Callan's Choices
Harold Percival Whittington, as the handsome young heir apparent to the vast railroad fortune of the Whittington family of New York, Boston and Philadelphia, was quite a catch, matrimonially speaking. There wasn't a debutante in polite society who didn't fantasize about someday becoming Mrs. Harold Percival Whittington or a mother who didn't try to finagle a meeting between Harold and her single daughter.
Sadly, hundreds of dreams, both of daughters and mothers (and possibly several fathers) were dashed in the summer of 1895 when Whittington announced his engagement. Had the intended of the young scion been a Vanderbilt, Rockefeller or any other member of Mrs. Astor's famed four hundred, the shock of the announcement would not have been nearly as great. However, Harold Whittington chose for his future bride a woman of limited means, one from New Jersey, of all places!
Callan McCulloch, the daughter and only child of a somewhat impoverished but dedicated physician from Morristown, had never given much thought to an advantageous marriage. Nor had the girl troubled her head over the things that were so important to young ladies in the Whittingtons' circle of friends. She never cared if her gown was in fashion, her hair was dressed in the most recent coiffure or her name appeared on a certain party guest list.
Callan was so oblivious to the world of upper class Americans, in fact, that she didn't even recognize Harold when they first met. Of course, even if she had been familiar with his countenance, she would not have recognized him because of the blood on his face, for the two met when Harold was injured in a buggy accident. Callan, who often helped her father with his medical practice by performing nursing services, not only calmed the young millionaire as he was pinned beneath his carriage, but she actually saved his life by staunching the flow of blood until a doctor arrived at the scene.
It was more than simple gratitude Harold felt for the doctor's daughter. She was unquestionably one of the most beautiful young women he'd ever seen. Her flawless complexion was like fine porcelain, her eyes as blue as a cloudless, sunny sky and her hair the pale yellow of churned butter. Her looks coupled with her gentle, demure manner gave the overall impression of an angel, and once Harold Whittington recovered from his harrowing ordeal, he zealously pursued the angelic beauty with marriage in mind.
Naturally, the socially conscious Whittington family tried to dissuade him from his foolish course of action, but Harold was inflexible where his heart was concerned. At first, Callan ignored his attempts to court her. Although she found him attractive and personable, she did not want to marry anyone, preferring to remain at home to help ease her widowed father's burden and intending to eventually take care of him when old age forced him to retire from medicine.
However, Dr. McCulloch didn't want his daughter to make such a sacrifice.
"I'm already past sixty," he argued. "I don't know how many years I'll have left."
"But father ...," Callan began to protest.
"Now, hear me out. I won't last forever. I'd like to be assured that you'll be taken care of when I'm gone. Not only does this man love you, but he has the financial resources to ensure that you will live comfortably for the rest of your life. But the choice is yours, my dear. You're a sensible woman, and I'm sure you'll make the right decision."
It was knowing that her husband's money might support her father in his later years that helped her come to a decision.
After a somewhat short but still decorously acceptable period of engagement, Callan and Harold were married. The wedding ceremony and reception were too grandiose for the bride's modest tastes but not quite lavish enough for the groom's family. To Harold, the ceremony was perfect since it united him in matrimony with his beloved angel of mercy.
* * *
After their European honeymoon, the newlywed couple moved into the Whittingtons' Fifth Avenue mansion. Not long after their return, the hot days of summer arrived, and Harold suggested his wife decide which of her belongings she wanted to bring to Newport.
"We're moving?" Callan asked, unaware that the wealthy families of New York routinely escaped the sweltering heat of the city summers by relocating to Rhode Island.
"Yes. We'll spend the summer in the family cottage until we get one of our own."
A cottage! his wife thought, imagining a quaint little house by the sea.
She was delighted at the prospect since she had always felt uncomfortable in the sprawling, ornate Fifth Avenue home.
Callan was disheartened then when she saw that the Whittingtons' Bellevue Avenue summer abode dwarfed their New York mansion in both size and opulence.
