“Some Williamsburg inhabitants go so far as to say that on the stroke of midnight on every Fourth of July there is an assemblage of Revolutionary ghosts, with Patrick Henry at their head, who stand in front of the capitol and use the most reprehensible language,” wrote William Oliver Stevens in his 1938 book Old Williamsburg, which sounds less like a ghost story than like someone complaining about a long-forgotten issue of the day they were upset about.
Just to the north of the capitol at the east end of Duke of Gloucester Street is the Public Records Office, a fire-resistant brick building constructed in 1748 after many documents were destroyed in the blaze at the Capitol the previous year. It eventually ended up serving many other purposes over the years, and by the turn of the 20th century was home to David Roland Jones, his wife, and their seven daughters. One of them, a myopic young woman named Edna, is said to have snuck out of the house one night for an assignation with a young man. While en route to her tryst, the weak-eyed girl, possibly distracted by ardor for her lover or fear of her father, stepped out in front of a speeding carriage—a common hazard upon the darkened streets of Colonial cities, no doubt—and was killed. Since then, witnesses have reported seeing her ghost peeking from around corners of the building; floating over the graves of the nearby family plot; or calling out to women, who look to her spectral but still-deficient eyes, to be her friends.
Moving westward along Duke of Gloucester Street a little ways will bring a visitor to the Raleigh Tavern, a venerable institution first established in 1717, razed by fire in 1859, and subsequently rebuilt in its original form in 1932. Named for Walter Raleigh, its rich history involves serving as a meeting place for Revolutionary agitators and being the location for the 1776 founding of the Phi Beta Kappa fraternity. While ale flowed, dice rolled, and high ideas were discussed inside the tavern, slaves and other commodities were sold outside on its steps.
Some of the oldest ghost stories for any site in Colonial Williamsburg are about this location and have been documented as far back as 1856, three years before the destruction of the original building. These stories are all fairly uniform and typically involve passersby who detect signs of revelry within the building, including music, singing, clinking of glasses, and the smell of tobacco smoke.
Continuing west to the north end of Duke of Gloucester Street, then north a little ways along the Palace Green brings a visitor to the Wythe House, one of the sites in Colonial Williamsburg with the greatest reputation for being haunted. Considered by many to be the most attractive house in the city, the two-story brick manor dates to the 1750s and was owned by George Wythe, a leader of the Revolutionary movement in Virginia, a delegate to the Continental Congress, and the state’s first signer of the Declaration of Independence. It also served as George Washington’s headquarters prior to the British siege of Yorktown; French General Rochambeau used it as his headquarters after victory at Yorktown; and Thomas Jefferson lived there in 1776 while a delegate to the Virginia General Assembly.
The ghost mentioned most often in the traditional cycle of tales about the Wythe House is that of Lady Ann Skipwith, a temperamental young woman who is said to have fled a ball at a nearby house in a tiff, losing a shoe before ending up at Wythe House, and somehow dying mysteriously there (although some authors contest this latter detail and claim she died later and somewhere else). Her ghost, seen stylishly clad in a cream satin dress or heard clomping along on her single shoe, has been reported many times over the years. Other ghosts reported by various witnesses and authorities include Wythe himself, apparently poisoned in Richmond by an avaricious nephew, and George Washington (although the latter are more likely to be of some other poor devil in powdered wig and frock coat, unimaginative witnesses or storytellers generally preferring to simply see the ubiquitous Washington than to ascertain the identities of more obscure or less interesting individuals). A number of other ghosts have been cited in the works of various authors and psychic researchers.
Walking across the Palace Green and westward again, this time on Nicholson Street, will quickly bring a visitor to the Peyton Randolph House, originally built in 1715 and restored between 1938 and 1940. It is widely considered to be one of the most beautiful homes in the city and notable guests from the Revolutionary War era included Washington, Lafayette, and Rochambeau. Its owner at that time was Betty Randolph, widow of Peyton Randolph. After she died in 1782, the house was sold at auction.
