The Eternal Dinner Party

Excuse me, sir, but could you tell us where are the
plantations of the old South?

"We're lost."
"No, dear, this is the way. I'm sure of it. Trust me."
The Habershams came winding up a long meandering drive in a horse and carriage, making a couple of sharply acute turns. Mr. Habersham looked out the back window to make sure they had turned at the right spot but already the forest seemed to
close in behind them. He was more nervous than he let on to being. The avenue was mazelike.
It was dusk on Thanksgiving. 1775. Folks had been arriving at Bonaventure for
the annual feast periodically, throughout the day. The sky was now a pinkish-orange that
faded into blue along the visible horizon. There was a strange golden light casting a
surreal glow through the forest.
Mrs. Habersham turned to her husband.
"You would think that the house would be visible at the end of the avenue."
"Have you not heard the story of these trees, dear?" His voice betrayed an
apprehensive cosmopolitan lilt.
The lady shrugged. The sounds of the wilderness permeated the vacuum of his
query. He explained.
"Well, the house was the gift of John Mulryne to his daughter Mary on the
occasion of her marriage to Josiah Tattnall. Mulryne also planted a series of Live Oaks
directly in front of the house in the shape of an intertwined M and T to signify the joining
together of the two families. It wasn't just a single line but a double line of trees so that
they grew together at the top and created a tunnel path with several pleasant turns."
"So, we're winding down a leg of the M right now?"
"Yes, if I'm not mistaken, and the intersection with the T is just up ahead. We'll
soon see the house."
"Oh, darling, ha ha, yes, I do see another carriage just rounding the bend up
ahead. It looks to be the Johnstons. This is the right way. What a bizarre ride!"
She pulled out a little pocket mirror to check her makeup and hair.

There was a good view at Bonaventure despite the thick foggy mist rising from the water. The grand neo-classical home stood on an excellent commanding bluff overlooking the Wilmington River. And there was also a nice breeze that came whipping through the live Oak tunnels that permeated the property. Sometimes the wind whistled or shrieked because the bald eagles were hunting nearby.
Some arrived by land but some made the commute over water in boats. Families from neighboring plantations navigated through the extensive weblike waterways that connected so many of the old homes to the sea. They brought all matter of special casseroles, fresh fruits and pies, wild game and fowl, and, of course, plenty of brandy,
whiskey, rum, and wine.
The negro slaves, lords of rhythm, carried musical instruments slung loosely over the shoulder for entertainment later in the evening. As the boats were approaching, the sounds of acapella harmonies from the black pilots boomed across the water toward Bonaventure.
All roads of rural indulgence and entertainment led to Bonaventure in the old days. Those in carriages hustled down the labyrinthine avenue, finally lining up in the central cul-de-sac around the big tree with four to six horses apiece. A little dust got kicked up in the air as the party began to get underway and so the ladies waited a minute or two before exiting the main coaches and making their grand debut.
Initially, everyone mingled outside. Tattnall's catering captured everyone's attention. There were extraordinary ice sculptures on hour' d oeuvres tables and bars.
Classic figures from ancient mythological times were melting slowly and glistening
under the simmering sunshine, sublimating into the heavy humid sweet sticky atmosphere. There was something gothic about how the heat was deforming the immoveable bodies.
Ice was unheard of in these parts but a ship from Massachusetts had arrived earlier, carrying big blocks from Gorrie's ice house. This occassion had turned out to be an expensive affair but Tattnall was known for going out of his way to show off his beloved home. It was his most valuable worldly possession.

As the party got under way, the Africans began tuning up their fiddles and banjos. Some were tending bar. There were also a few Irish musicians out there and even a Scottish bagpipe player. The bizarre acoustic amalgam created a powerful echo
underneath the arboreal cathedral. Overwhelming all noise, though, was the chatter of excited conversation permeating the grounds. There was talk of war in the air. Revolution.

