48

EVERLY

Six months later

Let me tell you a story,” I said. My voice echoed across the garden courtyard of the Rivers and Seas Museum of Savannah, and everyone ceased talking, champagne glasses perched in midair. As Pat Conroy once said, “‘Tell me a story’ are the most powerful words in the English language.” I was using them now.

The models of the Pulaski and the Wanderer had been carefully moved outside to the middle of the cobblestone courtyard. I stood between the two ships and channeled Oliver’s words, the phrases he’d used when he sent me off on a journey to discover the stories behind the tragedy, and therefore a different story of my own.

“This ship,” I said, my hand wavering over the intricate model of the steamship, “the Pulaski, is the reason we are here tonight. This ship”—I pointed to the schooner in its case—“is the Wanderer, an illegal slave-importing vessel, which is also part of the bigger story. Now, let me tell you how the stories of these two ships intersect.” I paused and the crowd grew quiet. I sought Oliver’s gaze and found it. We’d practiced this speech together so many times I felt the words slipping easily from my lips.

“One breezy June morning in 1838, a family of twelve, plus a nursemaid, boarded the steamship Pulaski, intending to sail from Savannah to Baltimore before continuing by rail and coach to their seasonal stopping place of Saratoga Springs, New York, where they would escape the South’s brutal summer. This was the Longstreet family, prominent in Savannah and a vital part of the city. Lamar, the father, was a banker, merchant, plantation owner and stockholder in the great ship he was boarding with his family. Together they climbed the gangplank that beautiful summer morning—Lamar; his wife, Melody; their six children; his sister, Augusta; and his niece Lilly Forsyth, whose statue even now looks over the Savannah River. Lilly traveled with her husband Adam, baby Madeline and nursemaid, an enslaved woman named Priscilla. Lamar Longstreet’s children ranged in age from two to fourteen. Only seven of these thirteen people survived the devastating catastrophe that would follow.”

I allowed the murmurs of the crowd to settle. They wanted to know what I had once wanted to know—who had survived? And how?

“I will tell you this—and the rest you will discover on your journey through the exhibit—the oldest child, Charles, survived the explosion and spent five harrowing days and nights at sea. He not only lived through the hell but also helped others to survive, earning him the name Noble Boy.”

I stopped to take a breath and survey the crowd, which was nearly leaning into the story.

“Twenty years later, that same boy, now a man, Charles Longstreet, sent a reoutfitted luxury schooner, which was flying the New York Yacht Club pennant, to the Congo in Africa.” I waved my hand over the model of the Wanderer. “From there, that ship returned with over four hundred enslaved Africans in bondage as human cargo, packed back to back on this ship, their hands and feet shackled. This, the penultimate illegal slave-trading ship. Charles was also part of the Fire-Eaters, a rebel group that agitated for the South’s secession from the Union, knowing it would mean civil war. He was never convicted of a crime despite his evil acts. That and his flaming head of red hair earned Charles a new nickname: the Red Devil.”

The crowd seemed rapt; I had them. “This same man was also the very last man to die in battle in the Civil War. He was shot through the heart on a battlefield in Columbus, Georgia, in 1865 while leading a charge against Union troops, six days after Lee had already surrendered to Sherman in the famous Appomattox Accord and twenty-seven years after he survived the Pulaski. How could this be? How could a young boy once called a Noble Boy eventually earn a reputation for evil and die an unnecessary death at the end of a brutal conflict? Could it have gone any differently for him? Yes, I believe it could have.

“There were others who survived the great explosion of the steamship Pulaski. There were others who chose a different path. So, let us ask ourselves as we head into this exhibit: What happened on the night of June 14, 1838, when a boiler exploded at 11:04 p.m. and sank the luxury steamboat that has since been called the Southern Titanic? What happened to Charles Longstreet and his family to irrevocably alter their world and therefore ours? What happened to Lilly Forsyth and why has her legend continued to enthrall us? To answer some of that, we have found a treasured cache of Lilly’s letters to her dearest friend, Augusta Longstreet, and you, too, can see portions of these letters and read her story and the choices she made. We have also found the written account of Augusta’s travails. Would you have made the same choices some of these passengers made as they fought for their lives in a treacherous sea? And what about the choices they made with their lives afterward?”

