Sullivan's Island in the 1850s--The Moultrie House Hotel: Charleston’s Lost Seaside Palace

Long before Sullivan’s Island became a quiet beach community of pastel cottages and summer porches, it was a place of contrasts. It was both a military outpost and fashionable retreat, windswept wilderness and social playground. In the 1850s, the island stood at a crossroads between old coastal traditions and the rising tide of antebellum leisure culture. Today, little remains of that world. Nonetheless, with a bit of imagination and a few surviving accounts, we can step back onto the island and see it as it once was.

In the mid‑19th century, Sullivan’s Island was still largely untamed. Sand dunes rolled along the shoreline. Sea oats bent in the wind. The Atlantic crashed in long, rhythmic lines against a beach that stretched unbroken for miles. There were no paved roads, no rows of houses, no bustling commercial district. Instead, visitors found a handful of summer cottages in the village of Moultrieville, a scattering of military buildings around Fort Moultrie, and the great Moultrie House Hotel, a wooden palace rising above the dunes. It was a place where the horizon felt close enough to touch.

Even in its most peaceful years, Sullivan’s Island was shaped by the presence of Fort Moultrie, the historic stronghold guarding Charleston Harbor. Visitors to the Moultrie House Hotel could often hear the distant thud of cannon practice or see soldiers marching along the beach road. The mingling of military discipline and seaside leisure gave the island a unique character—half resort, half fortress.

Charleston families flocked to Sullivan’s Island each summer to escape the heat and the threat of mosquito‑borne illness. The island’s constant breeze made it feel safer, cleaner, and infinitely more refreshing than the city’s narrow streets.

By the 1850s, the island had become a seasonal social hub, a place for balls, promenades, and seaside dinners. A retreat where families mingled, flirtations blossomed, and reputations were quietly made or unmade. The Moultrie House Hotel stood at the center of this world, offering luxury, entertainment, and a vantage point over the Atlantic that felt almost otherworldly.

The Moultrie House Hotel was located directly on the beachfront just west of Fort Moultrie, on the southern end of Sullivan’s Island. It was close enough that someone standing on the fort’s ramparts could look down the shoreline and see the hotel’s long piazzas facing the Atlantic. It rose above the sand like a great ship run aground. It was two hundred and fifty feet of sun‑bleached boards and broad piazzas lifted on stout pilings. Its verandas stretched the entire length of the façade like open arms welcoming the summer elite of Charleston.

Guests arrived at the hotel by way of the Moultrieville Rail and Plank Company, a short horse-drawn railway which ran from the ferry landing at the Cove. After disembarking, passengers boarded the horse-drawn rail cars and were carried directly to the hotel's front door. Ladies in gauzy muslins stepped down beneath parasols, their skirts stirring in the salt breeze, while porters hurried forward to gather trunks and hatboxes. The air smelled of sea grass, warm pine, and the faint mineral tang of the ocean.

Inside, the hotel breathed luxury of the distinctly Southern kind with high ceilings, polished floors, and rooms arranged to catch every possible breeze. The great ballroom occupied the eastern wing, its folding doors thrown wide so that music could spill out toward the dunes. On summer evenings, the glow of chandeliers shimmered through tall multipaned windows, and the melodic line of a quadrille drifted across the sand.

During the day, guests wandered the wide piazzas, shaded from the sun yet open to the endless horizon. Gentlemen in linen coats leaned against the railings, watching the surf break in long, even lines. Children darted between the posts, their laughter mingling with the rhythmic creak of the hotel’s windmill pumping fresh water from the cisterns. Farther down the beach, the ladies’ bath house stood discreetly apart, its wooden slats bleached by salt and sun.

By late afternoon, the entire establishment seemed to settle into a kind of golden idleness. The heat softened, the sea turned a deeper blue, and the hotel’s long façade glowed as if lit from within. Servants moved quietly through the halls preparing for supper, while guests gathered on the piazza to watch the sun sink behind the distant spires of Charleston. In that hour, with the breeze lifting the curtains and the scent of the ocean drifting through every open door, the Moultrie House felt less like a hotel and more like a world unto itself—an elegant refuge suspended between sea and sky, untouched by the daily concerns on the mainland.

