A Strange Call
I didn’t go looking for this story. In fact, it literally came looking for me, in the form of a phone call. A friend had opened up a bar in a downstairs area of City Market, a shopping mecca in a historic setting during daylight hours which transforms into a dining and bar-centric zone in the evening. My buddy John had opened his pub in the aforementioned space in February of 2008. His call came in early summer of that same year. He asked if I could come down to his bar, and it was early enough in the day that I assumed that he was asking me to bring him some of my tour’s brochures: John helpfully handed them out to tourists because they had maps of the city inside. So when I asked if he needed brochures, he hesitated, and finally said yes, which in retrospect was probably just an easier answer for John than the truth. The strangeness of his voice over the phone got me wondering what was up. Maybe he was lonely. After all, he had just gone through a messy divorce, and there had been the usual uncomfortable ‘dividing of the friends’ in the aftermath of the breakup, of which I had managed to steer clear. Maybe, I remember musing, he just needed a drinking buddy. But even though John poured me a drink the second I walked down the stairs, I could not have been more wrong. His phone call was strictly professional, not social.
“Look,” he said, his awkward body language confirming his discomfort, “you know I don’t believe in ghosts, right?” He started rubbing down an already immaculate bartop, somewhat nervously, as if trying to give his hands something to do. I nodded. “Well, even though I don’t believe in this stuff, there’s something… down here. I mean, maybe even more than one thing. It’s not just me that feels this, I’ve got a couple of employees ready to quit over the weird stuff that’s happening. I had to promise them that I’d call you in to help with this thing.” I told him to slow down, and start at the beginning.
The entrance to Pour Larry’s.
A Stinking Ghost?
John related that from the moment he signed his lease on the space, he had begun to feel like something was amiss. He reported feeling two separate presences in the downstairs. The first was a shadowy figure, he said, full of rage. “This feels like bad vibes times a thousand,” he described. “And another thing, and this is the craziest part: this thing, whatever it is—“ John’s face at that moment had a ‘please don’t think I’m crazy look’ I’m all too familiar with, “—it smells awful, like burned meat and sulphur. It’s not just me that experiences this. Please talk to my bartender. She’ll explain it better.”
I quickly found myself in a conversation with John’s lead bartender, a very attractive young woman I’ll call Christine, at her request. Christine had moved to Savannah in the previous year, essentially escaping what she described as a bad situation in Augusta, Georgia, a city about two hours northwest of Savannah. She had married very young, and entered the medical field, but found both her marriage and her career as a nurse at a prestigious Augusta burn treatment center very unsatisfactory. “So after my divorce I had no reason to stay there,” she said, “and plus, I got to the point where I couldn’t stand the smell anymore. I liked helping people, but coming home smelling like charbroiled human just wasn’t the life for me. It made me sick.
“So I gave my notice, and moved here to Savannah, and got this bartending gig pretty fast. I like it a lot, except for, you know, what John was telling you about. The creepy vibes and the smell? There’s something you need to know about the burned smell that John describes. There’s really nothing else like it in the entire world, and trust me, honey, I’m in a position to know. I’ll never forget that smell as long as I live. It’s not an overcooked hamburger, or burned wings from across the way [there was a restaurant across the courtyard which specialized in chicken wings]. That is a very specific odor, and that is burnt human flesh. There’s no question about it. Every time I smell it down here, I lose my lunch.” I paused from my note-taking and looked at my arms. They had broken out in goosebumps.
Another staff member related an uncomfortable feeling they associated with the presence that they described as “walking into a room where an argument has just occurred.” Glassware on the bartop had smashed seemingly on its own, and a half-full bottle of bleach in the bathroom had flown across the room like it had been kicked. But by far the worst part of the sinister presence, many of the staff described, was the distinct creepy feeling of being watched by a pair of unseen malevolent eyes.
Many staff members describe a distinctly unpleasant presence and the feeling of being watched.
Shiny Happy People
Fortunately, there was another presence (or presences) in that same downstairs space that seemed to exude a playful, happy feeling. Several staff members described similar experiences of feeling happy and hearing a strange chanting in an unintelligible language. They also described a sort of jingling sound. The energy, they explained, is extremely well-meaning and seems to enjoy horseplay. The only time the ‘happy spirits’ shifted into something remotely tense was when one employee playfully pushed another into a void space in the center ‘island’ which had been built behind the bar, joking that the other employee would have to spend some time “in the box,” alluding to solitary confinement in prison. The air seemed to crystallize around them, as if many unseen someones held their breath in sudden fear. That game, needless to say, was suddenly over.
So I set to work finding out the history of the old building, very disturbed yet intrigued by the staff’s stories. I recall thinking I was probably on a wild goose chase, and that the history of the building would be a benign one. I was drastically wrong on both counts.