I took a breath and leaned forward. “How did they survive the surviving?”

The crowd began to talk to each other, whispering. I raised my voice.

“When we open these doors in thirty minutes, you will journey through the night of the explosion and the terrible days that followed along with the passengers of the Pulaski, and especially with the Longstreet family. Maybe you will answer these questions for yourself. We are so thrilled you are the first to see it. Welcome.”

I set the microphone into the stand and stood back. Applause filled the air and I looked for Oliver. His gaze caught mine and he mouthed, “Well done.”

Music swelled and spilled from the front doors of the museum, composed to imitate the sounds of the sea’s waves. The crowd gathered under tents in the garden. Magnolias in full bloom were dropping palm-sized, creamy blooms to the ground. Patrons lifted champagne glasses and grasped tickets bearing names they didn’t recognize next to the sketch of the doomed steamship.

I walked away from the ship models and ambled through the crowd; I wanted to find my family.

The night sky shimmered, a violet dome, the air still warmly dense from last night’s storm. A crescent moon seemed to swing over the oak trees. Twinkling lights stretched from branch to branch like fallen stars, and lanterns flickered on tabletops. Canapés were passed on silver trays by servers who wore the garb of 1838 passengers—the women in intricately sewn silk dresses with shirred sleeves and pleated bodices, the men in dark vested suits and top hats.

I spied Sophie across the garden and waved, thought of our conversations. The entire situation—from noble boy to slave trader—floundered for an explanation. How did it all happen and what do we do about it now? It felt like a poem without words, a drowning fish: it made no sense.

The devaluation of humanity was incomprehensible to me and those I loved. And yet so it continued even today in new and different ways. The intolerance and bias echoed. I had no real answers, but for now, what I could do was tell the truth in the artifacts, stories and curation of this exhibit.

I took small breaths in the tight blue silk dress that Allyn had insisted I wear, one she’d worn to a cotillion years before. “Both appropriate and sexy, with a dash of 1800s flavor. It is your night,” she’d said. I even wore Mom’s pearls.

The last nine months seemed to have slipped past in a rush. My passion for the project had consumed me. I’d been teaching a heavy load, and had eventually agreed to teach the next semester at SCAD’s LaCoste abroad program. I’d finished my job here and wanted to find out who I was without Savannah, without the stories that I had lived with all my life.

Now, opening night glowed before me, and I was both nervous and excited, wired and alert. My high heel caught in a tuft of moss between the stepping-stones and I almost twisted my ankle as I spied my family huddled together at the far end of the patio.

“Here!” Allyn waved.

I reached them, hugged my sister and Mom, drew Hudson close and kissed the top of his head. “You look very handsome in your little suit.”

“Mom made me wear it but I picked out the bow tie.” He touched its edge carefully. “It’s made of feathers.”

“I see that.” I smiled. “Where’s your sister?”

Hudson pointed a few feet away where Merily stood with a friend by the fountain’s edge, throwing in coins.

“How are you feeling?” Allyn asked. “You look simply amazing.”

“It’s your dress.” I tugged at the snug waistline.

“I guess that’s why you look amazing, then.” Allyn leaned over and kissed my cheek.

Mom plucked a tube of lipstick from her purse and held it out. “A little of this will help, too.”

I took the bright red lipstick and gave it a quick swipe across my lips, acquiescing with a smile. “Thank you, Mom.”

“Keep it. If you’re going to be at that lectern on that big stage, we need to see your lips.” Mom nodded with certainty. “Now, how are you feeling? Are you nervous? It’s all so glamorous.”

