A SHORT SAIL AND AN OLD ROMANCE
Next day, bustling about with making all things shipshape, we could
scarcely realize that we were actually getting under way again. But
when our mooring-lines were hauled in, Gadabout backed away from her
old friend, the bridge, swung around in the narrow marsh-channel, and
soon carried us from Back River out into the James.
And by this time how impressed we had become with the significance of
that wide, brown flood--that Nestor of American rivers! When is the
James to find its rightful place in American song and story? Our oldest
colonial waterway--upon whose banks the foundations of our country were
laid, along whose shores our earliest homes and home-sites can still be
pointed out--and yet almost without a place in our literature. Other
rivers, historically lesser rivers, have had their stories told again
and again, their beauties lauded, and their praises sung. But this
great pioneer waterway, fit theme for an ode, is to-day our unsung
river.
Gadabout, with the wind in her favour and all the buoys leaning her
way, made good progress. It was not long before we were looking back
catching the last glimpses of the white sea-wall of Jamestown Island.
We now were on our way to pick up other bits of the river story, and
especially those concerning the peculiar colonial home life on the
James. When tobacco culture, with its ceaseless demand for virgin soil,
led many of the colonists to abandon James Towne and to build up great
individual estates, each estate had to have its water front; and old
Powhatan became lined on both sides with vast plantations. Later, the
lands along other rivers were similarly occupied. So pronounced was the
development of plantation life that it affected, even controlled, the
character of the colony and determined the type of civilization in
Virginia.
The great estates became so many independent, self-sufficient
communities--almost kingdoms. Each had its own permanent population
including, besides slaves and common labourers, many mechanics,
carpenters, coopers, and artisans of various kinds. An unbroken water
highway stretched from each plantation wharf to the wharves of London.
Directly from his own pier, each planter shipped his tobacco to
England; and in return there was unloaded upon his own pier the
commodities needed for his plantation community.
Thus was established the peculiar type of Virginia society, the
aristocracy of planters, that dotted the Old Dominion with lordly
manor-houses and filled them with gay, ample life--a life almost feudal
in its pride and power. In this day of our nation's tardy awakening to
an appreciation of its colonial homes, a particular interest attaches
to these old Virginia mansions, once the centres of those proud little
principalities in the wilderness.
And the particular interest of Gadabout's people, as Jamestown Island
faded from sight, attached to a few of the earliest and most typical of
those colonial homes that we knew yet stood on the banks of the "King's
River." From kindly responses to our notes of inquiry, we also knew
that long-suffering Virginia courtesy was not yet quite exhausted, and
that it still swung wide the doors of those old manor-houses to even
the passing stranger. Our next harbour was to be Chippoak Creek, which
empties into the river about twelve miles above Jamestown Island. There
we should be near two or three colonial homes including the well-known
Brandon.
It seemed good to be under way again. There was music in the chug of
our engines and in the purl of the water about our homely bows. The
touch of the wind in our faces was tonic, and we could almost persuade
ourselves that there was fragrance in the occasional whiffs of
gasoline.
We soon came to an opening in the shore to starboard where the James
receives one of its chief tributaries, the Chickahominy, memorable for
its association with the first American romance. Though the tale is
perhaps a trifle hackneyed, yet the duty of every good American is to
listen whenever it is told. So here it is.
Of course the hero was Captain John Smith. How that man does brighten
up the record of those old times! Well, one day the Captain with a
small party from James Towne was hunting in the marshes of the
Chickahominy for food, or adventure, or the South Sea, or something,
and some Indians were hunting there also; and the Indians captured the
Captain. They took him before the great chief Powhatan; and as John lay
there, with a large stone under his head and some clubs waving above
him, the general impression was that he was going to die. But that was
not John's way in those days; he was always in trouble but he never
died. Suddenly, just as the clubs were about to descend, soft arms were
about the Captain's head, and Pocahontas, the favourite daughter of the
old chief, was pleading for the ever-lucky Smith. The dramatic
requirements of the case were apparent to everybody. Powhatan spared
the pale-face; and our country had its first romance.
To be sure, some people say that all this never happened. Indeed the
growing skepticism about this precious bit of our history, this
international romance that began in the marshes of the Chickahominy, is
our chief reason for repeating it here. It is time for the story to be
told by those who can vouch for it--those who have actually seen the
river that flows by the marshes that the Captain was captured in.
On we went with tide, wind, and engines carrying us up the James.
Dancing Point reached sharply out as if to intercept us. But the owner
of those strong dark hands that happened to be at the wheel knew the
story of Dancing Point--of how many an ebony Tam O'Shanter had seen
ghostly revelry there; and Gadabout was held well out in the river.
