AN UNDERGROUND MYSTERY AND A DUCKING-STOOL
For a day or two Gadabout lay out in the James in front of Westover.
One evening it turned cold and a strong wind set in, coming straight at
us across the river. As usual, when Gadabout was anchored on a stormy
night near a lee shore, we cast a lead out ahead, so as to be able to
tell (after it should become too dark to see the land) whether or not
we were dragging anchor.
That is, we called it casting a lead, though in reality the process
consisted in throwing out into the river (as far ahead of us as we
could) a piece of old iron with a string tied to it. Then, at any time,
by gathering up the loose end of the string that lay in the cockpit,
one could detect by the outgo of the line any tendency on the part of
Gadabout to run away with her anchor. It was a very simple device and
not exactly original, having doubtless been used a little earlier by
Christopher Columbus and Noah and those people. But we never permitted
any question of priority to dampen our interest in the thing.
As the evening wore on the storm held steadily; steadily and rapidly
the barometer kept counting backward; and we took the river's width in
wind and sea for half the night. We could not sleep, and sat bolstered
up in our chairs. The Commodore quite likely did breathe audibly now
and then; but Nautica was wide awake, as shown by her announcing with
feeling and frequency that "she knew we were dragging anchor and were
just about to be horribly wrecked upon rocks or 'stobs' or something or
other."
The Commodore arose and busied himself about cockpit and cabin
mysteriously. When he finished his labours, the string from the piece
of iron out in the river came into the cabin through a hole in the wall
made for an engine bell cord. It ran along the ceiling to the after end
of the cabin, where a weight kept it taut. A handkerchief that could be
plainly seen even in the dim light, was fastened to the string just
where it passed above Nautica's head. By this time, the Commodore's
mystery was a mystery no longer; and Nautica was laughing.
"So that is to put an end to all my anxieties, is it?"
"Just so," said the Commodore. "When that anxious feeling comes, watch
the handkerchief. If it is moving toward the door, you may know that
your fears are better grounded than the anchors; but if it is not, try
to get a wink of sleep."
And the wind howled and the boat pitched; but Nautica gazed in such
relief at the immovable handkerchief that she fell asleep in her chair.
When she wakened with a start and looked anxiously at the handkerchief,
it was too late--the storm was over.
In the morning there was nothing to show for all that night's
commotion. Smooth, peaceful, and lazy, old Powhatan was loitering in
the sunlight to the sea. But Gadabout was not to be soothed into
forgetfulness of those night hours. As soon as she had her morning work
done up, she hoisted anchor and headed again for her quiet harbour in
Herring Creek. After that, when we had a mind to go to Westover, we
usually had no mind to take Gadabout with us. Instead, we were more
likely to row up the river or to walk up the beach at low tide.
On the occasion of our last visit to the manor-house, we determined to
go "beachway." We ran our rowboat on a sandy point jutting into the
mouth of the creek, and took our way along the narrow strip of solid
land that lay between river and marsh. White-limbed sycamores and
tangled undergrowth went along with us, and sometimes inclined to take
up more than their share of the narrow way. Brilliant berries gleamed
on some bare, brown bushes, and the green leaves of the smilax
pretended that they grew there too. Along the beach, tall bunches of
reeds stood out against the brown of the river and the blue of the sky
in their waving slenderness.
Looking backward across the marshes, we could see the white railing on
Gadabout's upper deck and could catch the flutter of her flags through
the openings in the trees. As we neared Westover, a slope led to higher
land and to a riverward, side entrance to the grounds. Passing through
this, a tangle of vines swinging with the great iron gate, we followed
the walk toward the house.
Just before reaching the ballroom wing, we paused in front of a small
brick outbuilding to have a few appropriate shivers over what was under
it. From reading and from our talks at Westover, we knew about the
mysterious subterranean chambers down there. To be sure, we had not
seen them yet (one thing and another having got in the way of our
making a visit to them); but surely one need not always wait to see;
one can shiver a little anyway upon hearsay.
And the hearsay was like this. Somewhere underneath that brick
outbuilding was an opening down into the earth, like a dry well, some
fifteen or twenty feet deep. At the bottom, arched doorways on opposite
sides of the shaft opened into two small square rooms. The walls of the
well and of the rooms were cement; and the floors were paved with
brick. A round stone table used to stand in one of the rooms. From this
well once ran two passages or tunnels, large enough for people to go
through; one connecting with the house by a curious stairway in the old
wing that was destroyed in the war, and the other leading to the river.
