A Charlestonian’s Perception of the Battle of Fort Sullivan

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          Good morning ladies and gentlemen. It is truly an honor and a privilege to be here to mark the anniversary of the Battle of Sullivan’s Island on this our 243rd Carolina Day.

          Celebrated on or about the 28th of June every year since 1777, excepting perhaps the British occupation of 1780–82, Carolina Day commemorates one of the most important battles and the first significant American military victory of our Revolutionary War. 

          [Even though we don’t have evidence that Charleston patriots celebrated Palmetto Day (as it was called) during the British occupation, I strongly suspect that they secretly did mark the day in one way or another.]

          Battles are customarily studied from a tactical, strategic, or geopolitical standpoint—with  focus on the participants, whether they be the officers or common soldiers of one side or the other, or both. This morning I’ll certainly touch on strategy, tactics, and even a little theology, but no geopolitics. But I’d really like to tack away from the lofty abstractions of liberty and independence and instead consider this event, the Battle of Sullivan’s Island, as if we were there among the throngs of fretful but patriotic Charleston civilians who watched as the battle raged in the harbor?

          But first, lets do a little mental arithmetic, beginning with the people of Charleston here on the peninsula on the morning of June 28, 1776.

          Now, add to that everybody around the harbor who was not actually involved in the battle at the fort: our soldiers and citizens over in Mount Pleasant, Col. William “Danger” Thomson and his men who held breastworks on the north end of Sullivan’s Island, British troops across Breach Inlet on what is now Isle of Palms (called Long Island, back in the day), the British sailors observing from their ships anchored in Five Fathom Hole off Morris Island, and the garrison of Fort Johnson over on James Island.

          If you go all around the harbor, from the various vantage points you will find that there were upwards of eighteen to twenty thousand spectators nervously awaiting the outcome of a duel between ships of the Royal Navy and small unfinished fort constructed of sand and palmetto logs.

          (Well, we can’t really say that the British were nervous, can we? I imagine that they were smugly confident as their ships approached our little fort.)

          But arguably, the Battle of Sullivan’s Island, specifically Sir Peter Parker’s naval assault on the fort itself, was the most spectated event in American history until the Yankees fired on Fort Sumter in 1861.

          Parenthetically, I’m not at all discounting the heroics of  “Danger” Thomson and his brave men at far end of Sullivan’s Island, their role was absolutely critical, but remember, for the purpose of my address this morning I’m concentrating on what could be seen, and heard, and known by the inhabitants of Charleston from right about here—in town. On the peninsula.

          Nobody would disagree that the battle was important, but in my view, in addition to being one of the most spectated events in American history, it was one of the most, if not the most dramatic event in American history.

          I understand if you are thinking, “How can he say that the Battle of Sullivan’s Island was the most dramatic event in American history?”

          The Battle of Bunker Hill in Boston a year earlier in June of 1775 was pretty dramatic—the British charging up the hill; the American soldiers told, “Don’t fire ’til you can see the whites of their eyes!”

          Or, Washington crossing the Delaware on Christmas night 1776—that was dramatic.

          The list could go on: Francis Scott Key watching Fort McHenry and composing the Star-Spangled Banner or Andrew Jackson at New Orleans during the war of 1812, Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg (I don’t care which side of that argument you’re on—Pickett’s Charge was dramatic), Teddy Roosevelt charging up San Juan Hill during the Spanish American War.

          I’ll stop with the end of the 19th-century because you probably get my point.

          And I think we can agree that the outcomes of the events I’ve just mentioned were never foregone conclusions, in fact, in every example given, the final result was highly uncertain from the onset.

           But in no case more so than the Battle of Sullivan’s Island was the conclusion so uncertain, the odds against us so great, and the stakes so high.

          The very idea of defending Sullivan’s Island, in the minds of some, was so far beyond the bounds of conventional wisdom as to make it’s undertaking foolhardy.

          Let me restate what I just said, because its important: many in Charleston rightly believed that defending a fort on Sullivan’s Island was a bad idea.

          Now bear with me for a moment while I digress to define the term “outcome bias.”

          Having outcome bias means that when we look back on the battle now, knowing how it turned out—an astonishing victory for us, the steps leading up to the battle seem, in retrospect, to be perfectly reasonable, proper, and correct.

          That, however, is not necessarily so, and if we can temporarily set aside our outcome bias, we might appreciate the Battle of Sullivan’s Island from the perspective of those watching from here on the peninsula in 1776.

          So let’s set the stage:

          Ignore the outside heat and humidity for a moment, imagine it is January 1776:

          We’ve heard what the British have been doing in the northern colonies, and we’ve also learned that a British expeditionary force is headed our way.

