Silas Pinckney
By Prioleau Alexander
I remember as a wee lad a Saturday duck hunting with our close family friend, “Uncle” Silas Pinckney, a man best described as a “true Southern rascal.” To understand this memorable experience, it’s important to first know a little about Uncle Silas.
He was born in Pickens county, and from very early on was a great disappointment to his parents, Farnsworth and Chastity. He was sent to the Sisters of Forgiveness Reformed School for Boys in second grade, after it was discovered he’d told a fellow student that eating a full container of paste and two crayons would give the boy big muscles. Thankfully, his classmate’s consumption resulted only in a stomach ache, and a trip to the dentist for a teeth cleaning.
While at the reformed school, Uncle Silas discovered a life-long love of matches and all things related to fire. The event that placed him the bad graces of the Sisters was when he lowered the American flag, set it afire, and began shouting that it represented the Yankee invaders, and he’d have no truck with it. He then hoisted the second national flag of the Confederacy, and ran around the school yard, shouting that it was time for “It’s time for all good men to stand for secession!”
After being expelled by the Sisters and arrested by a Sheriff’s Deputy at age 14 for vagrancy in the 2nd Baptist Church graveyard, his next stop was at the Pickens County Youth Detention Center. Uncle Silas was nothing if not cunning, and he quickly developed friendships with the oldest and largest boys, and using their muscle and his smarts developed a protection racket, which resulted in his cornering the market on chocolate milk and cigarettes.
After three years at the detention center, he escaped, and he fell from the societal radar screen for more than a decade. He emerged in Smoaks, SC, where he ran a tent revival center, preaching fire and brimstone six days a week. The repentant attendees filled the collection baskets to overflowing, which Uncle Silas used to purchase a used Chevy pick-up, a Parker side-by-side shotgun, and a dog he called Abraham. It was a stroke of luck he bought a truck and a gun, as both were used to aid in his escape from town when a visiting Pastor proclaimed him a heretic after hearing him preaching from the Book of Amphibians.
He landed in Savannah, safely across the state line, and began offering his services as a general contractor, a trade he knew nothing about. After collecting hefty deposits from a handful of eager new arrivals, he skipped town and used the ill-gotten gains to purchase an industrial grade scale, and joined a traveling carnival to become a professional weight guesser.
After two decades with the carnival, he found himself broke and addicted to snuff and a type of alcohol made by straining Brasso through white bread. He hitchhiked to Charleston, where he asked my Grandmother for a job at her floral shop. He entered into what he described as his “Bleaching Years,” as he swore off drink and tobacco, and attended Morning Prayer every day at St. Philip’s. After three years of “bleaching away his sins,” he’d saved enough money buy a custom-made tuxedo from Berlin’s, a fine suit and straw boater, and a small steamer truck of more casual attire. He thanked his Charleston friends for their hospitality and boarded a train bound for New York City, spending the entire trip in the bar car, holding court, boasting of his many adventures, and drinking vodka gimlets.
Upon arrival in New York, he made his way to the Hamptons, where he landed a job as a gardener. Every Friday evening he would shower, shave, don his fine tuxedo, and attend fancy dress parties he weren’t even invited to. Eventually, his Southern charm, rugged good looks, and skill as a raconteur caught the eye of Miss Edith Filmore Hyde, and in less than six months they were married, after which he settled into life as a kept man.
They returned to Charleston every Thanksgiving, staying in the Fort Sumter House and hosting family and friends. A dutiful and kind wife, Edith kept to herself the fact that Uncle Silas was both unemployed, and started his day with three Bloody Marys.
The duck hunt with him I remember so clearly was at age eight, and we launched a borrowed jon boat off a landing near Georgetown, then puttered through the darkness to a spot just off one of the plantations. He explained we were there for “the scraps,” because the plantation owners had “more ducks than a God-fearing man has a right to.”
As the sun rose, he loaded the Parker side-by-side he’d bought lo those many decades before. I remember thinking it looked rusty and in a state of disrepair, and found myself correct when he fired his first shot and the gun exploded. Unknown to me at the time, Uncle Silas was pie-eyed drunk, and the explosion hurled him backwards, causing the gun to go off again, and blow a hole in the deck.
We made it back to the landing, where Uncle Silas abandoned the boat, and drove us back to Charleston. He and Edith caught the first train back to the Hamptons, where in the coming years he was plagued with the gout. He passed away in 1974 from the piles, and is buried just outside Montauk.
I’ve never hunted Thanksgiving weekend since then, as the dates feel jinxed to me. But I do have one memorable hunt to reflect on as the years go by.
I hope to see you both soon,
Nate