Savannah

I decided to cut out of Daytona early this year and found myself heading for home sooner than I'd ever done in the past. I was so tired by the time I hit Savannah, GA that I decided to stop there for the night. Savannah is a place I've always wanted to visit anyway so the timing seemed perfect. Jumping off of I-95 onto I-16, I continued straight into Savannah, rolling into town a little before midnight. . Depending on which direction you proceed, you can go toward the Savannah River or into the heart of historic downtown. I opted to bear right onto Liberty Street and head for the center of town. I figured I'd tool around a bit before I set out for the river and then find a place to sack out for the night.

Downtown Savannah is a very historical place, gleaming with charm. Many of the old buildings have been rescued from the ravages of time and are now refurbished, restoring then to their former glory. The Southern Pride this grand old city has is as obvious as a Goldwing in the middle of a bunch of Harleys. The town has these small parks every other block or so that they call squares. Each square has it's own name and theme, and individual identity really. Some of the themes are designed at honoring local heroes while others are more or less just there for esthetic value. In any case, they are each unique and quite stunning.

As I rolled along Liberty Street I decided that one of these pleasant parks would be the ideal place for me to stretch my legs. At the intersection of Liberty and Bull Streets I hung a left to make toward Chippewa Square, the closest one on my way to the river. I parked the bike, dismounted and began to stroll around a bit, working the kinks out of my body from the saddle time I'd put in today. It was a bright night; the moon was nearly full. The Spanish moss, which Savannah is famous for, blew eerily in the trees with the gentle southern breeze. I took out a Camel and my Zippo as I walked toward the monument in the square feeling like I was in a scene out of some "B" horror movie. I popped the top open on the Zippo and stuck the wheel, eliciting a bright spark from the flint. But no flame followed. I thumbed the wheel a few times more with the same result and then slapped the cover closed with a loud "Great!"

"Howdy, stranger" came out of the darkness behind me.

I don't know if I was too engrossed in the scenery or the aggravation of not being able to light my Camel but I hadn't heard a soul approaching me. And this voice really took me by surprise. I spun around to see a fellow standing just down the street, leaning against an iron fence. I couldn't make out much except that he had thrown his hand up in a wave. He was standing alone in the shadows. He certainly sounded closer than he was so it was no wonder I hadn't heard him approach me. "Must be echoing off the buildings," I thought, reasoning that was why I'd not heard him approaching. I began to walk toward him still not able to make out much other than he continued leaning against that wrought iron fence.

"Need a light?" he asked.

"Yeah, thanks," I replied. "Looks like I'm out of fluid and I need a smoke bad."

We were only a few yards apart now and I could see him pretty well. He looked like hell, probably in his mid-40's, wearing an old pair of jeans and a ratty long-sleeved red shirt that favored the top to a set of old-fashioned long johns. His boots were well worn. And it looked like neither he nor his clothes had been washed in at least a few days.

"Probably homeless," I thought to myself.

When I got to within about 3 feet of him it appeared that he was leaning on the fence from the inside. He tossed a box of matches through the iron bars to me saying, "Here ya go. These always work if ya keep 'em dry. And best of all, ya always know how many ya got left. Not like them new-fangled things you fellers use now."

I snatched the matches out of the air as I said thanks to him. I took out a match and struck it on the side of the box. The first drag off that Camel seemed like heaven. I leaned back my head, looked up at the moonlit Savannah skyline and exhaled slowly, feeling relief to get a little nicotine started into my system. As I looked back toward the fellow I realized that he was indeed inside a fence. I glanced up to see a sign near the entrance of the fence; it read Colonial Park Cemetery. Being homeless can't be a picnic to start with but when they have to resort to sleeping in the cemetery, now that's just sad.

"That your iron-horse over there?" he asked.

"Yup."

"She's a beaut. Not like a lot of them I see nowadays. Yessir, she's a beaut."

