The Great Storm of 1822

As I write this, the remnants of two tropical storms; a tropical depression expected to become a major hurricane; and an "area of interest" to meteorologists churn in the Atlantic Ocean. We know this because we have access to scientific data such as computer models and radar that our ancestors couldn't even imagine. All too often, they were surprised by violent hurricanes and storms. Those who could read the weather "signs" sometimes knew that something was brewing, but in most cases, storms caught them unawares.

Almost 200 after the storm of 1822, Hurricane Matthew left this large tree down

 across Academy Street in 2017.

One such storm occurred on the evening of Friday, September 27, 1822. We have a good report on how this storm affected Williamsburg County because Dr. Samuel Davis McGill chose to begin his book, Narrative of Reminiscences in Williamsburg County with an account of that evening. Although he states that it occurred the night of September 28, contemporary newspaper reports and weather history sites agree that it made landfall just  north of Charleston as a small category 3 storm with the worst of its damage occurring in the Santee River delta about 10 p.m. on Friday, September 27.

According to Dr. McGill, the storm was of such intensity that in the following years events were recalled as either before the storm or after it. Dr. McGill himself was three years, seven months, and 16 days old when the storm hit. However, he had retained a vivid memory of the storm – that all the children were "huddled together on and around their parents' knees in one corner of the big room, sheltered and covered with blankets, quilts, etc., to keep out the drenching rain and boisterous wind." 

His father, he wrote, used to tell about the two weeks after the storm in which all able-bodied persons were working to gather the corn which was on the ground in the fields, then cutting the trees off the fences and putting the fenceposts back in the ground. The next two weeks were spent in clearing the roads from Col. Cooper's place to Indiantown church. In a distance of less than two miles, there were 400 trees across the road, Dr. McGill wrote.

Dr. McGill, who wrote about himself using third person, noted that "His mother used to say, it looked to her next morning as if she had been blown away and dropped in another country."

Another tree victim of Hurricane Matthew.

He remembered that stories were told and retold about that night over the coming years. "One was the case of Old Mr. Saul Parsons, on his return from Kingstree to his home on Muddy Creek, who, when last seen that evening on the road, was in a warm condition as were his habits. His escape from death was miraculous. On horseback that night, he met the hurricane at the McCrea old place, where Mr. L.P. McCullough now resides and took refuge under a large oak tree, and there sheltered himself and his horse as best he could in the first gale, and as soon as the calm in the storm came, he ventured out, but had not proceeded far over prostrate houses, trees, and fences before the returning hurricane came, and hurrying back to his good tree he found it already flat on the ground." How he spent the remaining part of the hurricane is not recorded, but Dr. McGill concludes the story that the next morning, "Mr. Alexander McCrea found Mr. Parsons safe and sound, crouched up under a bench in his piazza, and his horse standing at the door steps..."

Another large tree uprooted by 2017's Hurricane Matthew.

Both the Charleston Mercury and the Charleston Daily Courier printed accounts from those who had survived the storm, including extracts from the logbook of the United States revenue schooner Gallatin. The schooner's captain was a man named Matthews who anchored the ship on the leeward side of Bull's Island. The log noted that at 10 p.m. fresh breezes had sprung up and by 11 p.m. all hands were called on deck to remove the yardarms and top masts; however, a whirl of wind snapped the fore top mast, leaving it hung up in the rigging, which took about an hour to remove. By then, the log reports, the wind had "increased to a perfect hurricane" so that no one could get from one end of the vessel to the other without crawling. At 1 a.m., even though the boat was held by three anchors, it began to drag and struck an oyster bank, splitting open the head of the rudder. The wind then calmed for 10 minutes before again roaring "with full as much if not more violence than before." The boat nearly capsized several times but would then right itself. The report concludes that at 4 a.m. the "gale moderated, but left us ashore very high up alongside the marsh." At daylight, they were able to see that several other boats were also stranded in the marsh.