“I’m nervous, but also glad opening night is finally here. We’re ready.”

“I can’t wait to see it.” Hudson stepped up. “I wonder if I live or die.”

Allyn popped her son lightly on the shoulder.

“Hey. Isn’t that the whole point? We get to find out?” He held up his ticket. Everly spied the name: First Mate Hibbert.

“Not the whole point,” Allyn said. “You get to learn about the night and the ship and some of our city’s history.”

“And whether I live or die.” He pulled at his mom’s hand. “Let’s go.”

I leaned down and whispered, “You live, and you’re a hero.”

Hudson stood taller and I looked again to my sister. “I’ll meet y’all inside. I have to sneak in the back and then open the front doors.”

“Go get ’em,” Mom said.

“I’ll try.” I walked away, rubbing the lipstick off with the back of my hand.

Slipping through the back door, I took a moment in the hallway to stand in the darkness and catch my breath near a container that held acquired artwork that needed to be acclimated to the humidity and temperature of the building before it could be displayed. My mind flipped through the contents of the notecards waiting for me on the lectern with words of welcome for the guests.

I’d practiced this second part of the speech at home, walking around the courtyard as I muttered it over and over until my neighbors were no doubt convinced I was mad. “What are you doing back here?” A voice startled me and I twisted to see Maddox coming down the darkened hallway, backlit by the ballroom. He wore a tuxedo and his hair was slicked back.

“Preparing myself,” I said as he reached my side. “And you look mighty handsome.”

“Thank you. You look absolutely stunning.”

“Thank you, Maddox. Sometimes I do clean up.”

He tossed his arm over my shoulder and squeezed. “It’s time to join the party. What you don’t know now you won’t know.” His laugh had become as familiar and warm to me as my own family. “We’ll open the doors and go through with the first group as if we’ve never seen the exhibit before.”

A tremor ran through me. I took a moment and paused to identify it—Fear? Thrill? Desire? No, it wasn’t anything like that. It was relief.

“Let’s go see the masterpiece you’ve created. They’re waiting.”

I stood on the tiptoes of my high heels to kiss his cheek. “I have grown to love you. You know that, don’t you?”

“As I have you.”

We linked arms and headed toward the light.

---

Oliver, Maddox and I stood at the blue front doors with the banner over them that read “Don’t Give Up the Ship”—a motto of the U.S. Navy—and then opened the doors with a grand gesture as a hundred and ninety-two blue and white balloons floated out and up in the sky. One for each passenger and crew.

The crowd was queued up according to the numbers on their tickets, since we only allowed twenty people in at a time. They exclaimed and grabbed for the trailing balloons as they floated out.

The first thing visitors would see when they walked into the foyer was the anchor, rusty but whole, on a pedestal. The crowd separated around it, paused to stare and wonder and then entered the exhibit hallway. Children bounced on their toes; adults chatted.

My family oil painting of the Pulaski hung in the grand entrance as an overhead light shone down on the ship that had once been strong and proud. Donated by the Winthrop Family, a plaque read. I thought it should read, “The painting that led us to the true story of Augusta and Lilly,” or “The painting that changed my life,” but that wasn’t quite the point for anyone but me.

First in the exhibit rooms came the history of Savannah in the early 1800s. Large images of the city as it would have appeared that fateful day—carriages and sandy roads; cotton bales hanging from hooks on a wharf and in hemp bags; park squares surrounded by stores and businesses on the east and west sides and homes on the north and south sides. Some of the sketches were in color, but most were black-and-white charcoal sketches done by a local artist. Over speakers echoed the sounds of horses’ hooves on clay and dirt. Voices called in rich southern accents and metal clanged on metal at the riverside docks where a sketch showed the Pulaski tied to pilings next to other ships being loaded with bags of cotton.