As far as I was concerned Bike Week mostly sucked this year. It's gotten so commercial it feels like the average Joe Biker isn't even welcome. All the shows are full of these unrideable monstrosities they call choppers. Every corner had some unknown builder that was the self-proclaimed next Indian Larry. Well, I don't really know who they are but they sure ain't Larry. None of them couldn't wipe his wax one of his bikes, let alone build one like him! And everywhere you turn you're running into biker wannabes. I heard some patches calling them RUBs. When I inquired what a RUB was they laughed and said Rich Urban Bikers. While a new one on me, the expression seemed pretty spot on. Anyway, I could really dig what the old-timer was saying about what you see nowadays.

"Thanks, man. She's a good, reliable, old ride. Many a mile and many a place she's hauled me and never failed me when I needed her. You ever ride?" I asked.

"Oh, not one of those contraptions, I like my steeds flesh and bone not iron and rubber" he replied. I couldn't help but chuckle at that.

"Well, I reckon it's like they say; it's not what you ride but that you ride that counts, huh?"

"Yup."

"I'm Charlie Bird. They call me Eagle" I said to him.

"Nice to meet you Eagle. They call me Sarge."

I held my pack of Camels out in his direction and asked if he'd like one. "No thanks. I prefer to roll my own. They taste better than those store bought ones you fellers smoke today. No offense", he said.

"None taken, Sarge" I replied and began to tuck the pack back inside my jacket. "So, if you don't mind me askin', you stay here all the time?"

"Yup. Been here quite a long time now, too. I can't really remember when but I know it's been a long, long time."

"That's a shame, man. Anything I can do to help you out Sarge?" I asked, figuring he could maybe use a few bucks but not wanting to chance offending him by offering.

"Naw, I got what I need and do just fine. But thank ya for askin'" he replied. "I best be getting' back to my spot now. It was nice talkin' with ya, Eagle."

"You, too. Take care of yourself Sarge."

"Always. And you do the same," he said as he began to turn back toward the cemetery. I, too, turned and began to head back to the bike. I'd taken about 3 steps toward Chippewa Square when I remembered I still had his matches. I turned back toward him and held the matchbox up, hollering, "Sarge, I forgot to give your matches back."

He was nowhere in sight but his voice was rang out vividly from the darkness inside that iron fence, "Keep 'em, son. There's plenty more where them come from."

As I walked back to the bike my head began to spin. How, I wondered, could such a seemingly nice guy end up like that? All alone, living in a cemetery! Where the hell was the honor, generosity and geniality the south is so famous for? It just blew my mind that Sarge and God knows how many more poor, forgotten guys, were living in that cemetery. And it really turned my crank, too. Still in a fog over the whole scene that had just played out, I mounted the bike, gave her a kick, and listened to the beautiful sound of the shovel roar to life. I put up the kickstand, eased out the clutch and headed slowly in the direction of the cemetery instead of to the river as I'd planned. I hung a left onto Abercorn Street and cruised along beside the iron fence, hoping to see Sarge one more time. Peering hard through the darkness encompassing Colonial Park Cemetery, he was nowhere to be seen. So I twisted the throttle and sped on toward the river, shaking my head in a vain attempt to dislodge the thoughts of Sarge sleeping in the graveyard from my mind.

Abercorn ends at Bay Street, which appears to be the main thoroughfare across town. I found myself waiting at the stoplight looking across the street at some sort of park. It was fairly well lit; garden lighting showing off the landscaping that had been painstakingly done to the place. In broad daylight I am sure it must have been quite impressive. But on this particular night the landscaping lights, coupled with the breeze and all that Spanish moss, added to the moving shadows and made it one creepy scene. I can't tell you how glad I was when that light finally went green so I could get moving again. I pointed the bike to the right and rolled about 4 blocks, finally finding the entrance to River Street. Not only does River Street run parallel to the Savannah River, making it quite scenic, but it also seemed to be the heart of Savannah's nightlife. The street was filled with people and there were many businesses still open despite the late hour. I figured a cold beer was in order now. Spying a watering hole about 3 doors ahead on the left, I parked the bike and headed inside.