          We don’t know when they’ll arrive, or where, or what they’ll do when they get here, but we know that they are coming!

          These unknowns only heighten our rising apprehension.

          We’ll fortify Charleston and the harbor to the best of our ability, given limited time, resources, and experience.

          And in due course, we will build a fort on Sullivan’s Island.

          The ship channel runs right past Sullivan’s Island; we can at least try to stop the British there if they try to sail past to threaten our beloved town, right?

          But how? How will we do it?

          To our knowledge, palmetto logs have never been used in fortification or tested in battle, but hey—there are plenty of palmetto trees around here, and who knows—they might actually be of good use.

          There is little else we can do, but honor demands that we do something! We are not just going to give up!

          So we fortify, the British come, they bombard our little fort for the better part of a day, and then withdraw after suffering a humiliating defeat.

          We’ll put a tree on our flag to commemorate our success, and we’ll observe the anniversary every year with a parade (usually) and the very best speakers (sometimes)!

          Let’s back up and drill down a little deeper.

          South Carolina provincial troops occupy Sullivan’s Island at Christmastime in 1775. Learning that a British force is indeed headed our way, South Carolina’s Council of Safety decides in January 1776 to build a fort out there (on Sullivan’s Island).

          The Council engages Cornelius Dewees and others to deliver palmetto logs to the island — as many as they could, as fast as they could, until they received orders telling them to stop.  

          Over the coming months thousands of palmetto logs are rafted over to Sullivan’s Island from the mainland. All the while, we continue to fortify the peninsula, just in case.

          But when Col. William Moultrie goes out to Sullivan’s Island in March, he find that not very much progress has been made. According to William Gilmore Simms, the fort “was little more than an outline. Its shape was traced upon the sand, and the palmetto rafts lay around it, waiting to be moulded into form.”

          I can almost imagine Colonel Moultrie sending a note back to the mainland saying, “Friends, I have been out to Sullivan’s Island, and it is indeed in a sad, sorry state of affairs.”

          He and his men, a number of hired artisans from town, and a cadre of enslaved laborers begin work in earnest.

          Despite their hard work, when the British arrive offshore in June with a fleet of 50 ships and thousands of redcoat soldiers, the little palmetto fort is far from finished—more than halfway, perhaps, but not much more.

          But this is where we will make our stand: an unfinished fort, the garrison of 435 will be outnumbered four to one, we don’t have near enough cannon—of our thirty-one guns in the fort, perhaps only twenty-one or so can be brought to bear on an enemy, so we will hold a seven to one disadvantage in firepower, our supply of gunpowder is critically short.

          Notwithstanding, our commander William Moultrie has refused to give up his fort with out a fight.

          Who was this William Moultrie? (It would take a book to tell that story.)

          Many of us know him well and have known him for years. He is an esteemed and gregarious gentleman who is very popular with his men but he is unproven as a leader in battle.

          In reality, Maj. Gen. Charles Lee of the Continental Army, sent by Congress to help us out, has mostly negative opinions about Moultrie’s leadership ability. Lee considers him lax, criticizes him for fraternizing with his soldiers, and almost relieves him of command on the morning of battle.

          Most, if not all, of what I’ve just said is common knowledge around town, which doesn’t exactly bolster our confidence.

          And what about the common soldiers under Moultrie’s command—the men inside the fort—the privates—we hear very little about them.

          The enlisted soldiers are a generally rough and ragged bunch. Many are immigrants or poor white men of low social standing. Like most of their officers, few if any had ever before come under fire.

          But here is one thing we know about the enlisted men — and its very illustrative if we remember that the South Carolina troops were not yet part of the Continental Army: in the Continental Army, at that time certain infractions were punishable by no more that 39 lashes.

          The origin of the 39 lashes is actually Biblical; in Deuteronomy 25:3, Moses says that a guilty person may receive “forty stripes, not more.” In II Corinthians 11:24, the apostle Paul says that he received “forty lashes less one.”

          General Lee, however, in a letter to Gen. Robert Howe, wrote that this level of punishment would be “too mild for the perverse Soldiery of this meridian to whom 39 lashes would prove but a light breakfast.”

          The data, in fact, shows that when our soldiers misbehaved, they were often sentenced to far more than 39 lashes.

          What does this say about South Carolina’s common soldiers in comparison to those from the other colonies—ours was a tough crowd. But that’s what we need right now, isn’t it? And without realizing it, Lee has actually paid us a backhanded compliment. “Light breakfast,” indeed!

