My concern is broader, however, than just a missed storytelling opportunity: I am wary of the extreme liberties some people take with Savannah’s history. Guides could still point at the house and talk about Francis Sorrel and, with the right storyteller, his life’s story would provide chills without having to falsely tie a suicide to the property in question. He was an uncomfortably complex man. His time on Earth contained the stuff of Greek tragedy: both tribulation and success, but his victories were only won by denying part of himself. He was part black and part white, and was caught in a time of extreme racial inequality. One has to wonder if he saw the bitter irony of his own slave ownership, because the fact that he prospered by owning other, less fortunate human beings, he was perpetuating the very system which would denounce him, if the truth about his lineage was revealed.
Alternately, tour guides could talk of the unsettling and deeply ironic fact that a mixture of French, Haitian and American blood was spilled in an area where, sixty years later, a man who whose pedigree consisted of that same French and Haitian blood built a house, where he flourished after coming to America. Could this be the real source of the controversy engendered by this house? Could the truest ‘haunting’ at the Sorrel-Weed be the spectre of the deeply conflicted sides of the man who built it? Or perhaps are there echoes of an epic battle which took part on that plot of land before the house was even built. I like to imagine that it is a combination of all these factors. Sometimes, the most tumultuous houses in the Historic District have nothing to do with the ghosts which may or may not roam their interiors. The houses which emanate the most disquieting vibes are sometimes the ones with the most disturbing history, not hauntings.
Today, the Sorrel-Weed House is privately owned, and is available for touring.
Is this the true location of the suicide?
Fort Pulaski
U.S. Highway 80 East
In the American Revolution, the Allies’ misguided assault on British-held Savannah ranks among the most costly and bloody hour of the entire conflict. Among the dead was Polish Count Casimir Pulaski, the highest-ranking foreign officer to die in the Revolution. He was called the Father of the American Cavalry, and he served as George Washington’s personal bodyguard. But the dashing officer died, as so many men did, in the futile charge against well-entrenched British positions.
Fort Pulaski, named for the brave and bold Count, was designed in part by Robert E. Lee, back when he was fresh out of West Point, in 1831. The future commander of the Army of Northern Virginia in the Civil War, Lee was in charge of sorting out the complex task of draining the swamp on which the fort now sits. Pulaski was designed to be an impregnable fortress, with masonry walls seven and a half feet thick. It was seized by the Confederates nearly three months before the attack on Fort Sumter, so the taking of the fort was actually the first military action of the Civil War.
The fort was well-fortified, having fifty cannon, when the Union landed on Tybee Island very late in 1861. The Union spent months sneaking their own cannon onto Tybee, working at night as to not draw fire from the fort. The guns which the Union was hard at work concealing consisted of a new type of cannon, which was untested in combat. The rifled cannon could fire shells further than ever before, but of even more importance was their accuracy. The Rebels defending the fort were unaware of the existence of this new weapon, and were not terribly concerned about the Union soldiers on Tybee Island, because they appeared to be too far away to be able to cause serious damage to the fort.
Military wisdom held that cannon were ineffective against stone or masonry forts at a range of 800 or more yards—and the Union artillery was more than twice that distance away. The Rebels were well-trained, and had enough provisions and powder to withstand a siege of 4 months or more. Their commander, Colonel Charles Olmstead, was arguably the best artillerist in the Confederacy.
Thirty-six Union guns squared off against fifty on the Confederate side. The battle began on April 10th, 1862. Confederate General John Pemberton, watching the battle, suggested that Fort Pulaski was wasting shot and powder by returning fire against the Union attack, because after all, wasn’t the fort impregnable?
The rifled Union guns proved to be far more effective than anyone imagined. Their incredible long-range accuracy began to take a toll on the fort’s southeast wall. The guns kept up their pounding of Fort Pulaski through that night, and into the morning of the 11th. The morning’s light revealed that the fort’s integrity had been compromised, and by noon that same day, a gaping hole had been blasted through one wall in the fort. Union shells were entering the fort itself. These shots were hitting the wall of the powder magazine, which contained forty thousand pounds (twenty tons) of gunpowder. Colonel Olmstead was faced with a terrible choice: surrender, or see both himself and his men killed in a massive explosion. Olmstead, upon surrendering, said, “I yield my sword. I trust I have not disgraced it.”
Fort Pulaski, the supposedly impregnable fortress, surrendered after thirty hours of shelling. The immovable object met the irresistible force, and the results were disastrous for the Confederacy. Colonel Olmstead and his men spent most of the remainder of the war in Union prisons.
Photo by Timothy H O’Sullivan of the breach in April 1862. Obtained from the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.
‘The Immortal Six Hundred’
The battle had been a Rebel fiasco, but the truly terrible had yet to occur. It wasn’t until 1864 that six hundred captured Confederate officers were interred at the former Rebel stronghold by the Union Army. These men became pawns in a war of retribution between the two sides—a disagreement over the proper treatment and housing of prisoners of war. These men, called “The Immortal Six Hundred,” were placed on starvation rations to retaliate for the barbaric practice of the Confederates, who were placing Union prisoners-of-war in the line of fire to protect vital interests, essentially using them as human shields.