Again, how completely we had the James to ourselves! We thought of how,
even back in those old colonial days, our little craft would have had
more company. Here, with slender bows pushing down stream, the Indian
canoes went on their way to trade with the settlers at James Towne;
their cargoes varying with the seasons--fish from their weirs in the
moon of blossoms, and, in the moon of cohonks, limp furred and
feathered things and reed-woven baskets of golden maize. Returning, the
red men would have the axes, hatchets, and strange articles that the
pale-faces used, and the cherished "blew" beads that the Cape Merchant
had given them in barter.
Here sailed the little shallops of the colonists as they explored and
charted this unknown land. A few years later and, with rhythmic sway of
black bodies and dip of many oars, came the barges of the river
planters. Right royally came the lords of the wilderness--members of
the Council perhaps, and in brave gold-laced attire--dropping down with
the ebb tide to the tiny capital in the island marshes. And up the
stream came ships from "London Towne," spreading soft white clouds of
canvas where sail was never seen before; and carrying past the naked
Indian in his tepee the sweet-scented powders and the rose brocade that
the weed of his peace-pipe had bought for the Lady of the Manor.
Now, Gadabout began to sidle toward the port bank of the river as our
next harbour, Chippoak Creek, was on that side. Here the shore grew
steep; and at one point high up we caught glimpses of the little
village of Claremont. At its pier lay a three-masted schooner and
several barges and smaller boats. Along the water's edge were mills,
their steam and smoke drifting lazily across the face of the bluffs.
On a little farther, we came to the mouth of Chippoak Creek with the
bluffs of Claremont on one hand, the sweeping, wooded shores of Brandon
on the other, and, in between, a beautiful expanse of water, wide
enough for a river and possibly deep enough for a heavy dew. We
scurried for chart and sounding-pole. Following the narrow, crooked
channel indicated on the chart, we worked our way well into the mouth
of the stream and cast anchor near a point of woods. From the chart we
could tell that somewhere beyond that forest wall, over near the bank
of the river, was the old manor-house that we had come chiefly to
see--Brandon, one of America's most noted colonial homes.
Next morning we were ready for a visit to Brandon. But first, we had to
let the sailor make a foraging trip to the village. One of the troubles
about living in a home that wanders on the waters, is that each time
you change anchorage you must hunt up new places for getting things and
getting things done.
While it is charming to drop anchor every now and then in a snug, new
harbour, where Nature, as she tucks you in with woodland green, has
smiles and graces that you never saw before, yet the houseboater soon
learns that each delightful, new-found pocket in the watery world means
necessity for several other new-found things. There must be a new-found
washerwoman, and new-found somebodies who can supply meats, eggs,
vegetables, ice, milk, and water--the last two separate if possible.
True, the little harbour is beautiful; but as you lie there day after
day watching waving trees and rippling water, the soiled-clothes bags
are growing fatter; and then too, even in the midst of beauty, one
wearies of a life fed wholly out of tin cans.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO CHIPPOAK CREEK.]
[Illustration: COVE IN CHIPPOAK CREEK.]
Henry was a good forager; and we were confident, as his strong strokes
carried him from the houseboat shoreward, that he would soon put us in
touch with all the necessary sources of supply, so that in the
afternoon we could make our visit to the old manor-house. And he did
not fail us. His little boat came back well loaded, and he bore the
welcome news that "Sally" (whoever she might be) would take the
washing.
But now, a matter of religion got in between us and Brandon. A launch
came down the creek; and, as we were nearly out of gasoline, the
Commodore hailed the craft and made inquiry as to where we could get
some. One of the two men aboard proved to deal in gasoline, and
appeared to be the only one about who did. He had some of it then on
the pier at Claremont; and would sell it any day in the week except
Saturday. The rather puzzling exception he explained by saying that he
was a Seventh-day Adventist. To be sure, it was then only Thursday; but
as it seemed making up for bad weather that might prevent our running
down to the pier next day, we arranged to take on a barrel of the
gasoline that afternoon.
We started after a rather late dinner; and ran back down the river to
where we had seen the schooner and the barges the day before. Just as
the Commodore made a nice, soft-bump landing at the pier, a man
informed him that the gasoline had been carried to the Adventist's mill
by mistake. So, we cast off our ropes again, and went farther down to
where the little mills steamed away at the foot of the bluffs.
Off shore, several sloops and rowboats were tied to tall stakes in the
water. We went as close to shore as we dared; and Gadabout crept
cautiously up to one of the stakes, so as not to knock it over, and was
tied to it. Then, the Commodore went ashore and arranged to have the
gasoline brought out to us.
Presently, two negroes rolled the barrel into a lighter. They poled
their awkward craft out to Gadabout and made fast to a cleat. It took a
long time to pump the gasoline into cans, and then to strain it into
our tank on the upper deck. The day was about over. Relinquishing our
plan of visiting Brandon, we ran back to our Chippoak harbour, and our
anchor went to bed in the creek as the sun went down.