Summerville, August 31, 1886--A Haunting Tale Amidst an Earth-Shattering Cataclysm

The day’s oppressive humidity lingered, even at this late hour. Lost in thought, I found myself reflecting on the troubling peculiarities that had unfolded. There was a strange quiet—not among the people I’d encountered, but in the behavior of the animals. The usual chatter of local birds had vanished. In fact, I couldn’t recall seeing a single bird all day. The carriage horses had been unusually skittish, and even the dog at the train depot seemed unnerved.

A sharp blast from the train whistle jolted me from my reverie, signaling the final call for departure. A cloud of hot steam billowed into the air as the locomotive lurched forward, then gradually eased away from the platform. The final leg of my journey had begun.

I checked my pocket watch: 8:50 p.m. Charleston lay ahead, with an expected arrival around 10:30. I had been looking forward to my stay at the elegant Charleston Hotel on Meeting Street with eager anticipation.

As a writer and publisher, I enjoyed certain privileges when it came to reading material. In my possession was a cherished collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s works. Settling into my seat as we pulled away from Branchville, I recalled that Poe had once been stationed on Sullivan’s Island, a barrier island near Charleston. I planned to visit several places tied to his legacy—Fort Moultrie, and the war-scarred plantations along the oak-lined Ashley River Road. Runnymede, in particular, had been a favorite haunt of his.

I peered out the window and stared at the passing trees. Moonlight filtered through their branches, casting a soft, dancing glow onto the low-growing bushes. The visual effect was as shadowy as the writings I was about to immerse myself into. The rhythmic clickety-clack of the heavy steel wheels rolling over the tracks informed me that the train had reached full throttle. Around me, some passengers had drifted into sleep, while others quietly read—much too late for conversation. I flipped open the cover of the dossier resting on my lap and began reading The Gold-Bug. For an unknown length of time, I slipped into the reality that was Poe.

Suddenly, a thunderous explosion rocked the train, jolting me from my seat. For a brief, surreal moment, I felt weightless—levitating above the cushion—before crashing down with a spine-jarring thud. The violent motion repeated again and again, each impact more disorienting than the last.

Piercing screams erupted from the compartment as passengers were tossed about, helpless against the chaos. An ungodly hissing sound accompanied the relentless jolts—up and down, back and forth—like a beast thrashing in its death throes. Through the window, I glimpsed a geyser of water erupting from the earth, shooting skyward. The train’s forward momentum sputtered violently. I sensed the engineer was desperately trying to slow us, but the effort seemed futile. Prayers filled the air, whispered and shouted alike.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the upheaval ceased.

Miraculously, the train remained on the tracks. Dazed passengers began to assess their condition. Aside from bruises and shaken nerves, it appeared no one was seriously injured. Another sudden jolt startled the already traumatized group—but this time, it was the familiar lurch of a train decelerating. We crept to a halt.

I retrieved my pocket watch, its glass shattered, the hands frozen at 9:50 p.m. Around me, pages from Poe’s dossier lay scattered like fallen leaves. I gathered them up and stepped off the train.

An eerie orange glow bathed the night sky. Fires burned in the distance, and uprooted trees lay strewn across the landscape like discarded matchsticks. Ahead of the smoking engine, flares cast flickering light over the scene. We had stopped just short of what appeared to be a depot.

Straightening my disheveled clothing, I made my way to the front of the locomotive. The engineer was deep in conversation with a man I didn’t recognize. Steadying my nerves, I approached and introduced myself. I asked what had happened—and where, exactly, we were.

The man turned to me and offered his name, “Frank Doar, the stationmaster.” As we walked toward the depot, he began to recount a most unusual story.

Frank began his account with a steady voice, though the memory clearly weighed on him.

“It was 9:45 p.m. The inbound train had just passed Jedburg. I was sitting in my chair at the depot, drifting in and out of sleep, when I was startled by the sudden appearance of an elderly Black man on the platform. He seemed to materialize out of nowhere—filthy, drenched in sweat, breathless, and visibly agitated.

He told me, in a rush of words, that he’d run several miles up the rail line from a section where the tracks were severely bent. He urged me to release warning flares immediately to alert the incoming train of the danger ahead.

