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.
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