The Shores of the Whispering Cove

Enrique Herman Aguilar Jansonius

It was a cold November night

Upon the silent Charleston shore.
As she lay there, crying, screaming;
Her tears filling the wounds that he bore.

Faith had to be the cruelest of all witches,

With her most evil curse being love,
Tainting her heart with forbidden passion,
With desire that would be no more.

Who but the daughter of the Marshall,

Young, sweet, a darling in all her prime,
Had to be infatuated by the lowest state of existence?
By one who’s only right was not to have any at all.
A slave it was whom held the love, of lovely Miss Eleanor.

Every Sunday night she walked along the shoreline.

She waited. As all lights were out,
An only the moon was on the lookout,
When even the sea was too tired to make a sound,
A silent whistle was heard; deep; hiding in the profound.

The softest melody, so sweet it was;

It even made the ancient willows weep.
He whistled, and she listened.
He smiled, and so she laughed.
He blew her a kiss, and she was carried away.
He spoke of love, and love was all she would know.

It all was joy and joy was everything,

Until the day the Marshall was made aware of the fault.
“I have been told”, said he,
“That you have been seen at midnight,
Sharing a kiss along the shoreline,
With no worse and no less than a coon”.
Her face grew pale as her fists grew firm,
Her eyes staring faintly at the floor.

The Marshall went on, “You know?

 Only because you are my daughter
are you not hanging from a rope.
Let it be clear that I am filled with anger
At this act of filth and dishonor!
Be you mad? Be you sick?
Be the devil lurking thy soul?!
How dare you lay eyes upon a servant,
A slave and nothing more?!”
“It is love…” “Love? Love!
Love is between a man and a woman;
Animals shant ever know love!

Never shall you lay eyes upon a dark skinned fellow again”.
“But father?!” “Shh! Don’t you dare speak another word.
The negro shall be executed, never the less, never the more”.

Eleanor wept the thickest tears that night,

At sunrise would her beloved be hanged at the docks.
It was she who had cast this fate upon him,
And it was she who should warn him of such.

She ran barefooted in the middle of the night,

Her lips trembling and her eyes shaking.
“Gwat eez it?”, the black man asked.
“My father…”, she said, “he knows,
you must leave, he’s coming at dawn”.

“I ain’t no goin no place”, he said,

“Not if you not be with me, Elnore”

“Marshall!”, a voice was heard, “Here she is,

Just as you said she would”.
“Eleanor!”, said the Marshall,
“Didn’t I order not to leave your room?
What are you…? You!
Grab that man! Shoot him!
And don’t you dare let him go!
You heard me, gun that nigger down!
Let him rest his eyes upon my daughter nevermore.

The soldiers started shooting frantically.

A bullet hit him in the back of a lung;
Eleanor shrieked in terror as a second one reached for the front.
But when she saw the last rifle aim at his chest, she couldn’t take no more.
 Standing between the gun and his heart,
She felt the cold iron swiftly piercing her core.

Laying in a pool of mud made by sand and their own blood,

Eleanor made the slave a last request:
“Whistle for me one last time, but sing to me not of love.
Tonight’s victory is freedom, for we are unchained of this earthly bonds”.

As the waves carried the corpses,

A bed was left in the sand.
Some sailors say that to date
You can still hear some whistles
At the shores of the Whispering Cove.