Lexington and Concord had erupted a few months before but was it really possible? Everyone was in a state of disbelief. Revolution in Georgia? After all, Georgia was the "Loyalist Milquetoast." Some were skeptical but many sons had already begun to trade banners and were talking with fire in their eyes and Patrick Henry in their hearts. The Habershams, the Jones, the Sheftalls, and others tried desperately to harness their disparate ranks.
There was word that a large group of "Liberty Boys" had come down from Massachusetts on the ice ship that Tattnall had ordered, to agitate and "stir the men up."

Rumor was that these northern fellas were radicals. There had been issues with violence breaking out in some of the taverns in Savannah. A few families received threats in the downtown and several had even taken a short trip to see country relatives until the city cooled a little bit.

Paul Tubbins, a local merchant who was assisting Tattnall in bringing the Sea Island Cotton seed to the coastal regions of Carolina and Georgia, was in the midst of recounting a harrowing tale to a group of young ladies, as he gulped a glass of madeira wine.
"See, lie-dees. It was lak this. We was a drinkin' and carryin' on lak men do an' sich. An' this ol' boy, John Hopkins wuz 'is name. Yeah, he 'uz a arr'gant Brit mar'ner...jist passin' through...He's drunker'n all of us. Didn't realize who's sittin' 'round
'im. Stands up on the bar and yells at the top of his lungs, "DAMNATION to American Liberty".
He paused a second and looked at the ladies. His eyes bugged out. They shuddered at the harsh language.
"Yeah, complete silence. Hopkins giggles a coupla' tah-mes and burps squeamishly. Thought he wuz bein' funny. Two men sittin' nearby push him down off the bar. Hopkins then scurries to his room upstairs, lockin' the door..."
"And then...what happened?" A little blond haired lady tugged at Tubbins arm. He spilled a bit of his wine. Before resuming, he watched the liquid drip to the ground with a hint of sadness in his eyes. One of the waiters was right there, though, and before Tubbins was able to look back at the half-empty glass, it had been refilled. In another moment, he threw it down the hatch.

"Well...later that night...the sons of liberty met up. They all wore grotesque masks to cover their identities. They paid off the hostess, broke into Hopkins' room, drug 'im a kickin' and a screamin' through the city streets and over to Johnson Square where they had a waitin' fer the British gent...a cauldron of boilin' tar!"
This was just too much for the sweet ladies. They opened their little powdered mouths wide in awe.
"Dunked him up an' down...up an' down agin'...till he agreed to 'pologize for his rude comments."
"And did he?" A brunette with large breasts stepped forward. Tubbins lost his concentration for a moment, distracted by the woman's womanliness.
"Yes, goddamnit...wow...yes...he did. Then they pulled him out and covered 'im with goose feathers. Somebody, ain't sayin' who, put a big clump o' Spanish moss on his head. He looked lak a hag o' the night.
When he had calmed down a little, they poured him a glass of Madeira jest lak ahm drinkin' now, and gave 'im the opportunity to make another toast...which he did. This tahm wishin' the 'mericans the best o' luck."
A short woman with curly hair who had been a bit coy and suspicious till now, waited a couple of moments as Tubbins finished his story, and then spoke up.
"How do you know all of this, Mr. Tubbins?"
He winked. She continued, now more wary.
"I bet you could also tell us the story behind the royal governor's kidnapping the other day, too. Eh?"
"No, ma'am. You'd have to ask ol' Habersham 'bout that one. His boy Joseph was person'ly responsible."