We stood looking blankly at the closed outbuilding trying to imagine
the hidden rooms and passages beneath it. Tradition told us that they
were for refuge from the Indians. That explanation seemed well enough
at first. But before we could get into the spirit of it enough to catch
even the faintest bit of a warwhoop and to scuttle for the subterranean
chambers, we made up our minds that that was not what the things were
for anyway. There had ceased to be much danger from Indians along that
part of the James by the time even this old home at Westover was built.
So, casting about for a better explanation, we hit upon the idea that
William Byrd had constructed the underground rooms in imitation of
Pope's famous grotto, which the Colonel and his daughter Evelyn must
have seen when entertained by the poet in his villa at Twickenham. But
even after we had pictured the mysterious chambers all hung round with
mirrors, just like Pope's, and candles everywhere, we could see that so
tame a thing as the grotto theory would never do.
There were so many nice, awful things that such a place would be good
for. Spurring our jaded fancy with bits from Ali Baba and the Forty
Thieves, we got on famously for a while with a pirates' den. We had a
long, low, rakish ship lying in the river just off the tunnel's mouth;
black-bearded ruffians, with knives between their teeth, stealing
ashore and disappearing within the dark underground passage; the great
stone table down there heaped with Spanish gold; good Jamaica rum
pouring down wicked throats; the dark tunnels ever echoing the
rollicking chorus, "Six men sat on the dead man's chest"--when suddenly
it occurred to us that we were somewhat compromising the old colonial
grandee, Colonel Byrd. With that we gave the matter up. We quit staring
at a closed brick outbuilding with unseeable things down under it, and
went on our way. And, as it turned out that we never visited the
underground rooms after all, this was as near as we ever came to
solving the colonial mystery.
That day, sitting about the fireplace in Colonel Byrd's library, we
listened to a pleasant chapter in the story of an old manor-house--the
account of the recent restoration of Westover. As in most cases where
extensive rehabilitation of colonial homes has been attempted, an
interesting part of the work was the opening up of goodly old-time
fireplaces that the changing fashions of changing generations had
filled in with brick and mortar. Sometimes they had shrunk to the
dimensions of a modern grate; sometimes even to that of a stovepipe
hole. Indeed, what chronological mile-stones are the various forms of
our American fireplaces! As the historic dates grow larger, the
fireplaces grow smaller.
Of course Westover never had the hugest of fireplaces. Even when this
old home was built, the shrinkage in chimney-pieces had been going on
for some time. No longer was most of the side of a room in a blaze. No
longer was the flame fed by a backlog so huge that "a chain was
attached to it, and it was dragged in by a horse."
How far removed Westover was from the day of such things, is shown by
the noted mantelpiece in the drawing-room. Only with the coming of
smaller fireplaces came those elaborate mantelpieces. But the great
fireplaces of our ancestors yielded slowly, inch by inch, as it were;
and something of the goodly proportions they yet had in Colonel Byrd's
day, the hammer and chisel have shown at Westover.
If the exquisite Colonel's doubtless exquisite ghost haunts this home,
we can imagine his pleasure when, one wintry night, he found reopened
this fine old library fireplace, and sat him down to toast his shapely
calves (even ghostly, they must yet be shapely) in the genial old-time
glow.
Some of the most interesting features of the work of putting an old
homestead back into a period from which it has strayed, grow out of the
very limitations. At Westover, while conformity to colonial times is
carried far, even to the exclusion of rocking-chairs, yet there has
been no shrinking from anachronisms that comfort or convenience demand.
Eighteenth century fireplaces may blaze and crackle, and quite imagine
themselves to be still heating the old house; but somewhere down below
is a twentieth century furnace that is quietly doing most of the work.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM MANTELPIECE AT WESTOVER.]
And what a shock it must be to the colonial ghosts when they stumble in
the dark over great claw feet, cold even as their own; the feet of
monstrous hollow things, white and awesome as themselves--the things
that moderns call bathtubs!