"Where is the cottage?" she asked as she stared in awe at the stone palace designed by preeminent architect Richard Morris Hunt.
Harold chuckled at his wife's question.
"You didn't actually expect some little seaside bungalow, did you?"
The hurt look on her face made him immediately contrite.
"I'm sorry, my darling," he apologized.
"That's all right," she said, not taking offense. "It's just another reminder that your world is different from mine."
"My world is your world now," he gently reminded her.
When the carriage stopped on the circular driveway, the bride stepped out of the vehicle and into the world of Newport's Gilded Age.
Having been used to a busy, productive existence as part housekeeper and part nurse for her father, Callan was dissatisfied with the life of a pampered wife. Despite the many afternoon teas and evening dinner parties with Newport's blue-blooded ladies, she was frequently bored. The fact that her husband divided his time between his business in Manhattan and his wife in Rhode Island only heightened her unhappiness.
One afternoon while Harold was in New York, Callan decided to explore the town of Newport and asked the driver to prepare the carriage.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, assuming his mistress would visit one of the other grand houses on Bellevue Avenue.
When Callan instructed him to head east toward the wharfs, he balked.
"It's not proper for a lady to go to the waterfront unescorted, ma'am."
"But I'm not unescorted; I'm with you."
"Your husband would be furious with me."
"It's just a short carriage ride. You don't even have to stop. What harm can there be?"
The pleading look in her eyes worked where her verbal requests had failed.
"Well ...."
The driver faltered.
"If you promise to stay inside the carriage at all times."
"I promise," she agreed, her smile melting the servant's heart.
As he headed toward Washington Street, the driver provided the young woman from New Jersey with a tour of the historic sites they passed.
"What's that?" Callan suddenly cried out, pointing in the direction of Long Wharf.
"That's Gravelly Point."
"No, what are those things hanging up ahead? They look like ...."
Had she not been a doctor's daughter and accustomed to seeing serious injuries, she might have swooned at the macabre sight.
"What is it you see, ma'am?"
"Blackened bodies," she replied in a soft monotone. "More than two dozen of them, all swinging from the ends of ropes."
* * *
"Are you sure you're all right, ma'am?" the driver asked when he pulled up in front of the Whittingtons' Bellevue Avenue home.
"Yes, I'm fine. I'm just not used to having hallucinations. It must be the heat."
"It seems a bit odd to me, you seeing them," the driver mumbled as he helped his mistress out of the carriage.
"Them?" Callan echoed.
"Nothing, ma'am. I was just speaking to myself. That's all."
"No. You said it was odd I would see them. What did you mean? Tell me."
"Back in 1723," the driver began, looking around uneasily as though he would be sacked if anyone overheard him, "twenty-six pirates were executed at Gravelly Point."
Callan's eyes widened in astonishment.
"That's amazing!" she exclaimed as she crossed the threshold of the Whittington mansion.
"What's amazing?" Harold asked, taking his wife by surprise.
"You're home? I wasn't expecting you until Friday."
"I got back early. What do you find so amazing?" he repeated after kissing her cheek.
"That twenty-six pirates were hanged here in Newport back in the eighteenth century."
"Pirates?" Harold echoed with a laugh. "Is that the sort of thing genteel ladies discuss over tea these days?"
"Is it true or just a legend?" Callan pressed.
"It's true. Back then the Rhode Island colonial government was lenient when dealing with pirates. Finally, the British Admiralty had enough and decided to do something about the problem."
"Who were the pirates? Were they local men?"
"Whoa! That's enough unpleasant conversation for one afternoon. Besides, isn't it time you dressed for tonight's dinner party?"
"Another one? Do we have to go? Why don't we just enjoy a nice, quiet evening together at home for a change?"
"Darling, one doesn't say no to an invitation from Tessie Oelrichs."
Callan frowned as she headed upstairs to dress for another tedious evening at Rosecliff.