          In the end, we’ll ignore much of Lee’s advice—the “wisdom” of a soldier considered by some to be a better candidate to command the Continental Army than George Washington. Lee had declared that the fort was a veritable slaughter pen, that it would not hold for half an hour, that the garrison would be inevitably and needlessly sacrificed. He had no confidence in Moultrie or his men or the fort, and he strongly recommended abandoning Sullivan’s Island.

          Even William Moultrie’s friend, ship captain Clement Lempriére, expressed his opinion (and one shared by many of the local sailors), that the British men-of-war would come alongside the fort and “knock it down in a half hour.”

          Moultrie, of course, replied that if that happened, he and his men would fight from the ruins. He was absolutely committed to defending Sullivan’s Island.

          Now lets momentarily turn our attention to our adversary: the Royal Navy and British army appear to be everything that we are not: battle tested, experienced, well supplied, well trained, well armed.

          Taking into account all of these factors: the relative indefensibility of Sullivan’s Island compared to the military might of the British empire, what could possibly go wrong?

          You can see that when we put aside our outcome bias, defending the fort doesn’t necessarily sound like a great idea, does it?

          Again, lets circle back to where we started one more time: now imagine that you are a civilian here in Charleston, a man, woman, or even a child.

          And as you watch the battle unfold from a rooftop, or a wharf, or from atop one of the walls around the waterfront, you are acutely aware of the terrible odds against your friends, brothers, your sweethearts, husbands, and fathers inside the fort.

          You know that they are not fully prepared and are overmatched, facing an attack by one of the world’s most powerful navies.

That palmetto fort on Sullivan’s Island is not going to be merely battered into submission. There is a very real threat of annihilation.

          And then what?

          Will the British sail further into the harbor? Will they demand our surrender?

          What if they bombard the town? Or start a fire? (Charleston was very flammable in those days.)

          Will they land an occupation force?

          We will fight, won’t we? Will we? What on earth will become of us?

          Once the cannonade at the fort begins, we can’t really see much of what’s happening from where we are watching. The smoke from the guns on both sides obscures our view, taking on the appearance of thunderclouds. The muzzle flashes appear as summer lightning in the distance.

          To quote William Gilmore Simms, “the emotions of the heart are visible in array upon our faces… The hope, the fear, and the worst agony of all, the dreadful suspense,” — this is what we see on the faces of our friends and family as we look about!

          At some point, if you strain your eyes, you can barely make out our flag through the smoke, indigo blue with a crescent in the right upper corner. Well, maybe. It's a long way.

          And then it falls.

          Have we lost? Have we struck our colors? Have we surrendered? No one seems to know Wait…  look—the flag is back in its place…. Take heart…. Our men fight on.

          And they did fight on—all day long and into the evening. Slowly and methodically firing back at the British.

          Finally, to our profound relief, a dispatch boat sent by Colonel Moultrie appears through the smoke and the darkness, bringing welcome news that the British ships had retired and that our South Carolinians are victorious.

          More than victorious, actually. Our brave but outnumbered, outgunned, and undersupplied South Carolinians have decimated our British foes. 

          Colonel Moultrie would later say that if we had had enough gunpowder the British would have surely been compelled to strike their colors, “or they would certainly have been sunk, because they could not retreat, as the wind and tide were against them….”

          General Lee conceded in a letter to the Continental Congress, “I was not acquainted with the merit of these brave fellows,” and he wrote that Colonel Moultrie, who he had almost relieved of command, had gained “eternal credit.”

          The lesson was clear: victory, however improbable, against a foe of extraordinary strength, was possible.

          South Carolinians had demonstrated by force of arms that they could and would defend their liberty. 

          And so, it was the first significant American military victory of our Revolutionary War. 

          And the most dramatic event in American history (in my humble opinion).

          We would later learn of the various factors that contributed to our success that day, among them a cascade of British mistakes, the resiliency of our fort constructed of palmetto logs and sand, and the resolute determination of our men to hold their fort against incredible odds.

          But there is a very important factor that should not be overlooked, and that is Divine Providence. Our forebears certainly gave Divine Providence its place. And so should we.

          Maj. Barnard Elliott of the Fourth Regiment of Artillery had not fought in the battle, but had watched from the cupola of his home near the corner of Meeting and Queen. He penned a letter to his wife Susannah on the day after the battle (invoking Psalm 140:7).     

          In closing, let me share what he said:   

           “Now, my dear wife, let us not forget to whom we are indebted for this success against our enemy. Let us return God thanks for it. It is He that does all for us. He inspires our officers and men with courage, and shields their heads in the day of battle. He is the wonderful God of victory.”

          And to that, I can only add “Amen,” thank you, and Happy Carolina Day.

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Given by Dr. Cordell Lee "Chip" Bragg III

June 28, 2020