More Ghosts of Georgetown

by Elizabeth Robertson Huntsinger

  The young heir faced the possibility of losing Prospect Hill forever. Taxes on the estate were long past due, and he still had to support the workers and pay all other expenses. The income he needed to meet his debts would not be received until after he brought in his rice crop, and the harvest was still months away.

  In hopes of raising money to save Prospect Hill, he and Charles, his faithful manservant, journeyed to Charleston to seek a loan. Money was extremely difficult to come by during those dark days of Reconstruction, but the heir was determined to find a source. As he and Charles crossed river after river on the numerous ferry trips required to reach Charleston, his hopes rose. Surely, one brokerage company or bank would extend credit for a property as fine as Prospect Hill.

  Alas, nowhere in Charleston could he find help. After being turned down by every financial institution in the city, he called on the villainous high-interest moneylenders, carpetbaggers who had set up shop temporarily in the low country to prey on people in financial need. But even the carpetbaggers would not help the heir of Prospect Hill. Already heavily mortgaged, the plantation was too deeply in debt to bear the burden of yet another loan. Even could the heir have secured one, the interest being charged by even the most lenient of banks was too high in comparison to the modest income the plantation would generate in the near future.

  Despondent, he made one last stop in Charleston before beginning the journey home. He entered one of the city’s many saloons to soothe his dejected soul with the balm of rum. Besides a bottle, the young heir found a lively card game. Northern soldiers still quartered in the war-ravaged port city were merrily gambling the late afternoon away. Hoping for some diversion from his problems, the heir joined them, sitting in on one hand, then another and another. Caught up in the chance for a windfall, he gambled boldly and, with one last unfortunate hand, lost what precious money he had. He left the saloon with a rum bottle on credit, the worried Charles riding by his side.

  Long after midnight, they arrived dejected and tired at Prospect Hill. The heir did not feel the peace he always experienced when entering his beloved home. The place was now tinged with sadness, for he felt he had exhausted all chance of keeping it. Slowly, he bid Charles good night and turned, bottle in hand, toward the stairs. Concerned with his friend and employer’s dejected state, Charles insisted that the heir wait until he had prepared something for them to eat, as it had been many hours since they had consumed anything except rum. The young heir quietly turned down the offer, telling Charles to eat alone. Before going to his quarters, he added ominously, “There is no point in me eating tonight.”

  Worried over the heir’s state of mind and refusal to eat, Charles was scarcely able to consume more than a few bites himself. Rather than going to his cabin, he decided to check on his dejected friend.

  He quietly climbed the stairs and stepped softly along the hallway until he reached the heir’s door. Squatting to peep through the keyhole, he saw that a lamp burned beside the rocking chair where his friend sat. The dejected heir was slowly rocking back and forth, occasionally raising the rum bottle to his lips for a slow pull of the fiery liquid.

  Ever more concerned, for the heir was not one to sit up all night, Charles decided not to leave his friend alone. Tired enough after the day’s long journey to sleep almost anywhere, he curled up on the heart-of-pine floor outside the door and was soon asleep.

  Waking within the hour, Charles peered through the keyhole once more, expecting to see the heir fast asleep in the chair. Instead, he was still slowly rocking, a fathomless expression on his face, his eyes staring into space.

  Charles lay down and slept once more, only to be awakened an hour or so later by the sharp report of what sounded like a gun. Leaping up from the hard floor, he rushed to the door and turned the knob without bothering to peer through the keyhole. Hoping that what he feared was not true, he tore into the room. What he saw would burn in his mind for the rest of his life. In the grey light just before dawn, the lamp flickered beside the heir’s still-rocking old chair. The poor heir lay on the floor, his pistol clasped in one hand and his blood spreading around him.

  Cradling his friend’s head in his lap, Charles gazed sorrowfully at the blood flowing from the mortal wound. “Why did you do this?” he murmured over and over as he tried in vain to stanch the flow of blood.

  Raising his dimming eyes to Charles’s tear-filled ones, the heir managed to murmur, “I will never leave here.”