According to these newspaper reports, "Bull's Island was cut entirely through by the sea at the southwest end, three houses blown down, some stock drowned."

Both Charleston newspapers ran this notice on October 1. NOTICE TO MARINERS: The Lantern of the Lighthouse at this port is so much damaged by the storm of the 27th inst. that it cannot be lit for two days. By order of the Collector of the Port of Charleston.  John Calhoun, Keeper, September 30.

By October 4, more horrendous reports were coming in, particularly from the Santee delta in the area around Hampton Plantation. The death toll by October 4 for the North Santee area stood at 117.

Many Charlestonians, however, believed that the hurricane of 1811, which had spawned a tornado that tore through the heart of the city, had been more destructive, although that destruction was in a narrow path, while the damage from the great storm of 1822 encompassed the whole city and far beyond.

The Boy Who Had A Dog Named Tham Went on to Greater Things

Another of my favorite Bessie Britton stories involves five-year-old William Flinn Gilland and his dog Sam. Miss Bessie attributes the original story to Emil Arrowsmith. 

An old newspaper photo of Heller's Livery Stable, where Flinn Gilland inquired about his dog.

The story as Bessie Britton told it goes like this: Emil Arrowsmith liked to tell that when Flinn Gilland was five years old, he really looked like an angel with his fair skin and golden ringlets, and he still had a baby lisp in his speech. Early one morning Flinn's mother sent him to the butcher shop to get a soup bone. On the way home, Flinn had the bright idea to let his big, shaggy dog named Sam carry the package in his mouth. The dog was used to carrying newspapers, but when he got a whiff of that bone, he grabbed the package and took off joyfully for parts unknown. Flinn ambled along in the same direction and came to M.F. Heller's Livery and Sales Stables, where Emil and some boon companions were loafing in straight chairs on the sidewalk. Flinn paused and lisped, "Hath anybody theen a dog named Tham with a thoup bone in hith mouth?" Emil vowed that the morning sunlight on Flinn's golden head formed a halo, the sight of which unnerved Emil and his companions (so) that they couldn't resume their discussion of beautiful women and fast horses or vice versa. They uneasily changed the subject to the current price of oats and hay. But they did give Flinn a dime to get another soup bone.

Given that Flinn was born in July 1909, this story took place sometime between July 1914 and July 1915. The Gillands lived on Academy Street, and Flinn's mother Nell likely sent him down the street to Miller's Meat Market in the business section of town. Flinn apparently did not quickly lose his boyish features, as one of the nicknames attributed to him in the Clemson College yearbook of 1931 is "Baby Face."

1929 college yearbook photo of Flinn Gilland.

Source: ancestry.com

Another of his youthful escapades involved his seventh birthday party, which was held on Saturday, July 29, 1916. Twenty to 30 of his friends gathered at his home, and while they enjoyed playing games and eating cake, "nothing so appealed to the little boys as did the high water around the premises caused by the heavy rainfall that afternoon," according to a report in The County Record. We should take note that flooding along the upper portion of Academy Street was common even in the early part of the 20th century.

But little boys do grow up, and so did Flinn Gilland, and despite his lapse in judgment in letting Sam carry the soup bone, his name appeared on the honor roll all during his school years in Kingstree. He then attended the University of South Carolina before transferring to Clemson where he earned a B.S. in engineering. He then moved back to Columbia where he earned a B.A. from the University of South Carolina, and in 1936, the university hired him as assistant registrar. He also worked for three-and-a-half years for The Columbia Record as a member of both the news staff and the circulation department.

In June 1937, the Associated Press picked up a story involving Flinn Gilland. While swimming in Black Creek near Darlington, he lost his watch. Seven hours later, a group of boys found the watch lying on the creek bottom, still keeping perfect time.