Now, I know everyone who works this line, and I thought I knew everyone in the community—but I’d never seen this man before. The moonlight caught the sweat on his head, giving it a strange halo-like glow. Under normal circumstances, I might have been wary of such a demand. But something about him—his urgency, his eyes—made me trust him. Without hesitation, I deployed the torpedoes.

As I finished placing the last device, I turned to speak to him again. But he was gone. Vanished. As if he’d dissolved into the night air.”

Frank paused, then pulled out his pocket watch.

“The whole encounter—his arrival, the warning, the emergency preparations—had taken only five minutes. It was exactly 9:50 p.m. Just then, an eerie hissing sound swept through the town, followed by a deafening explosion. The ground shook violently. I heard walls and chimneys collapsing, trees groaning as they were ripped from the earth. A massive earthquake had struck Summerville.”

His story left me spellbound.

Passengers had begun to disembark, gathering at the station in search of answers and a way to continue their journey. Whispers of Frank’s account passed from one traveler to another, each person trying to make sense of the mysterious warning.

Soon, a message arrived. Farther up the line, between Summerville and Ten Mile Hill near Woodstock Station, the quake had twisted the tracks into a serpentine curve. A train that had departed Summerville for Charleston derailed during the earthquake. The engineer was critically injured. A crew member had been killed.

The flares Frank deployed had saved our train from the same fate.

Yet one question lingered: how had the old man known? He had vanished without a trace. No one ever saw him again. No one ever got the chance to thank him.

As for Frank Doar, though he was the one who placed the flares and prevented disaster, he refused to take credit. He believed, with quiet conviction, that the old man was an angel.

At least, that was the story Frank told.

Visit Summerville

Once A Cornerstone Building And City Landmark--Now Just An Exclamation Point In Time

It's a typical six in the evening on Meeting Street between Market and Hassel Streets. Standing in the shadow of Charleston Place, out-of-towners and locals patiently wait for the street signals to change so they can continue on their way to the various eating establishments east, west, south, and north of the Market Street intersection. Just beyond Charleston Place, the usual growing crowd is beginning to gather just outside of Hyman's Seafood as potential dinner patrons check out the restaurant's menu and wait for open tables.

Across the way, on the other side of the street, the scene is quite different. There are no gathering crowds, just passersby making their way to their selected destinations. The Bank of America building occupies this stretch of real estate beginning at Pinkney and ending at Hayne Street.

This was not always the case. At one time, this now relatively quiet stretch of sacred real estate was a hub of activity, and if you were standing on Meeting Street looking across from the Hyman's building in 1890, you would be basking in the aura of Charleston's premier hotel of the day, the Charleston Hotel.

The Bank of America building was built on the property in 1991, and not without controversy. After a protracted public debate, the developers were permitted to reclaim the historic height and scale of the Charleston Hotel, but was not allowed to restore the original facade. The buildings concrete colonnade is a poor knockoff for the dramatic colonnade of the original hotel. "This new building says little about its famous predecessor, which became the precursor, if not the icon, for tall white columns in the American South," stated Henry de Saussure Copeland.

Although, the Bank of America building was not the only other occupant of 200 Meeting Street. Directly after the Charleston Hotel was ravaged by a wrecking ball in 1960, the Heart of Charleston Motor Hotel preceded the Bank of America structure from the 1960's to the 1990's. Nowhere near representing the architectural wonder that was the Charleston Hotel, it was said to be famous for it's restaurant and loyal breakfast customers.

The Charleston Hotel had been both a landmark and reference point for all commercial buildings that grew up around it. The most regrettable impact of the hotel's demolition was the loss of an important base line and reference point for how future buildings should be designed. When I look at the picture of the Heart of Charleston Motor Hotel, I wonder why the City planners were remiss in maintaining high standards in design and did not specify the money that built this architecturally inferior hotel to be used in a restoration of the iconic Charleston Hotel instead of allowing it to become an exclamation point in time?