A Sinister History
I went to the archives at the Georgia Historical Society, unsure of what I would find. I learned that the building in question was built in 1855, oddly enough for another man named ‘John’, this one with the surname Montmollin. John Montmollin owned several plantations in South Carolina, Florida and Georgia, marking him as an incredibly wealthy man. What was his business? Montmollin made his fortune off the brutal capture, transport, and sale of other human beings. John Montmollin was a slave dealer. My blood chilled as I slowly realized that Montmollin’s office was on the ground floor of that very building, and he kept his slaves in the basement level, the precise space that my friend had recently converted to use for his bar.
It is here I interrupt the narrative to explain that importing slaves from Africa to Georgia in the 19th century was illegal, a fact that surprises many people. There is this idea that slave ships were running back and forth across the Atlantic during this time period, transporting more and more human chattel in chains from Africa to the Americas, but that is a misconception. Less than 5% of African slaves were bound for North America. Most were transported instead to the Caribbean Islands, or to Central or South America. Also, a 1798 Georgia law and 1808 Federal law banned the importation of slaves into this country. So during the time period we’re discussing, slaves were legal to own, buy and sell, but it was highly illegal to import them. John Montmollin’s job as slave dealer, therefore, meant that he bought and resold slaves within the United States. It was a despicable practice by any measure. But he was not content to simply make his fortune off of other people’s misery, he looked to increase his profit margins even more by circumventing state and federal law by importing slaves directly from Africa and funneling them through his pre-existing slavery business.
That is, until Mr. Montmollin got caught up in some truly nefarious dealings. He became involved with Charles Lamar, a person almost certainly on anyone’s short list for the title of ‘most reviled man in Savannah’s history.’ Reading the dry, somewhat sterile historical record of the dealings of Lamar and Montmollin is still a peek into the darkest of souls.
The Terrible Wanderer
A little about Charles Lamar: in 1858, a group of men led by Savannah planter Lamar defied the U.S. government’s laws against importing slaves from Africa and set into motion one of
the most controversial court cases in American history. Many believe that the fallout from the actions of that reckless and headstrong group may have hastened the country’s plunge into bloody Civil War. The two are inexorably linked in history: Lamar, and the slave ship Wanderer. Just as culpable in this nefarious deed was John Montmollin.
Lamar was already considered the wealthiest man in Savannah, but he became obsessed with restarting the slave trade, in spite of the laws against it. Lamar’s own family got wind of his plans and attempted to talk him out of the scheme. In a letter to his father he arrogantly wondered: what the difference was between going to Virginia or Africa to buy a slave? His father wrote back: “An expedition to the moon would have been equally sensible, and no more contrary to the laws of Providence. May God forgive you for all your attempts to violate his will and his laws.” Lamar, though, was undeterred.
Charles, along with John Montmollin and two other businessmen, finally bought the Wanderer, a sleek and swift sailing vessel designed for racing. The craft was built in Long Island, and it very shortly left port, bound for the shores of Africa. Upon arriving in the Congo, the crew reached a deal to buy between 600 and 750 men between the ages of thirteen and eighteen at a cost of between one and three dollars a head. These men had been captured by rival tribes—kidnapped for the very purpose of being sold into slavery. The ship by this time had been outfitted with special cargo holds to hold human captives. On her return voyage, the speedy craft eluded both the English and American navies, and slipped past the U.S. fortification guarding the approach to Brunswick. Lamar distracted the officers of the fort by throwing a lavish party.
The slaves were held for a short time at Jekyll Island, Georgia, and then shipped up the Savannah River and offloaded at Montmollin’s plantation in South Carolina. On the open market these same slaves which had sold in the Congo for three dollars each now fetched a price of between five and seven hundred dollars, an obscene profit for Montmollin, Lamar and the others involved. But the whole scheme went awry. Almost immediately the rumors began to circulate about the Wanderer’s illicit run to the Congo. The federal government began looking for evidence, including the contraband human cargo. Even President James Buchanan was concerned—he was petitioned by the U.S. Senate to investigate the shady dealings of the Wanderer and all those involved in the plot. The ship was impounded by U.S. Marshals. The Georgia man who had piloted the craft to Jekyll Island for an outrageous fee decided to turn down an equally obscene bribe and testify in the mounting case against the Wanderer investors. The developments drew worldwide attention, and several Northern papers wrote scathing editorials condemning the whole affair. But the case quickly resembled a farce.
Lamar and Montmollin scrambled to hide the evidence, including the new slaves. Prosecutors found that Lamar and his band of investors had been very clever in covering their tracks, and whatever evidence once linked them to the ship no longer existed. Even the slaves had disappeared. The case against Lamar was largely circumstantial. The sentence handed down by Judge Moore Wayne seems equally farcical: a five hundred dollar fine, and thirty days in jail, which Lamar and his associates were allowed to serve in Lamar’s apartments located above his office.
As for the Wanderer? The ship was seized by the Federal government, who ironically enough used the ship as part of the Union blockade against Southern ports during the Civil War. The Wanderer was eventually sold at auction after the war, and became a commercial vessel. She foundered off the coast of Cuba, running aground. The hulk was visible on the beach for many years until time and tide reduced her to nothingness.