In November 1940, he was involved in a serious automobile accident when the car he was driving was hit at the intersection of Green and Pickens streets in Columbia by a state highway patrolman en route to answering a call. Flinn's car was thrown 40 feet into the side entrance of the Singley Apartments. He, however, emerged from the accident with nothing more serious than severe bruises.

While all of us have our embarrassing moments, not all of them are trumpeted to the world. Poor Flinn had that experience in January 1941, when newspapers all over the country ran the following Associated Press story: Flinn Gilland, Assistant Registrar at the University of South Carolina is in a quandary. He sent out his New Year's greeting cards in envelopes marked, "Do Not Open Until Christmas." 

After the United States entered World War II, he joined the Army Air Corps in 1942, and in 1943, left March Field, CA, for the Pacific Theater. He was steadily promoted, and by April 1945 was a Major assigned as executive officer of the Seventh Army Air Force B-24 Squadron, operating against the Japanese in the Western Pacific. One news article noted, "Although not rated as a flying officer, he completed 19 combat missions as an observer-gunner in B-24s and was authorized to wear permanently air crew wings."

A B-24 "Liberator"

Source: Wikipedia

Separated from active duty service in 1946 as a Lieutenant Colonel, he accepted, in 1947, a commission in the regular Air Force with the rank of Major. And in 1948, he received a Master of Education degree from the University of South Carolina, the first regular Air Force officer to earn a graduate degree from USC under the Air Force's Civilian Institution Training Program for Commissioned Officers. He went on to lead the Air Force ROTC program at the University of Alabama. In 1951 he  moved to Sewanee, TN, where he organized an Air Force ROTC unit at the University of the South and became that university's first professor of Air Science. While at Sewanee, he was also elected as vice-president of the Sewanee Civic Association, which for the unincorporated area around the university took on the duties of a town council and a chamber of commerce.

Flinn Gilland pictured in the 1954 University of the South yearbook.

Source: ancestry.com

In 1955, he became director of administration for the US Air Force group of the Joint US Military Mission in Ankara, Turkey. He was also president of the Ankara-American Education Association which operated American schools there. He received a citation from the American Ambassador to Turkey for this work. From June 1957 until June 1960, he served as Inspector for the 501st Technical Control Wing at Ramstein Air Base in Germany. He returned to Shaw Air Force Base near Sumter in 1960, where he remained as Deputy Commander of the 507th Communications and Control Group until his retirement on October 31, 1962.

During his military career, he received the Bronze Star, the Air Force Commendation Medal with Oak Leaf Cluster for his participation in the 7th Army Air Force bomber missions against Iwo Jima, and the Army Commendation Medal. He was also lauded for his efforts in promoting off-duty education for his officers and airmen. His group maintained one of the finest off-duty records in the Tactical Air Command.

Upon his retirement, he became Director of Admissions at the College of Charleston, and in 1967 became Guidance Director for St. Andrews High School in Charleston.

Lt. Col. Flinn Gilland died in January 1982 at age 72 and is buried in Florence National Cemetery. 

Initials carved into the curb on North Academy Street.

Not long ago, while walking one morning on North Academy Street, I noticed a set of initials carved in the curb across the street from the Williamsburg County School District Office, better known to some as the old Kingstree Elementary School. I had seen the initials before, but it had never occurred to me that W.F.G. is no doubt William Flinn Gilland. Flinn's grandparents once lived on the property now owned by the school district. And so, although Flinn Gilland traveled far and wide from Kingstree during his lifetime and even though he's been gone from this earth for almost 39 years, a little piece of him is still evident here in the old town he once roamed with his dog named Tham.

An Old Indiantown Mystery

Very old newspaper articles often raise more questions than they answer. Let's take for example this article which appeared in the November 9, 1798, issue of the Georgetown Gazette:

A number of those resting today in the graveyard at Indiantown Presbyterian Church

were probably among those puzzled by the strange sounds heard on October 26, 1798.