The Moultrie House offered "no deficiency of amusements," said Dr. Irving, adding that among its many amenities were four billiard tables and three bowling saloons. There were horses for riding, boats for fishing and "none but the choicest liquors." It offered an inspiring view of the Harbor and Bay of Charleston while the Atlantic Ocean surf spilled onto its wide beach, not many feet from the Hotel.

“Anyone who was anyone” stayed there. It quickly gained national attention as a premier Southern resort. The Moultrie House Hotel’s reputation was so favorable that people came from the entire eastern seaboard. "I never saw anything like it before," wrote William Gilmore Simms.

In 1861, as Sullivan's Island turned from resort to a Confederate military post, the hotel served as housing for Confederate officers, which made it a ready target for Union bombardments. Union officer Abner Doubleday, a captain and second in command at Fort Sumter and author of Reminiscences of Forts Sumter and Moultrie in 1860-61, described firing on the Moultrie House Hotel during the first bombardment. He recounted, “Just before the attack was made upon us…I aimed two forty-two pounder balls at the upper story. The crashing of the shot, which went through the whole length of the building among the clapboards and interior partitions, must have been something fearful to those who were within." 

Following the war, attempts were made to re-establish the Moultrie House Hotel to its former grandeur. However, times had changed. Gone are the great ante-bellum days of wealthy plantation owners seeking elegant surroundings in which to spend the summer season.

Today, there are no hotels on Sullivan's Island. The island is home to a close-knit community of a little over 2,000 residents, who enjoy a small-town charm and relaxed lifestyle. It is well known for its soft, white sandy beaches where families enjoy picnics and swimming, while the calm waters are perfect for relaxation. Visitors can still explore historical sites like Fort Moultrie and enjoy local dining options ranging from barbecue to gourmet cuisine at its award-winning restaurants, Poe's Tavern being a local favorite. It is an ideal destination for both relaxation and adventure.

The Nation's Longest Operating Liquor Store and an Entertaining Side Story: The Day the Parrot Outsmarted the Pirates

What most visitors don’t realize—while they’re lining up pastel façades in their camera lenses or setting up easels beneath the shade of palmettos—is that Rainbow Row has witnessed more than its share of mischief. One of the most beloved stories, still whispered by old‑timers in the French Quarter, involves a pirate, a parrot, and the very liquor shop that claims the title of the oldest in the nation.

According to local lore, sometime in the early 1700s, a member of Stede Bonnet’s crew—an overconfident fellow named Red Tom Mallory—stumbled out of the waterfront taverns in search of more rum. He was loud, unsteady, and accompanied by a parrot with a vocabulary so colorful it could make a sailor blush. The bird, named Captain Pickles, was said to have been trained to mimic Bonnet’s voice with uncanny accuracy.

Red Tom swaggered into the liquor shop demanding a private cask “on the authority of Captain Bonnet himself.” The shopkeeper, unimpressed and entirely sober, refused. But Captain Pickles, perched on Tom’s shoulder, suddenly squawked in a perfect imitation of Bonnet’s clipped Barbadian accent: “Give the man the rum, you scurvy‑minded barnacle!”

The shopkeeper froze. The voice was unmistakable. Bonnet had been in Charleston only days earlier, and no one wanted to risk crossing a pirate captain with a reputation for unpredictable moods. So, the cask was handed over.

Red Tom strutted out triumphantly—only to be immediately intercepted by the city watch. They had been tracking him since he’d knocked over a fishmonger’s stall earlier that morning. As the watchmen hauled him away, Captain Pickles flapped to a nearby balcony and began loudly repeating the phrase: “Give the man the rum, you scurvy‑minded barnacle!”

The parrot’s performance drew such a crowd that the watchmen lost their grip on Red Tom, who slipped away into the maze of alleys behind East Bay Street. Captain Pickles, however, remained on his balcony perch, where he was adopted by the family living there. For years afterward, the bird would shout pirate insults at unsuspecting passersby, startling tourists, merchants, and even a few dignitaries.