  With that, he closed his eyes and lost consciousness. Blood soon ceased to pour from the wound, for the heir of Prospect Hill was dead.

  Charles raised his head and heard the predawn calling of songbirds. Suddenly, there was silence. A cool, light wind from the river blew softly in the open window as the low flame of the lamp, still burning within its glass globe, flickered and went out. An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness. The rocking chair, which had finally ceased its motion, began slowly to rock once more, leading Charles to dwell on the heir’s last words.

  Years later, a number of declining low country rice plantations were bought by well-to-do Northerners who came to Georgetown County to hunt. Finding the old rice fields a haven for ducks and the forests teeming with deer, quail, wild pigs, and other game, they saved many fine antebellum plantations from dissolution.

  Such was the case with Prospect Hill. The plantation’s Northern owner and his wife, deciding to remain in the low country a large portion of the year, set about beautifying the manor house and gardens, which were soon restored to their former glory.

  The servants at Prospect Hill, long familiar with the fate of the young Ward heir, were reticent about cleaning the room where he had died. However, it was now to become the bedroom of the new mistress of the house, so they were no longer able to avoid it.

  Rumors began trickling into Georgetown about the chair that rocked by itself in the room where the tragedy had taken place. Some servants sensed a distinct presence there.

  The mistress moved her bedroom to another part of the house.

  A little pet dog was said to become very upset in the room, barking and pacing with hackles raised, its agitation directed toward a specific spot, as though an unseen person stood there.

  A servant, alerted by one of the little dog’s tirades, stepped into the room to see if she could discover what was upsetting it. Standing before her was a gentleman planter with pistol in hand. The long-deceased heir looked as if he had never left this life.

  Quite taken aback but too shocked to have fear, she asked him what he was doing.

  His reply, before he disappeared before her eyes, was simple: “I will never leave here.”

  Bellefield

  _____________________When Belle Baruch bought the plantation of her dreams, she did not consider it unusual that the property had borne her name for two hundred years. Neither did she find it unusual—or daunting—that the manor that once stood on the site had a haunted history.

  Ever since childhood, Belle had led a remarkable life. Born in 1899, she was the first child of famed Wall Street millionaire financier and presidential adviser Bernard Baruch. The Baruchs kept a luxurious Park Avenue apartment in New York, summered in Europe, and spent Thanksgiving through Easter at their coastal South Carolina plantation retreat, Hobcaw Barony.

  Hobcaw was granted by the king of England to Baron Carteret during colonial days. After the Revolutionary War, the estate was sold and divided into thirteen rice plantations, one of which was Bellefield. Beginning in 1905, Bernard Baruch bought up ten of these holdings—Bellefield among them—thus making Hobcaw Barony a single entity once more.

  Belle considered Hobcaw her home. Growing up the privileged child of a wealthy New Yorker paled for her beside her role as the outdoorsy daughter of Hobcaw’s “baron,” as Eleanor Roosevelt later called Belle’s father.

  Belle and her younger brother and sister, Bernard Jr. and Renee, roamed Hobcaw at will. The family’s rambling Victorian mansion, Friendfield House, stood on a bluff across the
water from Georgetown, overlooking the point where the Waccamaw River widens into the broad expanse of Winyah Bay.

  Under the tall hardwoods and evergreens not far from Friendfield House, the children had their own miniature house for play. From the outside, it appeared to be a modest adult dwelling. But upon closer observation, it was apparent that it was a well-appointed house for small people. The windows, the doorways, the furniture, and even the kitchen were child-size.

  Belle cooked her first meal in the miniature kitchen—a whole roast turkey for her parents. Bernard and Annie Baruch never got to sample their little girl’s culinary masterpiece, however. Belle’s dogs ate the meal while their young mistress was hurrying to the big house to invite her mother and father to dinner.

