Christmas with the British at Colonial Dorchester

We turned out of Charles Towne Landing and crossed the bridge.  We joined the procession of traffic through Charleston, found another exit, descended the ramp, navigated the traffic lights and turns, and passed stores and construction sites.  I was a wreck.  The tightness of the traffic felt like a noose after leaving the relative quiet of Charles Towne Landing.  How could another state park exist here in the middle of all of this congestion and confusion?  I checked again.  The GPS was certain so we followed its direction.  A prayer and a left turn across two more busy lanes of traffic and then there was quiet.  We had been swallowed up as we passed beside the wooden South Carolina State Park portal.  We had entered a quiet lane sheltered and swaddled by the shadow of ancient trees.  We drove a while longer and found a place where modernity met history.

It really did seem that way.  A misty fog had descended over a grassy knoll.  The parking lot’s asphalt met the grass where couples in colonial garb walked.  The man in red smiled at our disbelief.  He tipped his tri cornered hat.  His companion smiled sweetly on his arm as she showed off her own quiet decorum. 

Just beyond the couple were more British soldiers.  Redcoats warmed themselves by a fire next to three field tents.  The field tents were smartly staked but spoke of rough soldier life.  Beside these was a larger tent such as might have been used by officers then to plan military action.  There were more Redcoats inside joined by a variety of townsfolk all dressed in colonial garb.  There was a woman cooking over the fire and over there were men preparing cannons.  There were colonial children playing and there were townsfolk eating, laughing and recounting the day.  Our jeans and sweatshirts had never felt so out of place.  All the while we explored, the fog fell and the sun moved west as the afternoon wore down. 

    

One of the British soldiers walked towards us.  Anchor and I exchanged a glance.  We were both grateful we were apparently inside the same apparition but both wondering and slightly wary of just which period of history we had stumbled into.  A brief survey of American history would explain our concern.

We were relieved at the soldier’s warm greeting and found more relief when his first colonial hail morphed into a modern South Carolina “Hey!”  Today was the day of the regular monthly reenactment at Colonial Dorchester State Park.  The weather that had just turned so uncharacteristically chilly and threatened rain had driven other visitors away but the players were only too happy to see us arrive.  They told us of Colonial Dorchester and its first inhabitants.  They told us of the importance the site.  They showed us the remains of the Anglican bell tower.  They showed us the remains of the tabby walled garrison which had been used during the French and Indian War.  We were welcomed to the warm fire and were bid into the larger tent that was now filled with rollicking laughter and activity.  These villagers were preparing for Christmas.  Anchor and I happily found ourselves under the mistletoe and willingly obliged the on looking villagers and our own children to the show of a kiss.   The tent smelled of ginger.  We looked and saw a woman mixing up gingerbread to be baked over the fire. 

A young woman beckoned the children to her table where other children were decorating apples and oranges with cloves.  Wetfoot and Little Legs set to making intricate designs while Thoreau became distracted as his eyes lighted upon the soldiers’ weapons.  A Redcoat noted our son’s interest and patiently answered all of his many many questions.  The soldier invited us to watch the celebratory cannon firing to commerate the joy of Christmas.  We gratefully accepted and had just enough time to explore the rest of the village while the soldiers made ready their cannons. 

The garrison walls still stood centuries after being built.  They had been constructed of tabby, early cement made of ash and seashells.  The tabby walls gleamed white in the fog and stood prideful as we wondered at their strength which had stood through battles, earthquakes and ages.  Turning away from the garrison and past the quad and the tent where our friends were preparing their cannons, we stepped quietly through the colonial cemetery of the first inhabitants and on to the remnants of their bell tower.  No church now but only the tower stands watching over the mysteries of Colonial Dorchester and those remaining inhabitants of the cemetery.  We saw markings of archeological digs and were glad that study was being given to the site.  We walked past the markers of the colonial homes when we were summoned back to the main tent. 

A different soldier came out to greet us.  He was in charge of the cannons and was beaming at the chance to display their beauty and power.  He told us of the procedure.  He directed us to open our mouths a bit and to cover the children’s ears.  The cannoners were assembled and the celebratory show began.  Precision in orders, absolute obedience, like machinery themselves, the cannon squad moved around the cannon, to it, above it, back again and BOOM!  The gun thundered.  The ground shook.  We felt its power as its sound passed through our teeth.  As we marveled, the team fell back to its task.  Members moving about the cannon became gears and cogs and BOOM!  Another blast!  Not quite ready to leave their posts, they progressed to a third gun.  Back, forward, above, back with several precision steps in between, BOOM!  A final deafening thunder blew against the chill of the fog.  Our little family stood amazed and unable to speak after the wonder we had witnessed.  We were dumbstruck.  This was an enactment of the honorary cannon fire of Christmas and was a time for joy and cheer.  How much more movement and noise would a battle have wrought?  The cannon’s power was compelling.  A single blast rang in our ears and through our skulls.  How much more noise would a battlefield of cannon fire command?

We left our friends and thanked them for their hospitality.  I held Ben’s hand as we crossed the field through the fog, away from the colonial era and across the centuries to our minivan.  I clutched Anchor’s arm and contemplated what horrors those early battles would have bred.  I breathed a thankful mother’s prayer from a faithful wife’s heart and gathered my sweet ones safely into our chariot of modernity and on towards home.