Some say the parrot lived to a venerable age, long enough to greet the first wave of artists who began painting Rainbow Row in the early 20th century. Others insist the whole tale is nonsense. But if you ask the right Charlestonian—preferably one who’s had a drink or two—they’ll tell you that on quiet mornings, when the tide is low and the breeze comes off the Cooper River just so, you can still hear a faint voice echoing between the pastel walls: “Give the man the rum!”

The Tavern at Rainbow Row dates as far back as 1686, according to documents and maps discovered in Scotland and the Netherlands. Quite possibly, Captain William Carse and the crew of the Magdalen from Edinburgh purchased liquor here in August of 1743 after unloading their cargo of salt, sailcloth, and, among other items, ninety‑six mashies (golf clubs) and four hundred thirty‑two featheries (golf balls) consigned to David Deas, a Scottish emigrant who had become a successful Charleston merchant.

Through its three centuries of business, The Tavern has endured the test of time—sometimes unstoppable, sometimes hard‑pressed. It survived the Revolutionary War and the incessant pummeling from Federal cannons during the Civil War, not to mention numerous historic fires and the catastrophic earthquake of 1886 that brought down hundreds of Charleston’s buildings.

Thomas Coates apparently purchased or constructed this group of commercial buildings by 1806. It served as the meeting place of Charleston's Jacobin Club in the 1790s, a group largely made up of French immigrants who wholeheartedly embraced the spirit of the French Revolution. This group of commercial buildings was also known as Coates's Row.

The Tavern, 120 East Bay Street, has been known by more than a few names, including The Tavern on the Bluffs, Harris’s Tavern, the French Coffee House, and Mrs. Coates’s Tavern by the Bay. In 1903, it became a “Whiskey Store” during an era when it was illegal to buy a drink, even if it was served in a teacup. Disguised as a barbershop through Prohibition, it sold liquor from a back room. A latched door at the rear of the shop led to an underground tunnel that once moved moonshine to speakeasies—then known as “blind tigers.”

The Blind Tiger Pub building on Broad Street has such an underground tunnel, which can also be entered through a latched door at the back of the building. Those wanting a drink would have had to sneak one in one of the tunnel’s many dark nooks. Whether the two tunnels connected is open to question. At this point, I must insert a bit of caution: like many stories from Charleston’s past, you must measure its factuality with a grain of Carolina Gold. Following Repeal, the Tavern returned to legal status. It has been the nation’s oldest spirits store in continuous operation. Now that bit of information is as bona fide as its Bluffton Whiskey.

The original building is divided into three separate addresses. By law, spirits must be sold separately from wine and beer. The middle section, which sells wine and beer, is the most fascinating of the three. Its brick front exterior at 118 East Bay Street features an arched double door flanked by two arched windows, and, directly above it, a double‑window second‑floor extension—added by Coates in the early 1840s—all painted in dark green. Inside, the current owners have preserved the shop’s legacy by restoring its interior, showcasing original hardwood floors and brick walls alongside antique furnishings from around the world—a bookshelf from the Library of Congress and an artisan’s worktable from France. In one of the adjoining rooms is the mysterious latched door leading to the underground.

The third section of the building is unused—once a gallery. Future plans include opening the wall where the beer taps are currently located and converting the unused section into a drinking space with a garden patio outside.

The Tavern specializes in local and rare spirits, including a five‑grain bourbon made with a Carolina rice variety (Seashore Black Rye) once thought to be extinct, and Carolina Gold; a black tea liqueur produced by the only large‑scale tea plantation in the U.S. (the Charleston Tea Plantation); and a vodka distilled from rye grown on South Carolina’s Edisto Island. To acquaint visitors with the unfamiliar, the shop also offers weekly tastings.

The Tavern at Rainbow Row has been featured on Southern Charm, Moonshiners, History’s Most Haunted, and Atlas Obscura. With a multifaceted history and a singular focus, The Tavern has stayed true to its reason for being and has never stopped distributing booze. Now that makes for one happy sailor.

120 E Bay St, next door to the Old Exchange and Provost Dungeon.