  Bernard did not allow the intrusion of a telephone at Hobcaw. Twice a day, he had mail and telegrams delivered to his retreat via Georgetown. His close ties to the financial and political centers of the nation meant that Wall Street and Washington had to be able to contact him.

  Belle was acquainted with the famous and powerful people of her day. Claire Booth Luce, Winston Churchill, Churchill’s daughter Diana, and Franklin D. Roosevelt all spent lengthy vacations at Hobcaw as guests of her father. Many of Bernard’s Wall Street and Washington associates came to Hobcaw to relax and to hunt deer, wild pigs, turkeys, quail, and ducks.

  An avid hunter herself, the adventurous Belle once shot an alligator, although she preferred to stalk more traditional game. When she killed her first deer on the plantation, at the age of twelve, it was reported in the New York Herald. Belle often took advantage of moonlit nights to lead guests hunting on horseback.

  Friendfield House caught fire during Christmas dinner in 1929 and burned to the ground. Bernard replaced it in 1931 with a more austere brick mansion, Hobcaw House.

  Belle bought Bellefield Plantation from her father in 1936. The plantation had no house, but on a low bluff was the foundation of an early-nineteenth-century home that had burned before it was ever lived in. It was upon this long-ago base that Belle built her own elegant manor house.

  With its numerous chimneys rising among the surrounding live oaks, rambling Bellefield House was made to look like an old plantation home. Clapboard siding and contrasting dark wooden shutters added to the antebellum air of the home, concealing such modern appointments as a bomb shelter.

  An accomplished equestrienne, Belle spent many hours in her plantation’s practice ring preparing her horses for events in France and Italy. During most of the year, she kept these prize thoroughbreds in Bellefield’s picturesque stable, a rambling white clapboard structure with a belfry. When the season arrived in Europe, Belle took her horses across the Atlantic by ship to participate in international steeplechases. She did not limit herself to highbrow activities, participating in charitable events such as donkey racing at a children’s fund-raiser in France.

  Foremost among Belle’s horses was Souriant III, her Anglo-Arab, Normandy-bred favorite. This fine animal drew attention and admiration wherever Belle took him to compete. In pre—World War II Germany, the Nazis asked Belle to sell them Souriant so they could present him to Hitler as his personal horse. Belle declined. In Spain, officials offered to buy Souriant as a gift for their country’s leader. Before turning the Spaniards down, Belle jokingly asked them how much money was in the Bank of Spain.

  Enamored with air travel, Belle became a pilot, acquiring licenses to fly single-engine planes and copilot twin-engine aircraft. Her small red plane soon was a familiar sight above Georgetown. No one in town was ever alarmed to see her plane disappear into the trees at Hobcaw across Winyah Bay. They knew the daring mistress of Bellefield was descending homeward to taxi down her own runway toward her custom hangar. She flew her father to various engagements around the Southeast. It was even rumored that Belle helped the Army Air Force with local surveillance during World War II, when German submarines patrolled the Atlantic dangerously close to Georgetown’s shores.

  Belle lived happily there for many years until her death in 1964. Having purchased the entirety of Hobcaw Barony from her father in 1956, she willed the property, including Bellefield, to the state of South Carolina for research and teaching programs. This gift guaranteed that Hobcaw’s 17,500 acres of marsh, forest, and pristine beach will remain a refuge for the wildlife that thrives there.

  Her house still commands the bluff, looking cool, lovely, and unapproachable at the head of the green expanse of Bellefield’s manicured lawns. Her beloved Souriant is buried on the front lawn. His stall has been empty for many years, as has the practice ring. Hobcaw Barony’s deer and feral pigs, the descendants of animals that were once the prized objects of hunts, meander on the estate’s eighty miles of unpaved interior roads.

  Bellefield was made famous by Belle Baruch and her legendary father, but what of the antebellum home on whose foundation Bellefield House was constructed? Who started the house on the bluff, and why was it never lived in?

  Herein lies the story of Bellefield Plantation’s ghost.