Apparently, so were many of her slaves, including one named Eve. Betty is reputed to have treated this woman especially badly, and to have had her sold off as a deliberately cruel means of separating her from her family. As she was be carried off into bondage elsewhere, some stories say, the embittered Eve called down a curse upon the house and its inhabitants. A number of people are said to have killed themselves or died suddenly in the house over the ensuing decades, and some believe that Eve’s curse might be responsible. Others—including Lafayette himself, who stayed in the house during an 1824 return visit to America—have reported feeling ghostly hands upon their shoulders, being shaken awake while asleep in bed, and hearing a constant muttering of ghostly voices.
Those are just some of the Colonial Williamsburg buildings reputed to be haunted in some way, and it would be an understatement to say that entire books could be written about the subject of locations inhabited by ghosts within the historic district.
It would not necessarily be accurate to assume, of course, that all the ghostly activity at Colonial Williamsburg has its roots in the 18th century or even the Civil War. Many generations of people have lived in the town during periods that, while they may have been less exciting from a historical perspective, were just as relevant to their participants. So, while the vision for the creators and custodians of Colonial Williamsburg is that it should reflect America’s Revolutionary War history, it is a bit much to ask spirits to either manifest themselves or remain quiet based on the eras in which they lived. It bears mentioning, too, that not all local residents were pleased with the transformation of their town in the 1930s, and some of them protested it arduously. It is certainly easy to imagine such angst being carried into the afterlife, and the ghost bearing it becoming progressively agitated at being identified not just as someone else but, indeed, as an inhabitant of an era other than his own—and on the basis of aesthetics no less.
CHAPTER 16
Fort Monroe
HAMPTON
We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Cask of Amontillado”
MY FIRST EXPOSURE to ghosts at Fort Monroe, the legendary “Gibraltar of Chesapeake Bay,” occurred a decade ago, when I visited the post as a member of the U.S. Army Inspector General Agency. My purpose then was official, and, as was the convention, the local inspector general provided me with a tour of the post.
I have visited most, if not all, of the Army’s posts in the United States. Many, like Fort Meyer in Virginia or Fort Leavenworth in Kansas, are steeped in history. Others, like the Presidio of Monterey, are remarkable for their setting. But none is like Fort Monroe. It is truly the most unique post in the country. It is not just the only Army fort surrounded by a moat, it is also the one with the earliest history. In 1609, two years after the first permanent English settlement was founded at Jamestown and eleven years before the Mayflower landed at Plymouth Rock, a fortification called Algernourne Fort was started on this very site by a detachment from Jamestown. There have been fortifications of various sorts here ever since.
The present fort resulted from lessons learned in the War of 1812. In 1813, the British fleet made anchor in Hampton Roads harbor, raided the village of Hampton, and in 1814 proceeded up the Chesapeake Bay to burn the city of Washington, D.C. Not wishing to ever again repeat this ignominy, Congress ordered the construction of the present fort in 1819. It was virtually completed by 1834—and
none other than Robert E. Lee, then a lieutenant, oversaw the final stages of construction. The quarters that Lee resided in with his wife are much the same today as they were then.
Fort Monroe was originally named Fortress Monroe, a designation that, while incorrect, was probably a result of biblical and religious connotations (e.g., “a mighty fortress is our God”). By definition, however, a fortress encloses a town, and Fort Monroe does not. For that reason, the U.S. Secretary of War renamed the post Fort Monroe in 1832, although the U.S. Postal Service did not change the name on its records for more than a century—not until 1941.
Fort Monroe, including its moat, occupies an area of sixty-three acres. With an armament of nearly two hundred guns, it dominated the channel into Hampton Roads and controlled the sea approach to Washington by way of the Chesapeake Bay, much as the British fortifications at Gibraltar dominated access to the Mediterranean.