"A correspondent informs us that several explosions were heard in the air on the 26 ult. [Note: This would be October 26, 1798, which would have been a Friday night] about ten o'clock P.M. in Williamsburgh, Indiantown, and in general over the adjacent neighborhood; that every person with whom he conversed heard the same and described it in a familiar manner, as if a rifle was fired about 400 paces from the hearer and succeeded by a rumbling and tremulous noise, which continued for a considerable space of time after the loud report and after a short interval was again repeated.

"The preceding night was very cold and about the time the explosions were heard, it was very sultry and the atmosphere charged highly with electric matter. No rain had fallen for some weeks in the neighborhood. 

"This phenomenon would have been considered as very ominous about a century ago: sed tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis." [Note: the Latin translates to "Times are changed; we also are changed.]

Was this a local one-time event, or was it an early manifestation of what has come to be known as the Seneca Guns?

This photo was taken several years ago of the George McCutchen house,

also known as the Church Post Office, near Indiantown Church. George

McCutchen was presiding elder of the church and postmaster for the Church

Post Office. He would take mail to church each Sunday to distribute to members.

He, too, would have been alive on October 26, 1798, and no doubt heard the booms.

In 1850, writer James Fennimore Cooper composed a short story called, "The Lake Gun." In it, he described a phenomenon often heard near Lake Seneca in the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York. In the story, Cooper described the phenomenon. "It is a sound resembling the explosion of a heavy piece of artillery that can be accounted for by none of the known laws of nature. The report is deep, hollow, distant and imposing."

While many attribute this story as the first mention of the mysterious sound, others note that the Native American Seneca Nation passed down stories of the mysterious booms from the 1600-1700s.

In modern times, the booms continue, although they seem now to manifest themselves more often in the coastal regions of Virginia, North and South Carolina. In the past few years, scientists from both the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill and Duke University have attempted to pinpoint the origin of the booms. UNC-Chapel Hill students looked into correlating reports of the booms with known seismic activity from 2013-2015. While the sounds of the Seneca Guns can shake the earth, they discovered that the sounds don't originate from earthquakes as there was no correlation of sound and seismic activity.

They are now looking at a possible connection to atmospheric origins, such as bolides. Bolides are space rocks traveling so fast that they explode when they enter earth's atmosphere. Military planes breaking the sound barrier are also given as a possible source. However, they can safely be ruled out as the source of the explosions heard at Indiantown in 1798,

Another possible origin raised by scientists are events that happen deep in the ocean, like methane exploding on the ocean floor.

Interestingly, while the Seneca Guns are most often heard in coastal regions, they have never been recorded at sea. And they have occurred further inland in Appalachia and in other parts of the country.

And so, almost 223 years after residents of the Indiantown area experienced the eerie phenomenon of unexplained explosions, we are still unsure of their origin.

And the Earth Shook and Moaned

If this was 1886 instead of 2021, we would be waking up this morning exactly one week after an earthquake destroyed much of Charleston and almost all of Summerville. And we would likely at some point today experience another aftershock. Several of you have recently asked what happened in Kingstree during the earthquake. I can, at this point, find no news stories that specifically recount what Kingstree residents did on the night of August 31, 1886, but I have found accounts from a number of other communities, which I suspect closely mirror what happened in Kingstree.

Area along the Cooper River in Charleston in the aftermath of the earthquake.

Source: wyff4.com

Over the preceding weekend, there had been at least two small earthquakes felt around the state–one on Saturday night and another on Sunday. The weather on Tuesday, August 31, 1886, was extremely hot and sultry. However, many areas reported that soon after the earthquake, the humidity subsided and the temperatures cooled down. The earthquake was felt as far north as Boston, and was believed responsible for the collapse of eight large brick buildings in Helena, Arkansas. Some believed that the earthquake was connected to a terrible earthquake that struck Greece on Saturday, August 28, totally destroying six towns and claiming at least 700 lives.