Co-conspirator Charles Lamar did not outlive the ship which will forever be associated with his name. He joined the Confederacy and died on Easter Sunday, 1865, defending Columbus, Georgia. He is buried today in Laurel Grove Cemetery. But what happened to John Montmollin? The archives spell out Montmollin’s spectacular date with destiny.
The basement at Pour Larry’s, where a former owner described feeling “bad vibes, times a thousand.”
Karma Charges Interest
Montmollin was not convicted of a crime, but it wasn’t because he worked out a deal with investigators. Why? Because you cannot convict a dead man. He managed to avoid retribution for his dealings in a legal sense, but was forced to pay up anyway: karma occasionally collects from the morally bankrupt with swift and terrifying interest. Such was the case with our slave dealer: roughly seven months after the Wanderer was seized by the government, he stepped onto the deck of the steamship John G. Lawton, which was travelling up the Savannah River. The steamship shortly exploded in a horrific fashion, killing most of the passengers aboard, including John Montmollin.
The Savannah Morning News article from June 9th, 1859 recounts the tragedy:
DREADFUL CALAMITY!
Explosion of the Steamer J. G. Lawton- Several Lives Lost.
It is our painful duty to record the explosion of the steamer J. G. Lawton (which occurred about 8 o’clock last evening at a place called Gum Stump, about twenty miles up the Savannah River) and the loss of John S. Montmollin, Captain Keebler, the Pilot, a man named Gottie, and four deck hands.
Two days later, the paper had specific news about the fate of Montmollin:
THE LATE EXPLOSION.
Recovery of bodies.
Early on Saturday morning, the body of Mr. John S. Montmollin, a passenger on the ill-fated Lawton, was brought to this city. It was found about 150 yards from the spot where the explosion occurred, in the edge of the marsh, and almost entirely buried in mud. He was interred with Masonic honors, Saturday afternoon, from his late residence in this city.
This was certainly a closed-casket funeral. Boiler explosions were incredibly violent and messy accidents; the victims often literally scalded to death by the jets of pressurized hot steam. A hundred and fifty yards? That explosion launched him like a cannon. As I read the account, I couldn’t help but think of Christine telling me that the smell she encountered in the downstairs was the distinct odor of burned human flesh, and suddenly much of the story fell into place.
Fate had one final righteous twist in store for John Montmollin. When the Union Army occupied Savannah during the Civil War, the soldiers took control not just of the fortifications and commerce of the city, but of our news media as well. The Union found out about Montmollin’s involvement in the case of the Wanderer and decided that his death wasn’t punishment enough for his crime. Digging him up, however, was out of the question: instead they decided to make an example out of his former office in City Market. Again, please remember that it is this building which currently houses the bar in question.
From the (then Union-controlled) Savannah Morning Herald, dated March 15th, 1865:
THE BRYAN SCHOOL HOUSE- This large and commodious building [on the] corner of St. Julian and Barnard Streets, west of the market, at the present time used as a school house for the colored citizens of Savannah, has a very interesting history connected with its walls. It was built about fifteen years since by John S. Montmollin, a trader in slaves. His death occurred about seven years ago by the explosion of the boiler of the steamer John G. Lawton, his head and upper extremities lodging in the mud; in this condition he was found, and brought to this city and buried. His property then fell into the possession of Alexander Bryan, who until a few days prior to the occupation of Savannah by Federals used the premises as a jail and office for the barter and sale of slaves. The building, it is certain will never again be used for a slave trader’s office, but it should be kept for the purpose of educating the black race, and not to sell them.
A Troubling Story
I remember leaving the GHS in a bit of a daze. Finding a story like that had been a bit of a nasty shock. I sat in a darkened room in my house, drinking whiskey on the rocks (I seldom drink hard liquor, but certain occasions call for it). I thought about the revelations of the day, attempting to find a way to wrap my mind aro
und such a bleak story.
Did Montmollin have a chance before his death to reflect on all the misery he had engaged in during his career as a slave trader? Did he have a brief glimmer of remorse for a life spent selling other human beings? There were slave owners who were kind to their chattel, to be sure-- not all slave owners were evil, and I don’t want to be accused of revisionist history by suggesting otherwise. But Montmollin’s involvement with the nefarious Charles Lamar points to him being unaccustomed to the light; a bottomfeeder of humanity and a person whose primary enterprise was making a profit off of other people’s pain. I doubt he felt much of anything at all.
Slavery was the heaviest topic possible in the Deep South. How could I tell this story on a tour? The ice rattled in my glass, making me think of slave chains, an association that upset me so much that I put the glass down. Tinkling sounds… in a flash, I had my possible answer. The story might just have a happy ending.
What Does This All Mean?
After ruminating for a few days, I finally told John and the rest of the staff what I had found in the archives. The one person I really wanted to talk to, Christine, had quit right after talking to me, however. I remember John gave an involuntary shudder when I produced the photocopied documents proving true what I had uncovered about the building. He was even a little shaken by the fact that he shared a first name with the evil man.
Haunted Savannah: America's Most Spectral City Page 8