* * *
Three weeks passed during which time there were more monotonous afternoon teas and more tiresome dinner parties with the same guests attending. On several occasions Callan tried to get the driver to take her past Gravelly Point again, but each time he refused. If she had known her way around town, she would have walked there, but all she really knew of Newport was Bellevue Avenue.
One morning she was walking in her garden, looking over the cliff at the sun reflecting on the water, when the Vanderbilts' driver delivered an invitation to the Whittington house.
"Another dinner party?" she asked her husband when she went inside.
"Not just a dinner," Harold replied. "Alice is having a masquerade ball. It promises to be the social event of the season."
The upcoming Vanderbilt party became the talk of Newport as both men and women gave thought to the costumes they would wear. Seamstresses in both Boston and New York began crafting Elizabethan farthingales and ruffs, antebellum bonnets and hoop skirts, and eighteenth century French chemises and panniers.
Callan had no desire to attend the party, least of all bedecked in yards of lace-trimmed velvet or taffeta. Her husband, however, wouldn't dream of missing the event. Ultimately, she decided on wearing an unadorned blue eighteenth century gown with a white cotton mobcap. The simplicity of her costume seemed to enhance rather than detract from her delicate frame, and the color of the fabric brought out the blue in her eyes.
"My mother's diamond and sapphire necklace should go well with your dress," her husband suggested.
"If I were going to the party as Marie Antoinette, I would agree with you."
Harold smiled lovingly at his wife. He was one of the few people in his social set who was sure his wife hadn't married him for his money.
* * *
Most of the Newport summer crowd was headed down Ochre Point Avenue toward the party, and the Whittingtons' driver had to wait in line at the gate to pull the carriage up to the house.
"Didn't I tell you this would be the social event of the season?" Harold declared, gazing at The Breakers up ahead. "Alice certainly knows how to throw a party. In my opinion, she's second only to Mrs. Astor."
Callan did not share her husband's enthusiasm. She disliked large crowds, especially large crowds of wealthy people who always tended to drink too much and behave badly as a result.
When the couple finally alighted from the carriage and entered the house, they were greeted by Alice Vanderbilt herself.
"Don't you look lovely, my dear!" the hostess exclaimed when she saw Callan in her simple blue gown.
Unlike Harold, who knew every millionaire who summered in Newport, Callan was far too shy to mingle with the other guests. Instead, she followed closely behind her husband.
"Why don't you go talk to Alva and Alice?" Harold finally suggested, trying to push his wife toward a group of matrons and debutantes gathered around the two Vanderbilt women.
At first Callan protested, but when she saw James Gordon Bennett, a man well known in Newport for his notorious antics, heading toward her husband, she changed her mind. Although Callan obediently walked toward the women, she made a detour when her husband's back was turned. Moments later she snuck out onto the veranda.
"Is it the heat inside or the company you're running away from?"
"Who's there?" Callan asked, startled by the sound of a voice coming from the shadows.
"Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."
Callan peered into the darkness and saw a handsome young man dressed as an early seaman.
"I'm not afraid. You just took me by surprise."
"Forgive me, m'lady," he said, taking off his hat and bowing deeply.
"You're forgiven, sir," she replied, taking an instant liking to the stranger.
"Aren't you enjoying the party?" he asked.
"Yes," she lied. "I simply wanted to get some fresh air."
"Pardon my boldness, but you don't seem at all like the wealthy socialites who descend upon Newport every summer."
"Your observation is correct. I'm not one of them; at least not by birth."
"Ah! You married into money, then?"
"Yes," Callan admitted. "And what about you? Aren't you one of the millionaires who summer here?"
"Alas, I am not. I'm a local man, born and bred here in Rhode Island."
"And you were invited to the Vanderbilts' party?"
"Who said I was invited?"
Callan felt a twinge of fear. Had the man come dressed in a costume with robbery in?
"You needn't worry. I'm not here to hurt anyone or to abscond with the Vanderbilts' valuables—not that they'd miss a few dollars' worth, if I did."
"Then why have you come?" Callan asked innocently.
"To meet you."
"Me? Why?"