These six hundred men were forced to survive by eating rats, cats, and in one case, a kitten. One of these cats belonged to the daughter of the Union camp commander. Forty-four of these men died as a direct result of their treatment, be it the harsh and unheated quarters or the lack of nutrients. Thirteen of them were buried in unmarked graves somewhere in or around Fort Pulaski. But even the ones who survived continued to have health problems years later, in spite of their release.
As late as 1930, one survivor was still bitter. He was quoted in an interview as saying that while he loved his country and it was still a thrill to see the flag, “but with that thrill comes an unspeakable sadness; for it was the Stars and Stripes that floated over... Pulaski.”
Photo by Timothy H O’Sullivan of the breach interior in April 1862. Obtained from the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.
Parade Ground Happenings
Numerous people have reported seeing or experiencing strange things at Fort Pulaski. One couple reported seeing a soldier atop the parapet near dusk. “He was standing at the edge, wearing a dark blue jacket,” the woman remembers, “and then he simply stepped back out of view. I walked back, to get a better view of him, but he was gone.” The man, a Civil War reenactor, confirmed this, but did add, “I don’t think he was wearing blue. His jacket was definitely dark, but I know that some Confederate units wore a darker shade of gray than the others. It was a color called Richmond Gray—it was almost black, it was so dark—and they called it that because it was issued at a depot located in Richmond, Virginia.” Then, perhaps to assuage the stormy look his wife gave him, he added: “In the dim light of the setting sun, it probably did look blue to Sharon, but I’m certain it was Richmond Gray because I have just such an outfit at home. The fellow was wearing wooden buttons—he was Confederate.”
There are living historian interpreters in the fort from time to time who do in fact dress from that time period, but given the acrimony even today over the Union occup
ation of Pulaski, it would be unlikely that any of the reenactors would wear blue. But it does bear pointing out that Fort Pulaski was only under Confederate control for one year in the conflict, so if they did in fact see the spirit of a departed soldier, he would be much more likely to be wearing blue.
Another man visiting the fort reported hearing strange sounds in the powder magazine. “I was viewing the display, and I distinctly heard someone say, ‘Charlie, come here.’ I stepped out into the parade ground and there was no one there. It sounded like he was right there at my shoulder when he spoke, but I could see no one around me.”
Others, including myself, have felt something amiss in the soldier’s quarters. I attended a reenactment entitled “Christmas with the Troops” in 2002. Along with firing the cannon and doing parade ground exercises, the well-drilled reenactors (and period-costumed ladies) also provided ginger cookies and some good cider around a roaring fire, where we sang traditional holiday folk songs. It was midway through singing that I began to feel ill. I experienced a claustrophobic despair unlike any I’ve ever felt. My whole body began tingling, and I had to step outside. I leaned on a brick archway and tried to regain my composure, and one of the older reenactors walked over to check on me. “Feeling okay, young fella?” He asked. I told him I needed air, and added that I had never had an anxiety attack before and had never experienced claustrophobia, either. He smiled grimly, and said, “You’re not the first. Given the history of that area you were just standing, it isn’t a shock at all. It happens all the time—people feel sick, and once they get outside they feel fine.”
It is not surprising that an area so imbued with turmoil and despair would be haunted. Both the terrific pounding absorbed by the fort in those desperate hours of early 1862, and the confinement of the Immortal Six Hundred in 1864 could well have seeped into the very brick walls of the fortification. The anguish of both events cannot help but have repercussions even today.
Tybee Island Bed & Breakfast Inn
24 Van Horn Avenue
On Tybee Island near North Beach sits a fortification called Fort Screven, built in 1897. It was constructed to bolster the coastal defenses and defend the mouth of the Savannah River during the Spanish-American War, and served that purpose until after the Second World War. Also part of the Fort Screven complex was the old hospital complex, a collection of houses just a few hundred yards to the south of the main fortification. Those buildings have been turned into private residences in some cases, but also into a popular bed and breakfast. But the Tybee Island Bed & Breakfast Inn (formerly known as the Fort Screven Inn) has another reputation other than beautiful rooms and friendly staff. Strange hauntings are experienced there by staff and guests alike, with unexplainable and sometimes terrifying results.
This story has personal significance to me, because I worked and lived at the Inn during the winter and spring of 1997. I did not believe in ghosts when I began the job, but by the end of my stay I was very much a believer in the supernatural. I was hired originally to be the caretaker just during the winter months for a friend’s bed and breakfast, but I was requested to stay on for some additional time when the owner returned.
When I was interviewing for the position, I remember being asked whether or not I believed in ghosts. My response was an emphatic ‘no.’ With that, my friend was satisfied, but added that he had previously had a hard time keeping innkeepers around because of all the spectral activity. After showing me the ropes of the job, he departed for Texas for several weeks.
“Do you believe in ghosts now?”
A Non-Believer is Converted
Early on in my stay, I began to notice that there were some strange sounds originating in the hallway. The sounds were like someone was walking up and down the hall with heavy boots—but there was no one there. This happened at all hours of the day and night. I at first attributed this to the settling and groaning of an old house. It was, after all, built on a hill which sloped back with the property, and the winter months on Tybee can be pretty windy. One guest complained about the person stomping out in the hallway in the middle of the night, but the inn was empty except for that couple and me, and I didn’t leave my room all evening.
