux and the rest of France. By the end of the 19th century, those who were irresistibly lured to this part of town above the beach built magnificent villas both to extend the summer season and as an alternative to seeking cures in the high mountains of Switzerland for tuberculosis.

Napoleon III visited Arcachon and put his seal of approval upon it and there was no looking back. French writer Alexandre Dumas lived in Arcachon for a while and French painter Toulouse-Lautrec owned a house on the sea-front. Arcachon's fame spread while directly north in England a similar story was simultaneously unfolding.

In the beginning of the 19th century, an Englishman by the name of Lewis Tregonwell coveted a piece of deserted scrubland located on the south coast of England he had come to love through the years. As an officer in the army during the Napoleonic wars, he spent much of his time searching this scrubland along the coast for French invaders and smugglers. The only settlement of the area was by cows, gypsies, and a few fishermen living in rickety timber-framed cottages. Tregonwell had an idea for this land of the grand kind.

Tregonwell's house, Bourne Cliff, now is part of the Royal Exeter Hotel

In 1812, after retiring from the army and purchasing an eight-and-a-half acre parcel of land from Lord Tapps-Gervis, Tregonwell and his wife became the first official residents after completing the construction of their new home christened Bourne Cliff. Later, it would become known as the Exeter House. Between 1816 and 1820, he added a number of smaller homes on the grounds for his staff; one of these, called Portman Lodge. The first eight years saw several high society figures come to Bourne Cliff by invitation from Tregonwell including the Prince Regent and George lV.

Inspired by a popular Regency notion that the turpentine scent of pines had health-restoring powers good for lung ailments, and in particular tuberculosis, prompted Tregonwell and Tapps to plant hundreds of the stately conifers featuring a tree-lined walk to the beach that would become known as the Invalid's Walk. The cherished trees grew and so did his dream.

In 1820, Tregonwell bought up more land from Tapps-Gervis for building a number of cottages and stylish villas set along newly-laid streets for leasing to holiday-makers wishing to engage in the increasingly fashionable pastime of ‘sea bathing’, an activity with perceived health benefits. These holiday retreats of course would establish the core function of the developing health resort. By 1832, the year of his passing, Tregonwell’s dream was securely in place.

Highcliff Castle

It was at this time a distinguished diplomat, Lord Stuart de Rothesay, began the construction of a castle called Highcliff. Built mainly between 1831 and 1836, the Gothic Revival style castle incorporated medieval stonework and stained glass from around the world.

In 1835, after the death of Sir George Ivison Tapps, his son Sir George William Tapps-Gervis inherited his father's estate. Bournemouth started to grow at a faster rate as George William started developing the seaside village into a resort similar to those that had already grown up along the south coast such as Weymouth and Brighton.

In 1841, the town was visited by the physician and writer Augustus Granville. Granville was the author of The Spas of England, which described health resorts around the country. As a result of his visit, Dr. Granville included a chapter on Bournemouth in the second edition of his book. The publication of the book, as well as the growth of visitors to the seaside haven seeking the medicinal use of the seawater and the fresh air of the pines, helped establish the town as an early tourist destination.

With the arrival of the railway in 1870, there was a massive influx of seaside and summer visits to the town, especially by visitors from the Midlands and London. Bournemouth became a recognized town in that year. The Winter Gardens were finished in 1875 and the cast iron Bournemouth Pier was finished in 1880 when the town had a population of 17,000 people. By the late 1900's, when railway connections were at their most developed to Bournemouth, the town's population had risen to 60,000.

Bournemouth was now poised to be thrust into the world spotlight along with its seaside rival in Arcachon, France, and a second rival across the pond in the United States in South Carolina, Summerville.

It was 1891. Tuberculosis has been a scourge of the age. The International Congress of Physicians, also called the Tuberculosis Congress, assembled in Paris, France. The physicians then attending measured these three resort locations in their deliberations comparing climate, temperatures, and the presence of pine forests. The result of their findings was a ringing endorsement of Summerville.

Adding to the weight of this historical recommendation was a letter by Dr. Robert Harvey. Written after making a thorough examination of the climate and porous soil of Summerville, he stated it to be superior to both Arcachon and Bournemouth because it was dryer and had a more equable temperature. Also, unlike Arcachon, where its pineland forest borders the resort, and Bournemouth's resort is scattered around its one time hand-planted pine forest, Summerville's pineland is an inseparable part of the town, thickly scattered throughout its interweaving and winding roads.

Once an insignificant fishing village and a deserted seaside scrubland, Arcachon and Bournemouth had progressed into popular and attractive seaside destinations crowned with magnificent estates, lavish villas and opulent castles bordering on the Disneyesque. Rail lines connected them to the rest of their homelands and the people seeking what they had to offer. By the end of the nineteenth century, they had fulfilled their destiny for which they were conceived, to be world class health resorts.

In comparison, Summerville was once an uninhabited plateau near the Ashley River discovered by a wondering planter and soon after became a marooning refuge to escape the oppressive heat and yellow fever carrying mosquitoes of Charleston’s coastal lowlands.

Arcachon sand dune--one of the highest in the world

Unlike Arcachon and Bournemouth, it was not on the sandy shores of a vast ocean. It did not have villas or castles. If judged by those amenities, Summerville was quite humble. It did benefit from the introduction of the railroad. It did have beautiful summer homes built by rich planters, the Pine Forest Inn, and vast plantations close by. And if you wanted to enjoy the beach, neighboring Charleston was endowed with many barrier islands fringed with sandy beaches.

Still, those were not the things that elevated Summerville to its pinnacle of greatness. Simply put, it was the town’s majestic, revitalizing pine trees--cherished and fiercely protected by law. Not many places can say they were regarded the best on earth. Summerville is one of those places.