"Because you're one of the few people who can see me and my mates."
It took several moments for Callan to fully comprehend the young man's words.
"You're a ...."
"A spirit," he said, finishing her sentence. "The ghost of William Blades at your service, m'lady."
"Surely, this is a joke," she said, her face several shades paler than normal.
"I'm afraid not," he replied with a boyish smile. "I'm a revenant of one of the pirates who lies buried out on Goat Island."
Callan, who had seen all manner of injury and disease in her father's medical office and not felt in the least bit squeamish, swooned in the presence of the dead pirate.
* * *
As Callan came to, she felt someone's arms tighten around her.
"No!" she cried and tried to pull away.
"Darling, are you all right?" Harold inquired.
When she realized she was in her husband's embrace, she wept with relief.
"Oh, Harold!" she cried, burying her face in his shirt.
A group of people began to congregate around the distraught woman.
"Do you want me to call the doctor?" Alice Vanderbilt asked.
"No, a doctor can't help me," Callan said.
"What is it, then? What's wrong?" her husband asked.
"I saw a ... a ...."
"A what? A spider? A mouse?" Harold prompted.
"A ghost!" she finally managed to reply.
At Callan's hysterical outburst, her husband stiffened, and the onlookers gasped.
"A ghost?" Harold repeated.
"Yes. The ghost of William Blades, one of the pirates hanged at Gravelly Point in 1723."
"A pirate ghost?" the flamboyant Bennett sniggered. "Harold, how much alcohol did your wife consume?"
"I didn't drink anything," Callan insisted. "I saw a ghost. I not only saw him, I had a brief conversation with him as well. We ...."
"That's enough," Harold told his wife sternly.
Then he turned to his hostess and fellow guests and said, "Forgive me, but I think it's best we go. My wife isn't feeling well. Alice, it's been a lovely party. Thank you for inviting us."
Callan was deaf to the comments of those people who expressed their concern for her health and blind to the pitying looks on their faces. She was even oblivious to her husband's keen disappointment as he firmly led her out to the carriage as though she were a misbehaving child that was going to be taken home and put to bed without supper.
Neither husband nor wife spoke on the drive back to their summer home. Harold was too embarrassed by the humiliating scene his wife had caused in front of the most influential people in Newport, and Callan was attempting to understand why the ghost had appeared before her and what he wanted.
When the Whittingtons entered their cottage, the two ascended the sweeping staircase together. At the second floor landing, Harold kissed his wife goodnight—a mere peck on the cheek—and headed toward his bedroom suite. Likewise, Callan went to her rooms, only to discover once she shut the bedroom door behind her that she was not alone.
"So neither your husband nor his fancy friends believed you," the specter of William Blades observed.
Callan didn't faint from fright at her second meeting with the pirate ghost. On this occasion, her curiosity outweighed her fear.
"I'm not surprised," the pirate concluded.
"William—may I call you William?"
"You may if it pleases you, but most people called me Billy when I was alive. Billy Blades."
"Billy it is then. You said that you went to the party tonight to meet me. What did you mean by that?"
"Only that I found you intriguing and wanted to meet you. Being a pirate, I didn't get to meet many ladies."
"What made you become a pirate?" Callan asked.
"That's a long story."
"Won't you tell me?"
The ghost of Billy Blades spoke for nearly an hour, telling the fascinated young woman about his impoverished childhood and his induction into the pirate brotherhood. He also gave her a condensed account of his capture, trial and execution.
"In hopes of deterring any future piracy in the area, the British Admiralty covered our bodies with tar and hanged them for all to see. At the end of the summer, our corpses were cut down and buried on the beach of Goat Island so the incoming and outgoing tides would prevent our souls from resting in peace."
"How horrible!"
"Oh, well," the ghost concluded. "That's ancient history, and, besides, although I never killed anyone, I was a pirate and rightly deserved my punishment."
Callan was impressed by his honesty. In fact, she was impressed by Billy Blades in many respects. It was odd that she found the company of the ghost of an executed pirate more enjoyable than that of the cream of American society.