The first Charleston Hotel stood for less than 2 years before it was destroyed shortly after it opened by the Great fire of 1838. It carried the distinction of being counted among the first major buildings to be constructed in the Greek revival style in America by the renowned German architect, Charles Friedrich Reichardt, known as the initiator and ultimately the most prolific builder of landmarks that would contribute to the character of the American South.

A second Charleston Hotel would rise from the ashes of the first. Charles Reichardt had moved on to other commissions. Nathaniel Potter, Reichardt's contemporary and understudy, was hired to oversee the design and construction of its replacement. As instructed, Potter gladly rebuilt the hotel exactly as it had been. The reconstruction made economic as well as historic sense. It reopened in 1839.

The 170-room Charleston Hotel proudly graced Meeting Street for over 120 years and was a cornerstone building near the Old Market area. Extending eastward 264 feet on Pinckney Street and 200 feet on Hayne Street, it was an imposing four stories high with 14 columns patterned after the columns of the Coragic Monument of Lysicrates in Athens--the city's largest hotel. Made of stucco and brick, its architecture was antique with two large dining rooms and high ceilings throughout--one dining room was 96 by 36 feet. A 75 by 80 foot open courtyard surrounded on three sides by wooden balconies was at its center.

This Charleston Hotel would endure the winds the Great Carolina Hurricane of 1854 on September 7-9, the firestorm of the Great Fire of 1861, the merciless shelling of the City during the Civil War, the tumult of the Great Charleston Earthquake of 1886, and the fury of the Great Sea Islands Hurricane of 1893 on August 27-28. It 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.

In June of 1894, a new company, Cart and Davids, took ownership. $100,000 was spent on a renovation. The entire first floor was re-arranged, including a complete change in its Meeting Street front entrance, office and parlor. The veranda on the first floor was converted into a vestibule enclosed in plate glass windows with three entrances. The rotunda was remodeled and enlarged. New elevators were added, a large number of rooms on the upper floors were fitted with toilets and attached bathrooms, and the entire interior was re-carpeted, refitted, and refurnished. Its rate was $4 per day and upwards. Special rates made by week and month.

The Charleston Hotel finally bowed to the most unrelenting and merciless of the natural forces, time. After serving 122 years as a defining landmark and anchor to its part of the city, the history making columns were pulverized by the mindless wrecking ball. The only thing preserved was the wrought iron railings that were part of the old hotel's colonnade, rumored to be displayed at an office building constructed in the 1980's located on Meeting Street three blocks south of the hotels original sight.

When given the chance to replace the Charleston Hotel a third time, those in charge skipped the historic record and instead of reestablishing the benchmark for other buildings the Charleston Hotel served, they opted for something else. This reportedly was done in spite of an offer put on the table by private developers with the option of reconstructing the hotel's famous façade, which was rejected by the city's preservation experts. Instead, what rose on the site was the Heart of Charleston Motor Hotel and eventually, the Bank of America building.

Next time you are in Charleston, take a walk up Meeting Street to the front of Hyman's. Once there, close your eyes and do a "Somewhere in Time." Maybe, if you concentrate hard enough, upon opening your eyes, you may find yourself in 1886 dressed in a hoop skirt or a gentleman's suit of the day sipping on a mint julep and standing before Charleston's premier hotel of the day. (It certainly would help the transition--the mint julep that is).

Pay attention to the date and the time. Locate a copy of the newspaper of the day, the News and Courier. If it is August 30th, check into the Charleston Hotel--soak in the antiquity and ambience. Make sure you register for only a one night stay. If you reserve August 31st, at 9:50 pm you will be running out of a pitch-black hotel with the rest of the guests seeking to escape the toppling furniture and falling plaster. You will have just experienced the famous Great Charleston Earthquake, which jolted the Lowcountry like an alligator rolling its quarry.

Charleston Rises High Despite History's Uncontrollable Forces

Charleston, like many cities meandering in the stream of time, has both joyously celebrated and tragically suffered through changes inflicted on it by forces beyond its control. Through the upheavals, the city has licked its wounds and rebounded to become what it is today, one of the most popular destinations in the nation to visit.