I paid no attention to the name of the joint, just went straight through the doors to the bar. The bartender was a heavy guy, probably around 30-ish, balding and wearing a huge smile. "What'll it be, mister?"

"Beer. In a bottle and ice cold," I replied.

"Comin' right up!"

The place wasn't packed but there were plenty of folks here enjoying their evenings. It appeared to be a pretty diverse crowd; there was a group of twenty-something's around the jukebox, some older guys at the bar just down from me talking about baseball, two couples, one black and one white, throwing darts in the back and several others having drinks at various tables. I now noticed that the motif of the place was a'la Black Beard; a touristy pirate bar. Oh well, as long as the beer was cold I didn't care what it was.

"This ought to cure what ails ya, mate," the bartender said as he handed me a frosty bottle of Coors.

"Great. This idiot is going to be a pirate for me now," I thought. "I don't know if it'll cure any thing but maybe it'll take my mind off tonight," I replied.

The huge grin and the pirate-speak both dropped now, the barkeep leaned toward me and said, "I'm Ted. You just passin' through?"

I could tell he was ready to ply real trade now: listening. Not being one to disappoint, I thought I'd oblige him, "Nice to meet ya Ted. I'm Eagle and yeah, I'm just passin' though now. I'd thought about staying a day or so but I got soured a little on your grand old city this evening. So I figure I'll be on my way tomorrow. Can you recommend someplace close by to crash for the night?"

A saddened, perplexed look now replaced that big smile on Ted's face as he said, "Sure, Eagle, I can. But let me ask, what's got ya soured on sweet Savannah, the jewel of the south?"

After what I'd just witnessed with Sarge I sure didn't need to hear the "jewel of the south" spiel so I poured it out for him.

"Ya know, Ted, I've always heard about the charm and hospitality of you southerners but what I seen tonight sure makes me think that's all the biggest load of bull I ever heard! Ya know what I just saw, hear in the "jewel of the south", Ted? Well, I'll tell you what. I just came from the cemetery where there's a homeless guy sleeping. Said he'd been there for years, too. How can you dignified southerners let people sleep in a cemetery? I mean, what, there's no money from all the tourist dollars to pay for a decent shelter for them or something?"

The look on Ted's face changed again. But this time it was deadly serious. I figured I was going to get bounced out of this pirate's den in about two seconds and maybe get myself whipped by a bunch of the locals in the process. But I didn't care. He asked and I by golly answered him.

"This homeless fellow," Ted's voice now very low and solemn, "was he in Colonial Park Cemetery?"

Smugly I answered, "Yeah. Why? Do you got 'em in other cemeteries, too?"

"Was he wearing a red long-john shirt?"

"Yeah, probably the only shirt that he owns. And he had on ratty old boots and jeans, too, in case you're wonderin' about that!"

"And you spoke to him?"

"He's homeless not a leper, Ted. Of course I spoke to him."

Ted had a wry grin begin to creep across his face now. I figured I might have just pushed him over the line and was probably about to be shown the door. But he said, "No, Eagle, he's not homeless. His name is Sarge and he's dead."

Ted knew his name and description, easy to figure that he would though if the guy had worked here any length of time. But what was he talking about, dead? Ted let his comment soak into my brain for a moment before he spoke another word. Finally he began to recount to me the story of the man we both knew as Sarge.

Sgt. Edgar T. Williams was a native of Savannah and a member of the Confederate Army's Cavalry. Wounded in battle, Sgt. Williams returned to his home in Savannah shortly before the arrival of Gen. Sherman. After the fall of Atlanta the people of Georgia's morale was generally broken; the end of the war was near and they knew it. Sherman's policy of "scorched earth" had left Atlanta in ruins and the people of Savannah wanted desperately to spare their fair city of the same fate. Consequently, the Federals were met with far less resistance than they were in Atlanta. Shortly after their arrival, Sherman's troops began to occupy the city, taking shelter where ever they could find it, including Colonial Park Cemetery.

