Succession House
Succession House always fascinated me, not only because of the house itself, but because of what it represented. Before the Civil War, a group of men met there and decided they had had enough of the Northern government telling them what to do. They supported South Carolina’s secession from the Union.
I know that may not be a typical liberal viewpoint, but I always thought there was something brave about taking such a stand when you believed strongly in something, whatever history would later make of it.
When I first lived in Beaufort, my apartment was just around the corner. My landlady told me that when the house was sold, the buyers simply wrote a check for more than a million dollars. I remember thinking, Who has that much money sitting in a checking account?
And then there was the garden.
I loved the enormous staghorn fern and that wonderful stone head tucked among the greenery. The two of them seemed completely at home there, a little eccentric, a little mysterious, and very Beaufort.
For me, Succession House was always like that: history in the front, a bit of mystery in the garden, and one very expensive check somewhere in between.
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Guardian of the Castle
The cat sat quietly at the edge of The Castle, as though it had been waiting there long before I arrived. Behind it stood a house that had already witnessed more than a century of Beaufort history: war, occupation, illness, death, and the stories of spirits said to remain within its walls. During the Civil War, The Castle was used as a hospital by Union forces, and over the years its reputation for being haunted became part of Beaufort lore.
But that morning, it was the cat that held my attention. It did not seem lost or frightened. It seemed to belong there, perfectly still beneath the old trees, watching the house and anyone who came near it. I took the photograph years ago and always knew the cat mattered, although I couldn’t have explained why. Now I think of it as The Guardian of the Castle, keeping watch over the living, the dead, and whatever may linger somewhere in between.
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Chapel of Ease
The Chapel of Ease on Saint Helena Island is one of those places where the Lowcountry seems to hold its breath.
Built around 1740, the little chapel served families living on the island who found the trip into Beaufort to the parish church too difficult. Its walls were made of tabby, oyster shell, lime, sand and water, the very materials of the coast itself. Later, during and after the Civil War, the chapel became part of another chapter of island history, used by Northerners who came to teach newly freed people and by freedmen themselves for worship. A forest fire swept through in 1886, leaving the chapel in ruins. (SC Picture Project)
And perhaps the ruin is why it feels so powerful today.
The roof is gone. Trees and sky have become the ceiling. Sunlight slips through empty windows, vines creep over old tabby walls, and the small cemetery nearby seems almost to disappear into the landscape. It is beautiful, but not polished beautiful. It carries its age openly.
I have photographed it many times, especially when the wisteria was blooming and spilling itself around the old walls and tombs. That softness against the crumbling chapel was part of its magic. You could stand there and feel that the people who built it, worshiped there, mourned there and eventually disappeared were not quite as far away as the calendar would have you believe.
The Lowcountry is full of places where history remains visible. At the Chapel of Ease, it feels almost present.
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Little Blue
Little Blue sat at the edge of Hunting Island for years, looking as though it had somehow made a private agreement with the sea.
It was a family cabin, simple and blue, built close to the shoreline in the days when there were many little cabins scattered around Hunting Island. Some were surprisingly fancy. Some were odd little places with strange flags flying from them. Others were plain, weathered cabins tucked along the shore or back among the trees.
I always wanted one.
There was something irresistible about the idea of having a little place out there, where the forest met the ocean and the sound of the surf was never very far away.
But the ocean had other ideas.
Year after year, the tide worked at Little Blue. The shoreline disappeared beneath it, and eventually the cabin seemed almost to be sitting out in the water. The family would not give up. They kept trying to hold on to their place, even putting a ladder out there so they could climb up into the building.
I admired that stubbornness.
There was something wonderfully human about it. The sea would say, You cannot stay here forever.
And the family seemed to answer, Maybe not. But we are staying a little longer.
I used to drive as far out on Hunting Island as the road would take me, park the car, and walk through the high grass toward the ocean. There was a lovely house along the way, and beyond it the beach opened up in front of you.
One day I saw something I have never forgotten.
A group of dolphins had gathered close to shore. Working together, they chased little fish toward the beach until the fish were almost stranded in the shallows. Then the dolphins rushed in after them, grabbing the fish as the water washed back toward the sea.
For a few moments the whole shoreline seemed alive.
That was Hunting Island then.
Cabins in the trees. Strange flags fluttering in the breeze. Little Blue hanging on at the edge of the water. Dolphins feeding just offshore. People building places they loved even though the ocean was constantly rearranging the land beneath them.
Most of those cabins are gone now.
But in my memory Little Blue is still there, standing stubbornly at the edge of the Atlantic, with its ladder waiting and the tide coming in.
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Dusk at the Angel Oak, 1805
The light was going quickly, and the horse knew it before I did.
She lifted her head and stopped.
Off to the left, something moved in the brush.
I could not tell what it was. A bear, perhaps. A wild pig. Maybe a cat. In that light, every shadow had teeth.
Then I saw the oak.
Huge. Low-limbed. Strong enough to climb.
For one instant I thought, I can get up there.
Then I looked down at the horse.
She could not.
So I stayed in the saddle, gathered the reins, and listened to the woods breathe around us.
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Would You Spend the Night Here?
By daylight, you might not hesitate. The old house is beautiful in that particular Southern way: white railings, climbing vines, berries spilling over the porch, and a chair tucked beside the door as though someone has just stepped inside for a moment. The kind of place where you imagine sweet tea, ceiling fans, and long stories told after supper.
But dusk changes things. The shadows gather first beneath the porch. Then the garden begins to disappear at the edges. The little lamp near the walk comes on, followed by the porch light, though you’re almost certain no one has touched either switch.
That chair bothers you most. It is turned slightly toward the entrance, not quite facing the garden, not quite facing the door. You find yourself wondering who sits there after dark. Inside, the house is warm. Quiet. Comfortable. At least at first.
Sometime after midnight, you hear a soft creak from the porch. Then another. Not footsteps exactly. More like an old wicker chair shifting beneath someone’s weight. You lie perfectly still, listening. A few minutes later, the sound stops. And then comes the faint click of the front-door latch.
So… would you spend the night here?
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