  During the halcyon decades preceding the Civil War, dozens of legendary plantations were established on Georgetown County’s Waccamaw Neck. From Murrells Inlet south to Winyah Bay, plantation gentry lived lavishly beside the flowing black water of the tree-lined Waccamaw. Vast fields of rice, the life-blood of Georgetown’s economy, flourished alongside the river. Each field was traversed by miles of canals painstakingly dug and maintained by field hands. The rice grown in these fields was like gold. It brought great wealth to a number of Waccamaw Neck planters.

  The lovely, privileged daughter of one of these dynasties, groomed from birth to wed into her generation of plantation heirs, was given in marriage to Thomas Young, a youthful and ambitious planter who had no established manor house or rice fields. However, he possessed prime, fertile land on the southern tip of Waccamaw Neck and a burning ambition to create a plantation there.

  Entrusted with the hand of his elegant, sheltered princess bride, he was determined to make a home comparable to the one she had been raised in. Before dawn each day, Young was out supervising and laboring in his rice fields. He worked tirelessly all day. After dark, he did not rest but went straight to the site of the manor house he was building for his wife. His nightly lamplit inspection of the day’s work on the house was rarely cursory. He usually ended up with a hammer or a plane in his hand. A true perfectionist, Young savored knowing every facet of his plantation home as it rose from its foundation.

  Late each evening—often in the early hours of the morning—he would fall into bed for a few hours of rest before rising ahead of the sun again.

  While at first merely tiring, this schedule began to take a toll on Young’s health. He lost weight and developed deep, dark circles under his eyes. Normally vigorous in appearance, he began to look pale and strained. Still, he did not lessen his schedule; the plantation and the house came before all else.

  When the interior was nearly finished, Young intensified his already grueling schedule, working even later into the night. In the dark hours, the flickering light from his lantern could be seen on one floor of the house, then another, as he inspected the day’s work and added his own.

  Late one afternoon, Young was unable to swing himself into his saddle after a day in the rice fields. He collapsed on the ground beside his animal and had to be carried to bed.

  That night, he sank feverishly into a coma, from which he never awoke. In three days, he was dead.

  His wife of such a short time could not bear to move into the home her late husband had so lovingly built for her. The very sight of the graceful structure filled her with guilt that she had not realized her beloved was working himself to death.

  All activity on Bellefield Plantation ceased. The slaves were sold to nearby plantations, and the rice fields lay fallow. The manor house was abandoned. Flickering late-night lantern light no longer shone from the carefully constructed window casements.

  After a few years, though, boat passengers on th
e Waccamaw River began noticing light coming through the trees from the vicinity of the abandoned house. Midnight poachers, hunting illegally on the private land surrounding the house, noticed a light in the house, too, and began avoiding the area. Seeing a flickering light move from room to room was too eerie for even the most hardened illicit hunters.

  Late one afternoon, a slave named Caleb who had escaped from a nearby plantation sought refuge in the manor house. A former Bellefield slave, Caleb was quite familiar with the grounds. In the years since the plantation had been abandoned, he had heard enough about the mysterious light that shone from the desolate windows to be certain no one would come looking for him there. Not only would searchers be leery of exploring the abandoned structure, they would also figure that a runaway slave would avoid the place. That made the house a perfect place to hide. He would much rather face a mysterious light than risk being caught and taken back to the plantation he had left.

  Caleb lay down to rest on the floor beside a window in an upper-story room. The wide, smooth pine planks beneath him were warmed by the late-afternoon sun that shone through the windows. He fell asleep almost immediately.

  When he awoke, the floor was cold and the room was in darkness, save for a faint light emanating from the stairwell. Sleepily, he raised himself on one arm. As the light gradually grew brighter, he sat bolt upright. The flickering glow was moving up the stairs.

  At first, Caleb was overcome with a paralyzing disappointment. He had been found, and his pursuers were making their way to him. As the light grew brighter and reached the top of the stairs, he braced himself for the sight of his captors. Then he came to a sickening realization: no footsteps accompanied the light. No one was that stealthy. The light was approaching in utter silence.