Just then a group of men came galloping up on horseback. Their clothing was sparse and tattered. Governor James Wright was at the head of the group. Had he escaped? Or was his kidnapping just a rumor? The men dismounted and rushed up,
conferred on the porch, and then the leader went into the house alone. There was a temporary hush as the crowd parted and awaited a report. With none forthcoming, the gulf closed and the chatter resumed even more heated than before.
The sound of heavy boots on the heart pine floor in the long hall startled the lord of Bonaventure, Josiah Tattnall, out of an idyllic daydream. He looked up from a clump of white cotton in his hand in time to see his old friend, James Wright, step boldly into the dark study.
At first the men didn't speak. They just looked at one another. It seemed that Wright had reached his breaking point.
"What are you holding in your hand, dear sir?"
"White gold, James. We're going to begin planting cotton at Bonaventure next
Spring."
"There won't be a next Spring, Josiah. At least not for us."
Tattnall gazed out the window.
"I will not let go of Bonaventure, James. It is my home. My son knows no other."
"Either you will call off this nonsense and begin making preparations to leave or Bonaventure will be wrenched from your grasp by force. God help your family."
"Like I said, sir, we will begin planting cotton next Spring. I've just returned from the Bahamas where they cultivate a strand of cotton known as Sea Island. It has a longer thread, is easier to separate from the seed, and will surely take deep root in the highland fields surrounding the bluff. This is just the beginning. Cotton will one day become
synonymous with the South. Mark my words."
"That fool's share in your hands is all you will ever secure..."
They looked at one another. Tattnall put the cotton boll in his pocket.
"So, I heard you got kidnapped." Tattnall changed the subject.
"Yes, but they harbor no ill will towards me, only the position of authority that I
represent. I raised half these "Liberty Boys" with my own hands and they still approach me with some level of trepidation and respect. I was released with the promise that I would evacuate. There is no refuge left in Savannah. The time has come for us to go.
You've got boats. Let's make our arrangements tonight, sir, before other arrangements are made for us."
Tattnall turned to look towards the window. Then he walked over to the bar and poured a tall glass of scotch into two tumblers. He looked back at his old friend.
"Let's have a drink first. I've got two hundred people in my front yard. This party will go on. You might as well enjoy it with us."
He handed the Governor the glass, which he took with no small reluctance.
Tattnall raised his and smiled, waiting for the governor to meet his gauntlet.
"May the joy of this occasion never end!"

The dinner bell rang and the crowd began filing into the large house. Everyone looked for his assigned seat. The dining rooms were immaculately set. The main table in the central room contained sixty chairs. There were placards by each plate. As soon as people began sitting down the servers brought salad and fruit out. There were fresh apples, pears, apricots, peaches, oranges, grapefruits, figs, scuppernongs, blackberries, and strawberries three inches thick. These were complemented by basketfuls of pecans and peanuts that were passed around in larger bowls. And then dark spinach and lettuce leaves, fresh oils and vinegars, carrots, tomatoes, and celery. All of the preliminary food was reputed to have come from Bonaventure's garden. And then there was the Madeira wine.

The English brought grapevine cuttings to Georgia during the first generation in the hopes that she would thrive as a winegrowing region. Savannah is at about the same latitude as Madeira. For the most part, the early vineyards did not do well but some of the estates had maintained the cultivation up through the Revolution. And so it continued to be a popular favorite.

Everyone had already had a drink or two of it but for the most part, the Georgia Madeira was being saved for the meal. A number of French, Spanish, and Italian red and white wines were now offered to the guests. The interchange and clinking of glasses sparkling in the candlelight made for an interesting acoustic and visual effect. Though it was unorthodox etiquette, the guests had been encouraged to go ahead and take their seats and begin the preliminary munching and sipping, as Tattnall was still conferring with the Governor.