Over in the kitchen, unfortunately for the picturesque, all has to be
modern. There the eighteenth century furnishing breaks down altogether.
Not from the glowing heart of the old chimney-place, but from a huge,
homely range comes the gastronomic hospitality of present-day Westover.
No devotion to the eighteenth century can bring the colonial kitchen
back again; send the roaring blaze up the wide chimney; swing the crane
with the great kettle into the glow; and rebuild the quaint row of
skillet and gridiron and broiler, perched on their little legs over the
hot embers of the old hearthstone.
Westover has an interesting reminder of the colonial in a copy of an
old survey of the plantation that we saw that day. Our eyes quickly
caught the suggestive name given on the map to the low, sandy point at
the mouth of Herring Creek, where we had left our shore-boat to wait
for us. We had not known that it was a place of such associations as
the words "Ducking-stool Point" indicated.
Upon first landing there, we had been impressed with the unusual depth
of water just off that point; but we had not suspected how, in colonial
tunes, many a too-talkative woman had also been impressed with it. It
was the law, made and provided, that a ducking-stool should be set up
"neere the court-house in every county." So, doubtless, in accordance
with that law, a long pole used to reach out from our sandy point,
having a seat on the end of it, right over the deep water. And, also in
accordance with law, the end of the pole sometimes went down into the
water, and a shivering woman went with it. But what would you, when
"brabbling women slander and scandalize their neighbours, for which
their poore husbands are often brought into chargeable and vexatious
suits and cast in great damages"?
The survey showed, also, where Westover Church stood in colonial days.
Near the river a little way above the house, stood not only the church
but a court-house and a brewing-house, all in sociable and suggestive
proximity. We walked up the river bank to visit the spot.
[Illustration: TOMBS IN THE OLD WESTOVER CHURCHYARD. (In the foreground
is the tomb of Evelyn Byrd.)]
It is still marked by a few gravestones that remain in the deserted
churchyard. Among these is the altar-tomb of Evelyn Byrd. It stands
with an iron band about it, holding the aged stones in place. The
time-dimmed inscription tells us to "be reminded by this awful Tomb" of
many dismal things with which we refuse to associate our thoughts of
this lovely colonial girl.
Rather, we recall the story of her intimacy with Mrs. Anne Harrison of
Berkeley, and of the compact the two friends made, that whichever
should die first should appear at some time to the other. The tale goes
on to tell that Mrs. Harrison, after the death of her friend, was
walking over to Westover one evening, and as she passed the churchyard
she saw the ethereal figure of Evelyn Byrd there by the altar-tomb,
smiling in happy fulfilment of the strange tryst.
It was late afternoon when we were ready to take our way for the last
time down the strip of sandy beach that led from William Byrd's old
home to ours. The sun slanted low over the Powhatan; in its glow the
old manor-house stood out in all its stateliness. We reflected that
just as Westover looked then, it had looked when Colonel Byrd himself
used to step out from the marble portal to saunter among his trees and
flowers, or to take his faultless self out upon the pier perhaps to
watch the unloading of the ship from London Towne. Just so the old
house had looked through all those days when it was the scene of a
luxurious colonial life not excelled by that of the patroons of the
Hudson.
Looking from the home out upon the river we saw a low-laden vessel, all
sail spread to the soft, faltering breeze, coming slowly up stream on
the last of the tide. How she fitted into the old-time setting! She was
one of Colonel Byrd's freighting ships just in from overseas. After a
tempestuous voyage, and a narrow escape from the Spanish too, she had
safely entered Chesapeake Bay and now, the wind serving but ill, she
was slowly drifting up the river.
Soon she would touch at the old colonial pier swarming with plantation
negroes. To the rhythm of African melodies the cargo would come out of
the hold--mahogany furniture, a new statue for the garden, cases of
wine, casks of muscovado sugar, puncheons of rum, plantation machinery,
sweetmeats and spices, and some bewildered Irish cows. Quite likely,
picking their way daintily in the midst of the exciting scene, would
come the lady of the manor and Mistress Evelyn to make anxious inquiry
for boxes of London finery. And then--but, no! that vessel out on the
James, without stopping at all, had sailed on past the old plantation
front. Just a common fishing schooner of to-day bound for Richmond! We
turned and closed behind us the ancient iron gate of Westover.