It was a beautiful spring day back in the late 1990s when the Fort Monroe IG and I set out on foot from his office. We walked toward the red-brick ramparts of the fort and crossed the causeway. As we emerged from the arched gateway of the main sally port, we stepped into another age—a gracious era of officers in tailored blue uniforms and hoop-skirted ladies. We strolled past stately antebellum residences, including the one where Lieutenant Robert E. Lee had once resided. Then we turned right onto Ruckman Road and proceeded past the narrow lane known as “Ghost Alley.” My guide, however, did not comment on that, and I have no idea if he even knew of the nickname for that quiet sunlit alleyway that ran behind those elegant quarters.
Shortly, on our left, however, we came to what appeared to be a vacant house—that is to say, unoccupied family quarters. It was a wood-framed and wood-sided structure that appeared to date from the late 1800s or early 1900s. Unlike the other quarters we had passed, this one had a run-down and almost abandoned look.
“It’s haunted,” the IG said. “Nobody wants to live there, so the housing office just leaves it vacant.”
He went on to tell me about what had spooked earlier residents. I listened, amused—skeptical, but with an open mind. He was, after-all, the inspector general. Unfortunately, I took no notes. That was not what I was there for. Now, of course, I wish I had recorded it all. I’ve tried in vain to recall the details of what he said to me, but I only retain a faint recollection of ghostly sightings, strange noises, and blinds that would not stay down—or maybe it was up.
But the basic memory never left me, and when I had the opportunity to return to Fort Monroe specifically for the purpose of researching the matter of ghosts, I took the task on eagerly in the hope of finally getting to the bottom of my recollections.
Having been an IG, and knowing “how things should be done,” my first step was to contact the official voice of Fort Monroe, the Public Affairs Office. In what I have now seen, in retrospect, as a pattern, officialdom was not at all eager to discuss the subject. Whether they believed the topic to be frivolous, or whether they had something to hide, I cannot say. Suffice it to say, I obtained no satisfaction from the telephone call. I even brought up my previous visit, some ten years earlier as an IG, and what the local IG had told me. This elicited only nervous consternation, and a hasty, “I cannot comment on that.” In short, my hopes of a productive interview with the Public Affairs Office were dashed. All that remained was to go to Fort Monroe and see what I could find out for myself.
I had done my research and knew that there were many ghost stories associated with the fort—not to mention the “moat monster” that a colonel had reported seeing swimming in the moat surrounding the fort. There were also a number of the stories set in the casemates and the museum that is now located there. This is where Confederate President Jefferson Davis had been imprisoned after the Civil War. It was also where America’s arguably greatest writer of ghost stories, Edgar Allan Poe, had been stationed as a young soldier in the 1820s, when the fort was still under construction.
I believe, whatever one’s purpose, that the Casemate Museum is the best place to start an exploration of Fort Monroe. It is the one place where a visitor still has access to the casemates. It is also where the cannons that guarded the approaches to the Chesapeake were situated. Moreover, the marvelous exhibits give the visitor an excellent introduction to Fort Monroe and what life would have been like there during the 19th century. There is, among the many exhibits, the cell in which Jefferson Davis was so cruelly imprisoned by a vengeful nation. It is also here that his ghost is reported to return, revisiting the site of his torment and humiliation in conditions that surely hastened his passing. (This is not where Jefferson Davis actually died, although some sources allege otherwise.)
It only took a single glance down the range of low brick arches that supported the ceiling of the casemates to grasp the inspiration for the story that Sergeant Poe wrote while stationed here, “The Cask of Amontillado.” Fort Monroe in those days, being still under construction, must have been strewn with piles of bricks and sacks of mortar as the masons went about their decade-and-a-half task. And if that were not enough, there was also a story in circulation of a soldier who had been bricked up behind one of those walls. But one cannot help but wonder if there was even more than that. Fort Monroe and, indeed, the whole Virginia coast, as I was to learn, is steeped in ghosts and supernatural occurrences. Almost everybody I met had a ghost story—or, to be more precise, almost everybody who wasn’t a public affairs officer. A tour guide at the nearby Fort Story assured me that the Virginia coast is the most haunted locale in the United States. One can only wonder what influence serving in such a place had on the young and still-impressionable Poe.