The Manning Times of September 1 recounted what Manning residents experienced. Many Clarendon County citizens were in town late that Tuesday night, gathered in various business establishments, waiting as returns from that day's primary election trickled in. The reporter noted that shortly before 10 o'clock the violent earthquake, "shook every building in the place, the earth reeling and shaking like a drunken man." Others described the earthquake as sounding like a tempest roaring before the buildings began to tremble and sway from side to side. Merchandise fell from shelves; pictures swayed with the walls; and bricks tumbled from almost every chimney. 

Manning's black citizens were for the most part convinced that this was the beginning of the great and terrible day when Heaven and Earth shall pass away, and many of them gathered in their churches to wait and pray.

The reporter noted that the first, and most violent, shock lasted from three-quarters to a full minute. It was followed throughout the night by a number of other shocks at irregular intervals and of diminishing intensity. Some places reported as many as 14 aftershocks, while others only felt eight to ten.

Most Manning residents spent the night either in the streets or on their doorsteps.

Rumors, of course, were rampant. One circulating throughout Manning was that a part of the Northeastern Railroad track had been swallowed by a huge opening in the earth from which "hissing, boiling steam is shooting madly." The Times added a note to this report which said, "We do not vouch for the truthfulness of the latter."

Telegraph operators in inland towns kept trying to contact Charleston with no success. Finally, late on Wednesday, the telegraph operator at Manning reported that one of the Charleston operators had walked to Moncks Corner to wire that the south waterfront in Charleston had been totally destroyed by a tidal wave, that the northern part had been severely damaged by the earthquake and that the central part of the city was on fire.

Earthquake damage along Tradd Street in Charleston.

Source: wikipedia.com

From the western part of the state, the Abbeville Press and Banner was printing when the earthquake hit at 9:50 p.m. Under the headline "The Earth on a Bender," the paper reported that the Methodist Church had been filled with devout worshipers listening to a message titled, "Prepare to Meet Your God," when the quake struck. The rumbling and shaking of the earthquake caused a panic, with worshipers rushing to get outside the church. One lady stumbled and fell as she attempted to get to the door. Others tripped over her and "were soon prostrate." No one, however, was seriously injured. Those faithful who remained in the church, sang the "Doxology," while those outside rushed to their homes to assess the damage. While plaster cracked and fell and many chimneys lost bricks, no houses in Abbeville were severely damaged. Prisoners in the jail were heard in loud prayer and song. The Abbeville Colored Band was rehearsing in the basement of the Clinton Lodge. The paper reported that members left in such a hurry they forgot to lock the door.

More wreckage in Charleston from the earthquake.

Source: gendisasters.com

One of the most compelling accounts is that of Charlie Barber of Winnsboro in his slave narrative recorded by W.W. Dixon for the WPA in the 1930s. According to Barber, there had been a prophecy that the world would end in 1881. Many folks in Winnsboro, he said, were just beginning to get over that scare by August 31, 1886. On that Tuesday evening, the members of St. John Methodist Church were having a revival. Barber said the preacher was praying after the first sermon, "but never got to the amen part of the that prayer." There came a rumbling noise like far-off thunder and then the church began to rock like a baby's cradle. 

There was great excitement inside the church, and Barber said that Aunt Melvina hollered "The world is coming to an end." The preacher, he said, exclaimed, "Oh, Lordy," and ran out of the pulpit. Everybody ran out of the church into the moonlight, and then came a second quake about a minute after the first. Somebody in the crowd started screaming, "The devil is under the church! The devil is under the church! The devil is going to take the church on his back and run away with the church!"

No one stayed around to see that happen, as the congregation all started running and didn't stop until they got to the Court House in Winnsboro. Once there, they started telling others who had gathered that the devil had taken St. John's Church and flown away to hell with it. 

Henry Gailliard, an attorney, spoke to them and explained what was really happening. He begged them to go home. The Winnsboro telegraph operator, Joseph Skinner, told them that the main part of the earthquake was "way down 'bout Charleston" and too far away to hurt anybody in Winnsboro "unless a chimney brick fell on somebody's head."