The officers occupied any available structure they found appealing: homes, businesses and government offices. But the rank and file troops were left to find their own means of cover. One of the features that visitors to Colonial Park Cemetery find so intriguing is the crypts. Many of these structures are mound-shaped rooms that are only about one-third visible, with the remainder being underground. The Union troops found these tombs perfect for camping in. Of course, there was one small dilemma; they were currently occupied by the dead. This, they decided, was easily enough overcome by "evicting" the current tenants and then taking up residence. They had broken into barely a half dozen crypts when Sgt. Williams happened along on his horse.

Williams was deeply torn by the situation he found himself in. He dearly loved the Confederacy but had realized that their noble cause was lost. It pained him terribly to shed his uniform and watch helplessly as the Northerners rolled across the South and into town, taking what they desired, as they desired, and leaving a path of destruction in their wake. But he heeded his wife's and family's pleas and did just that. Today, however, the things he saw made him forget the promise he'd made to his loved ones all together.

As Sgt. Williams rode into sight of the cemetery he noticed the flurry of activity inside the fence. But from his vantage point he wasn't able to tell what it was happening. The fact that the Federals were trampling around on that piece of hollowed ground more than aroused his curiosity; it pissed him plumb off. He pulled the reigns of his horse and guided it toward the cemetery to make a proper inspection of the situation. When the sergeant got close enough to see what the Northern dogs were doing anger like he had never know\n before over took him. Drawing his Colt .45, he charged straight into the closest bunch of grave robbing scoundrels.

Sarge only got off four of his six shots before being cut down by hail of Yankee fire but all four of his bullets hit their marks. The volley of gunshots brought out the entire town to see what the commotion was about. A crowd started to gather around the lifeless body of Savannah's own son, Edgar T. Williams. And they began to whisper of his heroic, but tragic, actions. The Union Lieutenant who had been overseeing the excavation of the crypts ordered the body of the Rebel to be tossed into the pile of corpses and bones, fearing the crowd might turn into a mob and that more bloodshed would then be inevitable. But through the crowd a man made his way, calling out, "Stop! Leave that man's body alone. Treat him with the dignity he deserves."

The voice was non-other than that of Gen. Sherman himself. Sherman saw the entire series of events unfold. He respected the Reb for his convictions and courage. The general was not about to afford him anything less than the honor he had earned.

By Sherman's order, Sarge was buried along the southern edge of the cemetery, far away from the Yankee encampment. Some months after the end of the war, Williams' family erected a proper tombstone, which stands to this day.

I thought to myself that was quite the story! But I also figured he had to be pullin' my leg; probably some sick joke the locals get all the tourists with. I didn't know how, but I really wanted to call Ted out onto the carpet on this one but - wait, the matches! Sarge had left before I could return them to him. And they were still nestled securely in my jacket pocket. I grinned and said sarcastically, "Gee, that's a sad story. Do all the tourists fall for it?"

"What?"

"Is it supposed to just make me sad or scare me?" I asked.

"Are you sayin' I made that all up? Cause it's the honest to God truth, Eagle. Everyone around here knows about Sarge", Ted replied.

"I figure they do. I also figure you fellers tell that ghost story to all of us out of towners and then laugh your selves to tears after we leave. There's only one problem with your story this time, buddy. Sarge gave me these!" I said as I tossed the box of matches on the bar. Ted looked at the matches for only a few seconds before he picked them up. He seemed genuinely confused as he turned the box in his hand, studying it intently. Finally he said, "Sarge gave these to you tonight?"

"Yeah, he did."

"Did you look at the box? Did you read any of the writing on it, Eagle?" Ted asked me.

"No. They're matches. I don't need to read the box to know that."

Ted reached the box toward me saying, "Maybe you better take a closer look at 'em."