The two men had another drink together. And another. Tattnall had partially won Wright over and had now begun spinning yarns to put the older man at ease.
"Do you remember, James, the situation with the Tryal back in 1758?"
"That was before I arrived. That would have been under John Reynolds’ watch."
"Yes, well, it was during the Seven Year's War, of course, and there was much hostility between us and the French and Spanish in those days. They were burning a lot of the coastal plantations with the help of runaway slaves they had captured and bribed.
The Tryal was an English ship outfitted in Savannah that was sent out to patrol the area. This was right before Bonaventure was constructed. I actually remember John Mulryne addressing me on one occasion about its relevance. It was because of the danger to the exposed coast that he had taken such pains to hide Bonaventure deep within the river and up high on a bluff. He meant for the estate to withstand attack."
"And what is your point Tattnall?"
"Well, it's just that the French and Spanish are gone, sir. The Tryal drove off the
marauders. And Bonaventure remains, tucked deep in the bosom of paradise." Tattnall smiled carelessly.
"It's not the French and Spanish that we have to worry about, Josiah."
Tattnall shook the ice in his glass hard, spilling some of the Scotch onto the ground.
"James, as the Scottish say, bluid is thicker than water. We are all British. This
dispute will work itself out."
A glass shattered in the hall just outside the room. Both men rushed to check the disturbance. George, one of the black slaves was busy cleaning up a glass of red wine that had fallen off of his tray.
"George, how long have you been standing at this door?"
"Not long, suh. I just was bringin' you and the guv'nah some wine like we served the guests."
Tattnall looked at his friend. He thought he had heard something move behind the door several minutes before the spill.
"All right. Well, I guess we should join the others, James. What do you say?"
"Yes." James was pensive. As they walked away, he looked back at George, noticing a transient grimace pass across the black man's visage.

As Tattnall and Wright joined the party, the main course was being brought out. It was an extravagant duck and quail dinner, compliments of a Mr. Zachariah Winkler, whose estate stood on the Northwest side of the Savannah river a few miles above the city. Winkler had a great tradition of preparing the fowl with a secret recipe of spices. As soon as the meat was sizzling and ready it would be pulled out of the oven and immediately placed in large fanner baskets in layers between wet leaves that had been steamed. Then white clothes were sewn onto the top of the baskets to maintain the heat and also to prevent curious fingers from having a taste. The baskets had been rowed over and had arrived exactly at the moment that they were to be served.

Winkler went to considerable lengths to have the fowl properly presented and everyone enjoyed the show as the servants began to unseal the large baskets on trays situated around the main dining table.

About midway through the presentation of the fowl, there was a loud scream from somewhere in the back of the house. The door adjoining the dining room to the serving anteroom swung open and the butler came rushing in, knocking over one of the big baskets and sending the duck and quail inside sprawling across the floor. Tattnall was furious. He slammed his hands hard on the dinner table as he rose to meet the nervous man approaching.
"What is the meaning of this, Henry?" He glared at the man and gripped his shoulder.
"Suh, I have somethin' turribly important to tell you. You must listen before you get angry, suh."
"Not here in front of my guests. Come with me." Tattnall retained his tight grasp on the butler's shoulder and stepped into a back room to confer.

The chattering and whispering commenced in the main room and in the other adjoining dining areas. What was the problem? Had someone been hurt? What was the scream all about? A number of the men who were frequent regulars at Tattnall's parties thought it was part of a production. Tattnall was known for his good humor. He often staged theatrical events during the meals to make them more exciting. But this seemed real.
A few minutes later, Tattnall reappeared without the butler. He had regained his composure and was now wearing a large smile. The party fell silent as they awaited his report.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Do not be concerned. You all know that we love to put on a show out at Bonaventure. No one is hurt and Henry was just playing his part. We wouldn't have you go away without some surprise now would we? Before I explain
further, though, I would like to suggest that we move this glorious feast out to the front lawn. It's a bit stuffy and crowded here inside and there is a cool breeze that we all ought to take advantage of. Let us proceed.

Though there was a sigh of relief, everyone was confused. Why set up such an elaborate meal only to relocate? What sort of prank was Tattnall perpetrating? Seeing as they were his guests, there was no choice but to do as he pleased them to do. Winkler was upset. He followed Tattnall to ascertain the meaning behind this shenanigan. The servants began hastily picking up the dishes, baskets, chairs and tables and removing the dinner out to the front. The guests helped in any way that they could and followed the procession. Some of the ladies were a little peeved at the effort.

The main table was placed underneath the large oak in front of the house. When the rest of the accoutrements were set down, everyone took their seat again. The duck and quail were served and the wine was poured gratuitously in an attempt to rectify the inconvenience. Again, everyone waited for Tattnall.

