A Most Unusual Passage
Copyright© 2026 by J&J
Chapter 45
It didn’t take long to walk down to Ft. Moultrie. It was just a few blocks from Henry’s house. The fort itself is built with angular sloping brick walls, which, as Henry explained, were designed to make it impossible for attackers to find shelter at the base. This style of fort was originally designed by a French engineer named Vauban. According to Henry, this was the way almost all forts were built for about 200 years, until the rifled cannon made brick walls obsolete.
We first went to the visitor’s center across the street. Ultramodern in design, the architect nevertheless used brick walls with angles echoing the old fort. Inside were a few visitors and one attractive but rather bored looking young lady in a green and grey park service uniform.
She smiled when she saw us. “Good morning, Professor Manigault; haven’t seen you for a while. Are you here for business or just looking around?”
“My colleague and I will be doing some research today,” Henry told her.
She nodded, “Please sign the log book in the office.”
Henry led me to a small office behind the front desk and opened the door. Inside was a counter, where he signed his name in a large book and put “The Citadel” in the column marked “Organization.”
After he finished with the book, he turned to me, “You’ll have to sign this also.”
I gave him a puzzled look, “Are you sure? I’m really not a researcher.”
He chuckled, “Well, today you are. Once we are signed in, we will be issued badges that allow us into areas not normally open to the public.”
I signed the book, and under “organization.” I entered “Otis Unified School, Washington County, Colorado”. I chuckled, thinking, “It might take someone a while to figure that out.”
I looked up, and saw Henry talking with the girl. She reached in her desk and handed him two badges.
“Here, put this on, and we’ll be on our way.”
I clipped the badge to my shirt pocket and followed him out the door.
The next three hours where amazing. The fort was constructed in different parts, each one representing a different time and era of the fort’s history.
I also found out that Henry was something of an expert. He started my education with the old palmetto log section of the fort.
“During the Revolution, the Americans built the first fort here using palmetto trees, since that’s pretty much all that grows here.”
“You mean those trees all over the island I thought they were palms?” I asked.
“Exactly, they are really cabbage palmetto, which turned out to be a brilliant choice, because the wood is very soft and fibrous. When the British navy showed up, they expected to make short work of this puny little log fort. But to their chagrin and the Americans’ delight, the cannon balls either bounced off or were harmlessly absorbed by the spongy wood. It was the first real British defeat of the war, and that’s why the palmetto became our state tree.”
“That must have really embarrassed the British.”
Henry laughed, “Oh, it did at the time, but it also pissed them of, so they returned later with a much bigger army, which came overland and bypassed the forts. This time Charleston fell.”
When we got to the Civil War portion of the fort, I was stunned by the size of some of the guns.
“Damn, Henry,” I exclaimed. “I can’t believe the size of these two monster guns. They look like huge iron Coke bottles.”
“These are 15” Rodman guns. They were developed during the Civil War, but of course, weren’t available in the South. These were mounted here right after the war. They could fire a 450-pound ball almost three miles. You’re right about huge; each of these weighs about 25 tons, and that’s just the barrel alone.”
I was curious. “Why aren’t there any rangers around to look after things?” Then I added, “But then, I guess there’s not much chance of these walking off.”
“So you’d think,” he replied. “But believe it or not, the head ranger got a call in the middle of the night some years back. He got here in time to stop some guys who had rigged a hoist and were actually lifting off one of these Rodman’s to put on a barge.”
“What in God’s name were they going to do with it?”
“Beats the hell out of me, Marcus. I never heard. Maybe they just didn’t get along with their neighbors.”
Finally we progressed up to the World War II Harbor Entrance Command Post. It was the highest point on the fort and gave a great view of the whole harbor. It also caught the best cool breezes off the ocean. We took a few moments to enjoy both.
“This functioned like the tower at an airport,” explained Henry. “Every ship entering the harbor was challenged and identified. If a bad guy ever showed up, they could call up gun batteries from around the harbor, including a couple of 16” battleship type of guns here on Sullivan’s Island. They also controlled electrically fired mine fields.”
“Any chance we could tour the 16” batteries? I’d find that very interesting.”
“They’ve been converted to private luxurious underground homes. I wish I knew someone who owned one, because I’d love to see it myself,” he replied.
“Was there ever any action here?” I asked.
“Not since the Civil War, but it did come close. During World War II, you could see burning tankers off the coast that had been torpedoed by German U-boats. The oil, debris and occasional body that washed up on the beach reminded everyone that there was a real war going on.”
After the last part of Henry’s lesson, he must have guessed my knees where acting up.
“How about we take a rest and have a something to drink?”
With cups of lemonade in hand, we found a bench, shaded by the wall of the old torpedo station.
I took a sip and then asked, “You seem to be very knowledgeable about the history here. Was it one of your areas of study?”
I must have caught him by surprise; He almost choked on his drink. After sputtering for a few minutes, he answered, “Marcus, I grew up here. As a kid I used to scamper over the revetments playing soldier. That was long before this was a national monument though.” He paused for a second, and then in a softer tone, said, “The history of this place is as much a part of me as the clothes I wear or the air I breathe.”
I nodded my head, “Yes, that I can understand. It’s kind of the way I feel about where I live.”
I chuckled and then continued, “Of course, the history of Otis, Colorado, is not known or thought of as important as it is here.”
Henry stared at me for a second, and then said, “Marcus, all history is important. It is the combined history of this country that makes us what we are. To exclude any part, or say that one time period or place is more important than another, is to undervalue the people who have gone before and made this country what it is.”
He took another sip of lemonade, while I pondered what he said. I was still thinking on his words when he asked, “Marcus, tell me about Otis—the people, the landscape, the hardships and joys they endured.”
I looked up, “Well, I was born in 1920. So I lived through the depression and dustbowl. Neither was a pretty sight, and it was a tough time to live in eastern Colorado. I also remember my dad talking about homesteading our farm. I guess it was 1892 or there about, when he and my mother moved from Wisconsin...”
For the next hour, I talked, and Henry listened; occasionally interrupting me to ask a pertinent question or two. Finally, it must have been around noon when I wound down.
Our lemonade had disappeared quite a while ago, and we just sat there, on the bench, two older men talking about times long ago.
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