* * *
Several more times during the next two months Callan met with the spirit of Billy Blades. She grew to enjoy her time with the ghost, especially since her relationship with her husband had soured following the night of the masquerade party at The Breakers. It was clear, even to Callan, that Harold was beginning to regret marrying so far beneath him. After that night, he spent more time in New York, and when he was in Newport, he would often go to the Newport Reading Room, the elite gentleman's club, and the Casino, Bennett's social club, leaving his wife at home alone.
The last week of August, the staff began making preparations to close the house, and Callan's maid started packing her mistress' belongings for the return to New York.
New York! the unhappy young woman thought with despair.
She had considered the Fifth Avenue mansion oppressive before; now it would become a prison since she wouldn't have Billy Blades to fill her lonely hours. Suddenly, she felt the need to escape.
"I'm going out for a walk," she informed her maid, hoping Billy would join her.
Callan walked across the well-groomed back yard to the Cliff Walk. She stood there for several minutes, listening to the surf and letting the wind cool her face. Although the dark sky looked threatening, she headed south, walking past some of the most beautiful, opulent cottages in Newport.
I don't belong here, she thought, her eyes brimming with tears. Even my husband realizes that.
A flash of lightning and crash of thunder warned her of the impending storm, but she didn't turn back. As she approached one of the steepest points of the walk, the rain started to fall—not in a gentle shower, but a hard, steady downpour. Within minutes, her clothing was soaked through, and her wet hair was hanging limply around her face. Still, she stubbornly kept going south, as though by walking she could turn back the hands of time and return to her childhood home in New Jersey.
Her father's words suddenly echoed through her mind: "The choice is yours, my dear. You're a sensible woman, and I'm sure you'll make the right decision."
"But I didn't, Father. I made the wrong one."
A moment later Callan's foot slipped on a wet rock, and she fell seventy feet to the water below.
* * *
When Callan's eyes opened, she saw nothing but the murky water of Narragansett Bay. She lifted her head up and saw high above her a patch of light. Holding her breath, she made desperate strokes with her arms and kicked with her feet, hoping to swim to the surface. Yet despite her efforts, she was no nearer to the patch of light.
My dress must be stuck on something, she thought with mounting panic.
Just when it seemed her lungs were about to burst, Callan felt something pull her up toward the surface of the water. Within moments her head emerged from the sea, and she greedily breathed in gulps of fresh air.
"You're all right," Billy Blades said as he supported her head above the water.
Only when her ragged breathing returned to normal, did Callan thank her savior.
"But how ... could you ... save me? You ... don't have ... a body," she said, shivering from the cold.
"Neither do you right now."
"What do you mean?"
"You're standing on a threshold," Billy explained. "Life is in one room, death in another. The choice is yours. Which room do you want to enter?"
Callan looked over the pirate's shoulder at the grand mansions that dotted the Cliff Walk. There was no sense of "home" there, any more than there was in the Fifth Avenue mansion.
"Well? Which is it?" Billy asked, his brown eyes peering into her blue ones.
Callan smiled, leaned forward and kissed him. With their lips still locked, they slipped beneath the waves.
* * *
The following week, Harold Whittington left Newport alone. Rather than take his wife's body back to New York or to New Jersey, he had her buried in Rhode Island. He mourned for the beautiful woman who had saved his life, yet he knew he would be better off without her. Callan just hadn't measured up to his high social standards.
Harold was so engrossed in how his wife's death would affect his own life, that he never wondered why, if she had gone into the water on the eastern shore of Newport, her body would have washed up on Goat Island, which was located off the western shore. He completely missed the significance of the situation: his wife, who had claimed to see the ghost of William Blades, was found on the same beach where Blades and his fellow pirates had been buried one hundred and seventy years earlier.
Salem once starred in an independent film entitled The Pirates of the Narragansett. (I didn't have the heart to tell him that it didn't quite measure up to The Pirates of the Caribbean.)