The hallway then led to a room where a blown-up rendering of the ship’s blueprint was projected on the floor. At the front end of the room was one mast and at the far end another. Jagged marks on the blueprint showed where the ship had come apart. Patrons read about the sequence of events on the night of the explosion on illustrated boards along the walls.

Also on the wall were illustrations of the lifeboats and ropes, of the promenade and aft decks. A picture of a watch face, made a hundred times larger than the real pocket watch, the glass shattered and the hands reading 11:04, hung high toward the ceiling and next to it a timeline of the remainder of the night’s events, clocking each moment until the ship disappeared into the sea forty-five minutes later. The sounds in this room changed from the echoes of the dock to the splashing of waves lapping against the boat’s wooden hull, and people’s cries for help.

Then began the Longstreet family’s journey. A painted family tree with sketches of each family member hung on the far wall. When patrons stood in front of it, they could push a button for each family member to discover what happened to them. They were then given numbers to follow into the next room where the means of survival were displayed.

Each Longstreet family member’s name was placed on their means of rescue: Lilly, Priscilla and Madeline on a quarterboat; Augusta, Charles and Thomas on the floating piece of the promenade deck raft; Lamar also on a separate yawl that had been repaired and had left the promenade deck on the third day. Affixed to a linen backdrop and framed in gold, A. Longstreet’s iron luggage label hung beneath a picture light. Whenever I saw it, I felt the initial thrill of knowing it had been discovered, that Augusta’s story had wanted to be told as badly as I had wanted to tell it.

Lilly’s enchanting story had been typed up on a huge plexiglass sheet. It filled a wall with a dotted trail across a map, showing her journey from Onslow County, up the coast and through small towns until she found the haven in Michigan where she settled with her daughter, and with Priscilla. Photos of her handwritten letters hung framed with the typed words below for those who wanted to linger and read the tales that Lilly wrote to Augusta. Their friendship, which endured for a lifetime, survived the surviving, lived through the tragedy and nourished both of them for all their life.

This full story of Lilly stood in sharp contrast next to the photos and story of Charles.

The Red Devil—the exhibit showed the verity of his life, who he had been and who he had become. There was no turning from this truth.

Oliver sidled up next to me in his tuxedo and bow tie. “If you wore a top hat you would look as if you just stepped off the ship,” I said with a smile.

He ran his hand through his thick hair and nodded at Lilly’s display. “A friendship that endured a lifetime. Long after tragedy.”

“Yes.” I nodded with a lump in my throat. “Even distance didn’t let it suffer.”

He shook his head. “No. That kind of friendship lasts even if . . .”

“Someone is gone . . .” I said. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, no you don’t. Not really.” He drew closer just as someone called his name and he turned.

I wandered away and noticed how the patrons grew more and more silent, as they read and became immersed in the experience, as they were drawn to the third area where there were four split sections separated by mirrored partitions. One area held the model of a lifeboat; another a broken piece of decking with the title Promenade Deck; and the third a larger piece of decking with a bench attached to it labeled Aft Deck. In each area was a framed poster with the names of those who were known to have found brief refuge on the pieces shown. The sounds of wind and waves simulated what it had been like for those struggling to survive. The visitors spoke in whispers punctuated by exclamations when they ran across a name or fact that jolted them.

In the last exhibit hall before the ballroom were artifacts protected in glass cases. The pocket watch was displayed front and center on a pedestal surrounded by thick glass. The brass plate beneath it read, “A pocket watch believed to belong to the Lamar Longstreet family, shattered at exactly the time of the explosion.”

Crowds lingered at the display, prompting Maddox to gently encourage them to move on, as there were others who were waiting to get through.

I stood in a far back corner of the last room, marveling at what we had created. Here in this room were the chords of a symphony orchestra. Servers handed out food and drink until eventually everyone made their way to the ballroom. As they entered the large space, they were given a card listing their passenger’s fate—whether he or she had survived or perished. Exclamations of dismay and rejoicing spread among the crowd, and then voices were lowered as they looked among the artifacts of another age, of lives long gone.