As I took the box from him I was getting a little freaked out by his demeanor. He was as pale as a sheet. And his hand was trembling a bit now. What was up with him? I took the matchbox in my hand and began to inspect it. The lighting in here wasn't great, I mean it is a bar, it's not supposed to be like a museum or something. But it was a lot better than the moonlight I'd previously had to see them in. They were old; very old. But surely that wasn't what had spooked Ted. Then I saw what it. The writing on the matchbox was what had made Ted so uneasy.

Dixie Match Company

Savannah, Georgia

CSA

1864

What was going on? Was I really holding a 142-year old box of matches? They sure looked the part. And certainly no one would give away something that collectable, if not valuable, to a stranger, right? The matchbox hadn't left my sight so Ted would've had to be David Copperfield to have switched them, not to even mention very prepared. I didn't know what to make of it. When I looked back to Ted he was still trembling and pale. "What's goin' on here?" I asked him.

"Man, I got no idea. I've heard other folks tell of meetin' Sarge but no one has ever gotten something from him. This is too much for me!" he said as he poured himself a shot of Jack Daniels and quickly gulped it down.

I sat at the bar for a few more minutes. It seemed completely silent to me in there now. I still just couldn't figure out what was going on. "Where's a place to crash? Somewhere close by. And where exactly is Sarge's grave?" I asked. Ted wrote out directions to both a B&B two blocks down the street and to the location of Sarge's grave. I took my wallet out and asked, "What do I owe you, Ted?"

"Nothing.", he said, holding his hands up like stop signs toward my wallet.

"Thanks." I told him as I put away my wallet. I put the matches and the napkin with the directions on it into my jacket pocket and then headed for the door.

After looking over the directions to the B&B, I decided to head back to Colonial Park Cemetery first. I wasn't going to wait for morning to look for the grave of Sgt. Williams. I was going to find it now. And if there was any joker still there waiting to get a laugh at my expense he and Ted both were going to get their lights punched out! I mounted the bike, fired her up and headed back to the cemetery.

This time I parked the bike right by the entrance gate. I shut her down, got off and began to rummage through my tool bag for a flashlight. Light in hand, I took out the napkin and headed for the grave of Sgt. Edgar T. Williams. It took me about 15 minutes of stumbling along though the cemetery to find it, even though Ted's directions were spot-on and I should've found it in less than five. But I'd been checking out every noise, shadow and possible movement along the way, just incase the prankster was still around. There was no one to be seen or heard out here.

When I came upon the grave I found a simple tombstone, no fancy engravings or anything, just a straightforward epitaph saying:

Edgar T. Williams

1821 - 1864

Cav. Sgt.

CSA

I shivered as I read it. Had I been gotten by the locals and made an utter fool of? Or had I indeed "met" the ghost of Sgt. Williams? I shined the light around again, looking in the area where Sarge had been during our conversation earlier in the night. There's still no one to be seen. I took the matchbox out of my pocket and laid it on the grave in front of me saying, "Whoever you were, you need these more than I do." I read the inscription once more then turned and began to walk back to the bike. I'd taken about 3 steps when I heard, from behind me, Sarge's voice.

"I told you to keep 'em. I got plenty more." he said.

I spun around toward the voice, the hair on my neck standing straight up. No one was there. I pointed the flashlight in every direction, the beam cutting through the darkness like a knife. But nothing was to be found. Slowly I walked back over to the matchbox and, my eye searching all around me as I did, picked it up; still nothing to be seen. I placed it in my pocket and promptly made my way out of there and back to my bike.

When I got to the bike, I stashed my flashlight back in the tool bag and mounted up. I took another look at the napkin to see where the B&B was from here. It wasn't far. But after a moment of deliberation I decided to skip it; South Carolina ain't far either. I fired up the bike, pointed it toward I-16 and rolled on the throttle, headed for SC. And I didn't look back.

Greg Wolford

© 2008