The incident that really changed my mind about the reality of ghosts involved this hallway, specifically the door leading down to the basement. Often times in the course of my daily routine, I would walk past and find the door unlocked. It was one of those types of surface-bolt locking mechanisms, the type where a tubular bolt on the door slides into a corresponding clasp on the doorframe, and the door would be unlocked nearly every time I’d walk by. It seemed to be more likely to happen when I was all alone in the inn. On one occasion I locked it, and turned around to walk down the hall, and I heard it unlock behind me! I heard the distinctive click of the tubular bolt sliding to the open position. I turned back, and sure enough, the door was unlocked again.
I started to think that maybe the hallway was warped or had settled, and perhaps the force exerted by the shifting weight of walking down the hallway could explain why it was unlocking. So I walked backwards down the hall, watching the bolt the whole time—and nothing. It didn’t move. I even jumped up and down in that hall, I’m sure it was quite a sight. I reached out to see if it was loosened, and my fingers got within a couple of inches, and the lock unlocked by itself. The door then opened by itself. I saw it happen with my own eyes. Needless to say, I didn’t go anywhere near that door for a while.
When my friend returned from Texas, the first question he asked me was, “Do you believe in ghosts now?” I had to admit yes. After so many unexplainable things happened to me, I had begun to accept that there are other forces at work that we simply do not understand. That door in particular was an area where many baffling events took place. On another occasion, the door itself was pounded with a knocking so loud that I heard the commotion from where I was sitting outside, on the front porch swing. I rushed to the hallway to see what the matter was, and the door was once again slowly opening by itself.
Frightening Twists
On a few occasions, the strange happenings took a scary turn. One guest left abruptly early one morning, complaining that someone unseen had held her down in bed and bitten her on the side of the neck. She did have a red mark on her neck that looked like teeth marks. She paid for her room in full, and practically ran to her car to get away from whatever she had encountered.
She was not the only guest to have an incident. A couple claimed that they experienced some very strange things one night. The young pair was awakened by a strange sound coming from the bedside table in their room. It was a strange vibrating sound, almost a ringing, as they described it. The couple noticed that not only was the racket coming from one of the bedside lamps, the lamp itself was also levitating ever so slightly, about a quarter of an inch. When the man reached over and touched it, he claimed the lamp dropped back down onto the table. Then the strange noise moved across the room and began to vibrate the TV. The most surprising part of this story is that the guests were not the least bit alarmed by this activity. They were laughing and joking the next morning at breakfast. The other guests loved it. When I asked them if they were disturbed or wanted to switch rooms, they both laughed harder and told me that they had both grown up in haunted houses. They were a bit upset that the next night was perfectly peaceful. They were looking forward to another haunting!
I, as well as other guests, experienced a cold spot in one of the bedrooms. It felt as if the temperature dropped twenty degrees when you’d get near one side of the room. The air conditioner wasn’t in use yet because it was still cool, and there was no draft in the room, but that spot was usually colder than the rest of the house for no discernible reason.
The ghost was not without a sense of humor. A gruff guest named Ron, who was combative with the staff and surly with his fellow guests, suddenly claimed that his bagels were missing. First he accused some other
guests of stealing his breakfast food, but when they denied it, he then accused me of taking it. No amount of my denial was sufficient, so Ron searched everywhere for his missing food, including the trash can—Ron was looking for evidence of the wrapper, which he thought would be proof that someone had eaten the breakfast roll. No bagel or wrapper turned up. Days after Ron and his wife departed the inn, the bagel suddenly surfaced, appearing right in plain view in the very front of the freezer. This became known jokingly by the staff and guests alike as the ‘Saga of Ron’s Haunted Bagel.’
One afternoon I restocked the refrigerator with cans of soda that we provided for the guests. I walked back to the kitchen and put the remaining eight of the twelve-pack of sodas in the pantry, which is located right next to the main hallway. I placed the sodas on the center shelf, with the open end of the cardboard case pointing up in the air. Now, this case of sodas was not near the edge of the shelf, and wasn’t resting at an odd angle, or anything out of the ordinary. I walked away, and heard a bang that was so loud I jumped in the air. It really startled me. When I walked back to the kitchen to see what had caused it, I found six of those soda cans rolling across the kitchen floor, all in a row, slowly rolling away from the pantry door. Two things about this still make me scratch my head even today: first, the cardboard case of sodas was still upright in the pantry. Did they jump out? Or did the case tip over and then somehow tip back with two soda cans still inside? Either way, it was impossible. And the second really odd thing about it was the fact that the house had settled on its foundation, and the house was built on a hill that sloped back. So when I found those soda cans rolling across the kitchen floor, they were rolling uphill. I retreated out of the kitchen and didn’t come back in for a while—I remember thinking that if something that odd was going to be happening in there, I wanted to be nowhere near it. That was one of the strangest experiences of my life.
Haunted Savannah: America's Most Spectral City Page 26