Barber said that most people were satisfied with these explanations. Some went home, but a number of them sat on the railroad track all night.

The next night, they gathered again at St. John's and finding the church building still there, "such an outpouring of the Spirit was had as never was had before or since."

Charlie Barber was 23 years old at the time of the earthquake. He lived a long life as he is recorded in the 1940 census as a 78-year-old still living in Winnsboro. He apparently remained a member of St. John's AME Church his entire life as he is buried in the church's graveyard.

Kingstree Native Amos White Meets Harry Truman, General John J. Pershing

Amos White continues his oral history by saying, "We played Liberty Loan drives in England, also, in cities as we passed through them. We crossed the Channel at midnight there for Le Harve, France. ... The band was well, well qualified, and while in France, why I told you, that we had to play for this 33rd Division passing in review. They had no band capable of passing them in review and observing all the signals of an officer. Well, I had a fellow name of George Wells. He had been in the 10th Cavalry, was tall and a very handsome youngster, and he knew all the signals for observance of an officer in review passing, and he carried them out to the letter while I always stood to the left of my band, you know. We stayed in this review passing for, oh, from nine o'clock in the morning until after four in the afternoon. ...

Amos White, at age 68, the year he recorded his oral history.

"From Le Harve, why we were on an underground train, straight on up through the middle of Paris, and when we got right near this big city of Lille, which was a railroad center in France, then we came up, surfaced up, which was well-guarded around there for they were watching for the Germans to attack them at that time, and right out of Lille we had to go underground again ... so we were just on a crawling train on what they now call the Forty and Eight, that boxcar that holds 12 hogs, eight horses, or 24 men. (Laughs) Chevaux or hombres,  you see. I've forgotten what they call a hog, but anyhow, it was swine then in French. I've forgotten my French. I could remember easily if I could refer to some of the old records.

At that point, an unidentified male voice says, "Cochon."

Amos White replies, "Yeah, Eight horses, twelve cochon, or 24 hombres. Then began my history of the 816th Band. Well the history of the 816th Band measures up very credibly in that while we were stationed in Verdun, every afternoon, except Saturday and Sunday, that is, we had to play a concert in Chevre Square in Verdun, aside from other places we did around in various camps.

"I serenaded Harry Truman over there. Captain Harry Truman. But I didn't know it was Captain Harry Truman. Well, I knew it was Captain Harry Truman, then, but I heard no more about him until he became Senator, United States Senator. When we arrived out at the camp with two truckloads of instruments and two truckloads of band jumped out, why he was sitting at the piano playing....So, when we walked in, I said, 'I'm reporting from the 816th by the orders of Col. Chapman to come up here and serenade you.' He said, 'Hell, we don't need any serenading up here. I'm doing the serenading. Y'all go back there and get you something to eat and go on back to camp.' (Laughs) He's a wonderful guy, you know. That's why I love him until today. He was so forthright. A great man.

Capt. Harry S. Truman

Source: The Truman Library

"But, back to the regimental band activities. Now, when they started building this big cemetery out from Verdun in a little town called Montfaucon, Romagne, a little town just beyond Montfaucon, where the cemetery is presently situated now, I suppose, if it hasn't been demolished, why we were stationed up there from March, the eighth, until June, the eighth, and in the construction of this cemetery, now my band was never called to do any work, any of the work. All we were required to do was to entertain the boys, and we were given our company street and company barracks to put up our big tents, and I had the tent at the head of the barracks, and here was the Colonel's quarters down here, and I dined in the Colonel's quarters, not with the Colonel and his staff, but I dined in his quarters. The better, higher non-commissioned officers all dined over there. A little better service too. Strange to say. I don't want to be different from the men. Create a little jealousy. But that was the way it was handled. I had to obey the orders of the other higher non-coms. Course, I was the highest non-com in my regiment. I was acting warrant officer. I was never commissioned, however, but I drew the salary of a warrant officer, and I had the power of a warrant officer. Mine was only as an assistant bandmaster, that's the rank, permanent rank. That was the discharge rank, too, because no commission was ever signed. And you don't go for the commissions, but I was the bandmaster, the recognized bandmaster, and I had no other bandmaster over me at any time. I had no other officer over me. All my conducting of my band over there was done with me alone as the sole arbiter of anything.