At the far end of the room stood a replica of the ship’s gangplank with suitcases at the bottom where “passengers” could get their photo taken as if they were boarding the ship. When everyone had shuffled in, Oliver nodded at me that it was time.

I climbed to the lectern and tapped the microphone.

“Welcome to the Steamship Pulaski Exhibit—Only One Night at Sea.” In a slow and modulated voice, I thanked all those who needed thanking, from the museum donors to Maddox’s crew. I regaled the crowd with a history of the ship’s discovery as told by Maddox. Then I moved on to the part where my voice might break, and I’d decided it would be okay if it did. This wasn’t a story to enthrall—it was true and it was heartbreaking.

“Much of what we know about the tragedy of the Pulaski was lost to the dust of time, until now. History matters—what happened to our city in 1838 echoes today.” I paused and cleared my throat. “Loss and devastation to our city and to our people still pulses through our history: lost families, lost fortunes and lost hope. Our city grieved then, as did the nation. But we, the citizens of Savannah, are formidable people and we’ve thrived in the years since the Pulaski sank. How did the city endure despite such loss? How did the individuals on that ship continue their lives? Here at the museum, we asked ourselves those questions numerous times as we studied the wreckage and learned about the loss.”

I took a breath. “We want answers when tragedy strikes. We want to know why it happened. We want to cast blame, to discover what caused the Pulaski to explode. We know now that a second engineer let the hot boiler become dry and then poured cold water into it, and it exploded like a bomb, blowing the ship apart. As you saw in the exhibit, it took only forty-five minutes for the ship to sink to the bottom of the sea and lie scattered across the ocean floor. But we don’t really have a deeper explanation for such a tragedy, only a cause.

“It took years to design and build this ship. It was a trusted, sturdy vessel. And beautiful to boot. But a mistake was made and the ship was destroyed. We can blame the engineer and we must. But what happened even before that? Was it the pressure to be the fastest and the best that forced him to act negligently? Why were there only four lifeboats, only two of which were seaworthy? Was negligence involved? We still search for the answers. We may never find them, yet some good came out of tragedy—maritime laws were changed dramatically, making steamboat travel safer in the years afterward.”

Behind me a large sketch of the Pulaski appeared on a screen that covered the wall. The crowd let out an audible sigh, and I paused and scanned the crowd, my sight snagging on Oliver standing at the back of the room, the light falling around him. He stood next to a pillar we’d decorated to look like a smokestack, his left shoulder propped against it. He grinned and nodded at me.

I had paused too long. The crowd murmured. Was I done?

I brushed my hair back. “As we end this night, let me read from Augusta Longstreet’s letter to Lilly. Augusta was the many-times-great-grandmother of my dear friend Mora Dunmore.” I took a breath and read out loud Augusta’s words from so very long ago.

“‘Was it fate when the ship shattered and I lived while others died? I don’t know. How can I? Unless fate can be defined as the seemingly minutest occurrences—a wave that lands at a different angle; a corset not undone; a basket of wine appearing as if by magic; a wound that festers or does not; a snagged shoe or jammed door. I don’t believe fate chose who should live or perish according to their worthiness. I didn’t deserve to live any more than my little two-year-old nephew deserved to die. The life we live is the life we choose with every decision of the heart, soul and mind. What do we do with our survival? Now what?’”

I glanced at the audience. “Augusta Longstreet leaves that question for us to answer. Now what?”

Applause filled the room, drowning out all doubt that I’d harbored about speaking the truth of my own heart through the words of another. I slowly descended the stairs from the stage, careful in the unaccustomed high heels, and found myself in the waiting arms of Maddox, Allyn and Mom. Hugs all around with murmurs of “That was beautiful.”

I stepped back and glanced to the pillar-turned-smokestack where Oliver had stood. It was empty.