Finally, he emerged from the large oak doors of Bonaventure and walked confidently up to his place at the head with his back to the big house. He addressed the party.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Now for the big announcement you've all been waiting for. Bonaventure. The good way. What a wonderful blessing! You have been coming out to celebrate life and the fruits of this southern paradise for many years now. We have enjoyed your company. You know that this estate is my most valuable worldly possession. I have given everything for it and have rested all of my hopes upon it and the land on which it stands. My dreams of the future lie with Bonaventure.
But now, as we gather together for this fabulous feast, I regret to inform you that it will be our last. For Bonaventure is burning down and there is nothing that any one of us can do to save her!"

Tattnall had maintained his calm demeanor all the way until the last sentence and it was a moment before the dinner party comprehended what he had just said. Then there was a gush. Some people were laughing at what they thought was a joke. Many of the women took him seriously though, and began weeping. But all realized that this was no show when they looked up at the house and thick smoke and orange flames began curling over the back end, which up until that very moment had been completely invisible.
Bonaventure was on fire!
"Since we cannot save her, we are going to continue with our meal and celebrate our existence and give thanks while we watch her go down. This will be remembered as the longest and most extraordinary feast of all time. Eat, drink, and be merry!"

At this point, many of the men stood up and yelled at Tattnall that he must do something. Some that remained sitting spoke to one another of his mental instability. What sort of lunacy could carry on so carelessly in the midst of such a disaster? James
Wright sat quietly contemplating the man and the bizarre situation. Tattnall was putting on a show all right, keeping his cool while his cherished dreams were destroyed before his eyes.

One of the servants approached Tattnall very carefully. It was clear that though he was holding himself together, there was an enormous pressure underneath this facade.
"Suh, we forgot the candelabras. They's still inside. Should we retrieve them before it's too late?"
"That won't be necessary, John. The flames from the house will illuminate the dinner just fine. Now pour me another drink."
His glass was filled. He continued standing. Then he lifted the glass up high and turned to face the burning house.
"May the joy of this occasion never end!"
He took the entire liquid in one gulp and without pause slammed the crystal into the oak tree with such power that the sound seemed to reverberate through the entire atmosphere, compounding the explosion of window panes along the sides of the house, too hot to hold the heat any longer.

And so the eternal dinner party carried on throughout the night. The bonfire offered a bizarre backdrop to the strange merriment. Everyone let their passion rise to an extreme level of grotesque debauchery. The glasses were filled, refilled, and then filled again. The amplification made a deep impression on the record of the world. And the party melted into an ancestral beauty.

When Bonaventure was nothing more than a bed of burning coals, Tattnall suggested that they make another toast, saving himself for last. The men stood up, made their toast, and crashed their crystal goblets into the large oak tree, putting their own permanent acoustic imprint on the bark. When it was James Wright's turn, he and Tattnall shared a few words as he approached the head.
"And what do you have to add, James?"
"I think you said it best, Josiah...
He sloshed his glass of Madeira around and raised it high.
May the joy of this occasion never end!"
Wright gulped his drink and smashed the crystal.
Tattnall smiled.
"That's my toast."
"Well, you'll just to have to think up something else. The King is dead."
Tattnall's glass was filled one final time. He contemplated for a couple of moments, looking over at the tears in his son’s eyes. Then he turned and raised it up in an odd manner, holding the glass with both hands as if it were the grail itself.
"Long live the King!"





Bibliography

1. Margaret Wayt Debolt, Savannah Spectres and Other Strange Tales (Norfolk, VA: Donning,
1984).

2. Mary Granger, Georgia Writer's Project, Savannah's River Plantations (Savannah, GA:
Georgia Historical Society, 1997).

3. Annie Marie Wilso and Mandi Dale Johnson, Historic Bonaventure Cemetery (Charleston, SC:
Arcadia Publishing, 2004).

4. Kathryn Tucker Windham and Francis Lanier, Thirteen Georgia Ghosts and Jeffrey
(Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 1987).