General John J. Pershing

Source: Wikipedia

"I serenaded General John J. Pershing four times. At the groundbreaking for the cemetery building he was there. My men sat right under the stand. My band did the salutation number for his entry. At the closing my band played The Stars and Stripes and the French National Anthem. The French National Anthem first and The Stars and Stripes last. At the conclusion of this cemetery, General Pershing was up there again to set the flag up and proclaim the cemetery the largest in the world. And this was a big day. The 8th day of June, nineteen hundred and nineteen. And again, my band was the host band to General John J. Pershing. Now, then, right after that, we were supposed to go down and take his band's place at Chaumont, but orders from General Smedley B. Butler at Le Havre changed the orders. He set the order that the 816th Pioneer Infantry would sail in August for the United States. When we got to Le Havre, France, General Smedley B. Butler proclaimed this band is now the Army Camps Band, and you are disassociated with the 816th Pioneer Infantry....

Muese-Argonne Cemetery and Memorial at Montfaucon-Romagne.

"Well, each day our only requirements were that we play a concert in the Y at a little after noon, or before noon, sometimes early in the morning. I got all my orders from him, typewritten orders. Your band will entrain today and play for so and so and so, such dignitaries as would be arriving. All the soldiers were entraining for home. Then you will proceed down to the docks today at 2:30 and there you'll stand guard and play for the sailing of troops home until 8 o'clock tonight. So, you see, my band had unusual privileges down in Le Havre. And during the loading of a ship here and the sailing of that ship. And another ship would come in and another bunch of soldiers would start coming. They had leave, so they would run all around the town, and some of them came back with 'saxophonia.' (Laughs) We had a very good time there. And my boys were very obedient to every wish of mine. While they were beating up other bandmasters over there, they threw one overboard coming back. They threw one bandmaster over the ship. They'd whip up a bandmaster in a minute, especially if he was a non-commissioned bandmaster–you didn't have any voice. They'd whip up an officer, for that matter. They were mad to come home, but my band was just as jubilant over coming home, but, yet, well, I had to be somewhat conciliatory with them. 'Well, you'll be home pretty soon.' 'I wonder if they're going to keep us in the Army,' some of them would say, and I'd say, 'Aw, no, you'll be mustered out as soon as you get over there.' Little did I think that would be done, but that was my word to them. And, sure enough, once we came back; we gave a concert on the ship coming back, every day. We got back in eleven days.

"But we stayed in Le Havre down there for a solid 24 days, and we had a wonderful time there in Le Havre. 

"After I got my discharge in Louisville, Kentucky, I headed down to New Orleans..."

And in New Orleans, he was asked to join a band to take the place of a trumpeter who was leaving for Chicago. That trumpeter was Louis Armstrong.

This July marked the 41st anniversary of Amos White's death. But for the past several weeks, as I've listened to and transcribed his oral history, I've felt as if I were in his presence. It has had far more of an emotional impact than I would have imagined. It has underlined the importance to me of two things. One, is that we all have a story waiting to be told, and the second is the value of recording oral histories. The Williamsburgh Historical Society will soon open the African-American Archives of Williamsburg. One section of the archives will include a recording booth for Williamsburg County residents, regardless of ethnicity, to record their own oral histories. I hope many of you will consider doing just that, with a child, or grandchild, a sibling, other family member, or maybe with a friend. Think about the pleasure your great-great grandchildren will have if they are able to hear your voice many years from now as you tell them your little piece of Williamsburg County's history.