“See?” I said to Maddox as he handed me a glass of champagne. “One thing leads to another. It’s all connected.”

“A spider’s web,” he agreed softly as Oliver joined us, so handsome in his tuxedo.

A group of those I loved most fiercely surrounded me—Mom and Allyn, Maddox and Oliver. I was in the museum I loved with the passengers I’d researched and followed for a year filling my heart and mind. Oliver moved to my side and everything in the room faded but for him. Mom, Allyn and Maddox eased away as if a tide carried them.

“Up there, Ev, your speech, it was beautiful. Mora would have loved seeing you like that. Radiant, in your element. And how you ended it was perfect.”

“You mean that last line?” I asked.

“Yes.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Ev, now what?”

“Well, next is LaCoste. I’ve got a lot to do to get ready.”

I’d told myself it would be easier when I didn’t have to see him every day; when my heart wasn’t easing toward him even as I dragged it away. My life would be simpler when I had no daily reason to text or call. It would all be okay . . .

Oliver lowered his voice. “I don’t want to let us go just because this project is over.” He took another step closer.

“Let us go? That’s ridiculous. We’re friends and . . .”

“I’ve thought long and hard about how to say this, Ev.” He took a breath and in that slice of time, my thoughts rattled through all he might say to me. But I didn’t anticipate the one thing he did utter.

“Don’t go to France.”

I tried to read his familiar face, but his expression was one I’d never seen.

“Why not, Oliver?”

“Because Everly Winthrop, I love you.”

His words so surprised me, I couldn’t take them in. My body leaned toward him even as my words pushed him away. “Don’t . . .”

“Because you don’t feel the same way?”

“No. Not that at all.”

“I know what you’re going to say but this isn’t wrong,” he said. “For a long time I thought the same. But the way I feel is an honoring. We loved her. She loved us. It’s the opposite of wrong.”

“Do you think maybe you’re in love with me because I remind you of those times with Mora? It’s not . . . me.”

“No, Ev. I’m in love with you. How else do I say it?”

“Why?” The need to know was vital.

He took my face in his hands and did not let me look away. “I love you because you are smart and wise, gentle and fiery. I love you because you never, ever back away from feelings; they are the fuel to your fire. I love you because you can laugh at yourself and laugh at me. I love you because you don’t just love, Ev, you love with everything you’ve got. There is no halfway with you; there is no just a little bit. You don’t just dive in, you dive to the bottom. I love you because you ask the questions that matter and you have no patience for the ones that don’t.” He dropped his hands to my shoulders and held me fast.

“Oliver . . .”

“I’m not done yet. I love you because you’ll climb into a dusty attic just to find out what happened to a long-lost best friend of a woman you never knew. I love you because you’re the kind of woman who will chase down a hit-and-run driver. I love you because you are Everly.”

Something tight inside me let go, something I’d held locked in secret with white-knuckled determination—my love for him. “That’s all?” I asked with a smile.

“Please give me time to tell you all the other reasons. This exhibit, this wreck, it shows us—life is such a quick thing. Please don’t let us waste one more minute of it apart.”

“Then come with me to France,” I said.

Without a second of hesitation, he answered. “Okay. Yes. I will come with you.” He smiled, so beautifully he smiled. “I’ll take a leave of absence and—”

“You’re serious?”

“Never been more serious in my life, love,” he said in a terrible French accent. “LaCoste is tres magnificent.”

I smiled at the silliness, at the simple joy between us. “Oliver.” I lifted his hands to my lips, kissed the inside of his palm. “You must know I have loved you for so long.”

He brought me closer; I washed ashore to the solid ground of his kiss, a home I’d wanted to find. His touch carried me to the bottom of the sea, to the moment when truth had rushed in, and I’d known that all of life is worth living; his touch resurrected love and hope and raised me back up to the sparkling sunlight.

He pulled me so close that with my lips next to his ear, I whispered, “So . . . this is what happens next.”