The tour of the Casemate Museum ends in the bookstore. There I heard my first account of a ghostly sighting. Some weeks earlier, parents, visiting the bookstore after their tour, reported what their young daughter had told them. She had been viewing one of the historical exhibits when something inexplicable occurred. It was an artillery exhibit, with several life-sized manikins in post-Civil War uniforms in the process of servicing an artillery piece. The little girl reported that one of the life-sized manikins had turned to her and had warned her to cover her ears as they prepared to fire their cannon.
I talked to a number of other employees who also had stories to tell. They requested, however, that I not reveal their identities. Suffice it to say, they were well-placed to receive the accounts of visitors to the post and to the museum. I must admit, although I am a skeptic on the issue of ghosts, the stories had an aura of credibility. They were received directly from those involved and reported to me by an official who was also a skeptic. There is not space to recount them all here. The two that follow I found not only to be interesting and credible, but I also could not find them published anywhere else.
One story occurred several years earlier but had made a lasting impression on my reporter, an Army wife, still shaking from her experience. She had been standing in the window of her quarters, which were to the left of the former post commander’s house known as Quarters One (where the ghost of Abraham Lincoln is said to make an occasional appearance). She was watching an interview with Boy George conducted by Barbara Walters, taking place on the grounds below. All of a sudden, the table behind her rose up and flew into the fireplace as the lamp that was on it hurtled to the other side of the room. Between the table and the fireplace was the family dog, who was so startled that he scratched the floor so deeply that the post engineers were never able to buff the marks out.
Another story involved a military family that that had just moved into the old, now-demolished pre-World War II white, framed quarters locally known as “white elephants.” The wife was unpacking the boxes containing their household goods and, each time she cut open a box, she would set the knife on the refrigerator. But every time she went to reach for it, it had moved to another location. Finally, in frustration, she shouted. “Get out of my house and don’t come back!”
That seemed to solve the problem—but when the family was
moving out, there was another occurrence, which maybe held the explanation for the strange events that had occurred when they had first moved in. All their possessions had been packed up, and the family was standing in front of the quarters waiting for transportation when their young son went back into the house to get a drink of water. He stepped into the kitchen and saw another little boy, but this one was wearing a long white smock, as was the fashion in the 19th century. Evidently, this boy was the prankster who had kept moving the knife. Having been ordered away, he waited patiently until the family had departed before returning to what may well have been his home. Now that this house has been torn down, one can only wonder what refuge that boy has since found.
There are also a number of stories at Fort Monroe that involve family pets, usually cats. Sometimes a cat is seen in the quarters of a family that doesn’t own one. In other cases, the cat mysteriously leaves and enters closed rooms. What is interesting is that none of the accounts ever link these pet stories to what I found to be one of the most unique features of Fort Monroe—the pet cemetery.
Since at least the 1930s, military families have used this part of Fort Monroe as a pet cemetery.
The ramparts of the fort are faced with red brick on the moat side, but on the inside they are composed of packed earth and rise approximately forty feet above the inside level of the fort. There were once gun emplacements here, and their iron tracks are still visible. All along this earthen embankment, interspersed between the iron tracks, are the graves of the family pets of the soldiers once stationed here. When this custom started I have no idea. The earliest grave I could find was from 1936. Most are either conventional granite headstones or home-made concrete slabs. There were also some of less durable material, such as wooden crosses, many of which had undoubtedly deteriorated. One can only wonder if at the root of some of the stories is the ghost of a beloved family pet vainly searching the family quarters for masters who, subject to military orders, have long since moved on to other assignments.
Ghosthunting Virginia Page 11
