FROM CAPE HENLOPEN TO NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.
THE PORTAGE TO LOVE CREEK.--THE DELAWARE WHIPPING-POST.--REHOBOTH AND
INDIAN RIVER BAYS.--A PORTAGE TO LITTLE ASSAWAMAN BAY.--ISLE OF WIGHT
BAY.--WINCHESTER PLANTATION.--CHINCOTEAGUE.--WATCHAPREAGUE
INLET.--COBB'S ISLAND.--CHERRYSTONE.--ARRIVAL AT NORFOLK.--THE
"LANDMARK'S" ENTERPRISE.
[Illustration: From Cape Henlopen, Delaware, to Norfolk, Virginia.
Route of Paper Canoe MARIA THERESA From Lewes, Del. to
Norfolk, Va. Followed by N. H. Bishop in 1874
_Copyright, 1878 by Lee & Shepard_]
My first thought the next morning was of the lost outrigger, and how I
should replace it. My host soon solved the problem for me. I was to
drive to the scene of the late disaster in his light, covered wagon,
load it with the canoe and cargo, and take the shortest route to Love
Creek, six miles from Lewes, stopping on the way at a blacksmith's for a
new outrigger. We drove over sandy roads, through forests of pine and
oak, to the village of Milton, where a curious crowd gathered round us
and facetiously asked if we had "brought the canoe all the way from Troy
in that 'ere wagon." The village smith, without removing the paper boat
from her snug quarters, made a fair outrigger in an hour's time, when we
continued our monotonous ride through dreary woods to a clearing upon
the banks of a cedar swamp, where in a cottage lived Mr. George Webb, to
whom Bob Hazzle, my driver, presented me. Having now reached Love Creek,
I deposited my canoe with Mr. Webb, and started off for Lewes to view
the town and the ocean.
Across the entrance of Delaware Bay, from Cape Henlopen Light to Cape
May Light on the southern end of New Jersey, is a distance of twelve
statute miles. Saturday night and Sunday were passed in Lewes, which
is situated inside of Cape Henlopen, and behind the celebrated stone
breakwater which was constructed by the government. This port of refuge
is much frequented by coasters, as many as two or three hundred sails
collecting here during a severe gale. The government is building a
remarkable pier of _solid_ iron spiles, three abreast, which, when
completed, will run out seventeen hundred feet into the bay, and reach
a depth of twenty-three feet of water. Captain Brown, of the Engineers,
was in charge of the work. By the application of a jet of water, forced
by an hydraulic pump through a tube down the outside of the spile while
it is being screwed into the sand, a puddling of the same is kept
up, which relieves the strain upon the screw-flanges, and saves
fourteen-fifteenths of the time and labor usually expended by the
old method of inserting the screw spile. This invention was a happy
thought of Captain Brown.
The government has purchased a piece of land at Lewes for the site of a
fort. Some time in the future there will be a railroad terminating on
the pier, and coal will be brought directly from the mines to supply the
fleets which will gather within the walls of the Breakwater. Here, free
from all danger of an ice blockade, this port will become a safe and
convenient harbor and coaling-station during the winter time for
government and other vessels.
At dusk on Sunday evening the collector of the port, Captain Lyons,
and his friends, took me in their carriage back to Love Creek, where
Mr. Webb insisted upon making me the recipient of his hospitality for
the night. A little crowd of women from the vicinity of the swamp were
awaiting my arrival to see the canoe. One ancient dame, catching sight
of the alcohol-stove which I took from my vest-pocket, clapped her
thin hands and enthusiastically exclaimed, "What a nice thing for a
sick-room--the best nuss-lamp I ever seed!" Having satisfied the
curiosity of these people, and been much amused by their quaint
remarks, I was quietly smuggled into Mr. Webb's "best room," where,
if my spirit did not make feathery flights, it was not the fault of
the downy bed in whose unfathomable depths I now lost myself.
Before leaving Delaware I feel it an imperative duty to the public to
refer to one of her time-honored institutions.
Persons unacquainted with the fact will find it difficult to believe
that one state of the great American Republic still holds to the
practice of lashing men and women, white and black. Delaware--one of the
smallest states of the Union, the citizens of which are proverbially
generous and hospitable, a state which has produced a Bayard--is, to her
shame we regret to say, the culprit which sins against the spirit of
civilization in this nineteenth century, one hundred years after the
fathers of the Republic declared equal rights for all men. In treating
of so delicate a subject, I desire to do no one injustice; therefore I
will let a native of Delaware speak for his community.
"DOVER, DELAWARE, August 2, 1873.
"EDITOR CAMDEN SPY: According to promise, I now write you a
little about Delaware. Persons in your vicinity look upon the
'Little Diamond State' as a mere bog, or marsh, and mud and
water they suppose are its chief productions; but, in my
opinion, it is one of the finest little states in the Union.