Time, the most unrelenting of the forces, mercilessly moves in only one direction and either you seize the moment and prepare for the next or you end up a "decaying American city", likened to a "poisoned ecosystem", doomed to becoming a ghost town. (No pun intended, Charleston lives off of its ghosts.) Joe Riley, mayor of Charleston, unflatteringly characterized the downtown district by those words, and then seized the moment. Charleston Place rose from a huge, sandy lot where a JC Penney once stood. The Holy City celebrated its rebirth.

On various occasions, Charleston has been tried and tested by the uncontrollable forces wielded by nature in form of earth, wind, and fire. An earthquake devastated the city on August 31, 1886 damaging 2,000 of its buildings. Three-quarters of the homes in the historic district sustained damage of varying degrees when Hurricane Hugo struck the city on September of 1989 causing over $2.8 billion in losses. Five major fires have been documented throughout its history, which occurred in 1740, 1778, 1796, 1838, and 1861.

Some city icons have been systematically dismantled. In recent years, residents watched as the two aged, stately bridges traversing the Cooper River gracefully met their planned demise and the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge ascended in their place--the third longest cable-stayed bridge in the Western Hemisphere. It now stands in the Charleston skyline as a shining beacon of progressive evolution. In early spring, tens of thousands descend upon it for the Cooper River Bridge Run to tread their way into the very heart of Historic Charleston.


Other Charleston icons of the past are now only footnotes in history and few Charlestonians are around that can even recall where they once stood. They can only be learned about in places housing the city archives or photos floating around on the Internet, and only if you are specifically looking. The Charleston Hotel was one of these vanquished icons.

The 170-room Charleston Hotel proudly graced Meeting Street for over 120 years and was a cornerstone building near the Old Market area. Extending eastward 264 feet on Pinckney Street and 200 feet on Hayne Street, it was an imposing four stories high--the city's largest hotel. Made of stucco and brick, its architecture was antique with two large dining rooms and high ceilings throughout. A 75 by 80 foot open courtyard surrounded on three sides by wooden balconies was at its center.

I only happened to stumble upon it while searching through old pictures of Charleston. It carried the distinction of being counted among the first major buildings to be constructed in the Greek revival style in America by the renowned German architect, Karl Friedrich Reichert, known as the initiator and ultimately the most prolific builder of landmarks that would contribute to the character of the American South.

A compelling part of the Charleston Hotel's story revolves around a little known fact--there were two Charleston Hotels. The original Charleston Hotel went up in smoke along with a large section of the city’s Ansonborough neighborhood in the famous fire of 1838. It stood less than two years. The second rose from its ashes. It survived the Earthquake of 1886, 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. After surviving the earthquake, 74 years later it succumbed to time and had a date with the wrecking ball. Some of the wrought iron railings that were part of the old hotel's colonnade are rumored to be displayed at an office building three blocks south of the hotel's original sight. 200 Meeting Street was the hotel's address.

When you are downtown on Meeting Street and walking in the area of Hymans Restaurant, look across the street. The Bank of America building occupies the sacred ground where the Charleston Hotel previously stood 52 years ago. It was built in the early 1990's. After a protracted public debate, the developers were permitted to reclaim the historic height and scale but was not allowed to restore the original facade. The concrete colonnade on the modern building is a poor knockoff for the dramatic colonnade of the original hotel. It says little about its famous predecessor, which became the precursor, if not the icon, for tall, white columns in the American South.

While standing in the front of Hymans, close your eyes and do a "Somewhere in Time." Maybe, if you concentrate hard enough, upon opening your eyes you may find yourself in 1886 dressed in a hoop skirt or a gentleman's suit of the day, sipping on a mint julep and basking in the aura of Charleston's premier hotel of the day.(It certainly would help the transition--the mint julep that is.)

Pay attention to the date and the time. Check the newspaper of the day, the News and Courier. If it is August 30th, check into the Charleston Hotel--soak in the antiquity and ambience. Make sure you register for only a one night stay. If you reserve August 31st, at 9:50 pm you will be running out of a pitch-black hotel with the rest of the guests seeking to escape the toppling furniture and falling plaster. You will have just experienced the famous Great Charleston Earthquake, which jolted the Lowcountry like an alligator rolling its quarry.