Although small, in proportion to the size it produces more grain
and fruit than any other state in the country, and they are
unexcelled as regards quality and flavor. Crime is kept in awe
by that best of institutions, the _whipping-post and pillory_!
These are the bugbear of all the northern newspapers, and they
can say nothing too harsh or severe against them. The
whipping-post in Kent County is situated in the yard of the
jail, and is about six feet in height and three feet in
circumference; the prisoner is fastened to it by means of
bracelets, or arms, on the wrist; and the sheriff executes the
sentence of the law by baring the convict to the waist, and on
the bare back lashing him twenty, forty, or sixty times,
according to the sentence. But the blood does not run in streams
from the prisoner's back, nor is he thrown into a barrel of
brine, and salt sprinkled over the lashes. On the contrary, I
have seen them laugh, and coolly remark that 'it's good
exercise, and gives us an appetite.' But there are others who
raise the devil's own row with their yells and horrible cries of
pain. The whipping is public, and is witnessed each time by
large numbers of people who come from miles around to see the
culprit disgraced.
"A public whipping occurred not very long ago, and the day was
very stormy, yet there were fully three hundred spectators on
the ground to witness this wholesome punishment! A person who
has been lashed at the whipping-post cannot vote again in this
state; thus, most of the criminals who are whipped leave the
state in order to regain their citizenship. The newspapers can
blow until they are tired about this 'horrible, barbaric, and
unchristian punishment,' but if their own states would adopt
this form of punishment, they would find crime continually on
the decrease. What is imprisonment for a few months or years? It
is soon over with; and then they are again let out upon the
community, to beg, borrow, and steal. But to be publicly whipped
is an everlasting disgrace, and deters men from committing
wrong. Women are whipped in the same manner, and they take it
very hard; but, to my recollection, there has not been a female
prisoner for some time. I did not intend to comment so long upon
the whipping-posts in the state of Delaware.
"The pillory next claims our attention. This is a long piece of
board that runs through the whipping-post at the top, and has
holes [as per engraving] for the neck and arms to rest in a very
constrained position. The prisoner is compelled to stand on his
toes for an hour with his neck and arms in the holes, and if he
sinks from exhaustion, as it sometimes happens, the neck is
instantly broken. Josiah Ward, the villain who escaped
punishment for the murder of the man Wady in your county, came
into Delaware, broke into a shoe-store, succeeded in stealing
one pair of shoes,--was arrested, got sixty lashes at the post,
was made to stand in the pillory one hour, is now serving out a
term of two years' imprisonment,--and _he never got the shoes_!
The pillory is certainly a terrible and cruel punishment, and,
while I heartily favor the whipping-post, I think this savage
punishment should be abolished.
"Since writing the above, I have heard that a colored woman was
convicted of murder in the second degree last May, and on
Saturday the 17th of that month received sixty lashes on her
bare back, and stood in the pillory one hour.
"What do you think of Delaware law, after what I have written? I
have written enough for the present, so I will close, ever
remaining,
"Yours very truly,
P. P."
For twenty years past, Delaware and Maryland farmers have given much
attention to peach culture, which has gradually declined in New Jersey
and states further north. There are said to be over sixty thousand acres
of land on the peninsula planted with peach-trees, which are estimated
to be worth fifty dollars per acre, or three million dollars. To harvest
this crop requires at least twenty-five thousand men, women, and
children. The planting of an acre of peach-trees, and its cultivation to
maturity, costs from thirty to forty dollars. The canners take a large
portion of the best peaches, which are shipped to foreign as well as to
domestic markets.
The low lands and river-shores of the peninsula exhale malaria which
attacks the inhabitants in a mild form of ague. During the spring,
summer, and early fall months, a prudent man will not expose himself to
the air until after the sun has risen and dispelled the mists of
morning. The same caution should be observed all through the low regions
of the south, both as to morning and evening exercise. Chills and fever
are the bane of the southern and middle states, as this disease affects
the health and elastic vigor of the constitution, and also produces
great mental depression. Yet those who suffer, even on every alternate
day, from chills, seem to accept the malaria as nothing of much
importance; though it is a well-known fact that this form of
intermittent fever so reduces the strength, that the system is unable to
cope with other and more dangerous diseases for which it paves the way.
Upon a little creek, tributary to St. Martin's River, and near its
confluence with the Isle of Wight Bay, a long day's pull from the swamp
of Love Creek, was the old plantation home of a friend of my boyhood,
Mr. Taylor, who about this time was looking out for the arrival of the
paper canoe. It was a question whether I could descend Love Creek three
miles, cross Rehoboth and Indian River sounds, ascend White's Creek,
make a portage to Little Assawaman Bay, thread the thoroughfare west of
Fenwick's Island Light, cross the Isle of Wight Bay, ascend and cross
St. Martin's River to Turval's Creek, and reach the home of my friend,
all in one day. But I determined to attempt the task. Mr. Webb roused
his family at an early hour, and I rowed down Love Creek and crossed the
shallow waters of Rehoboth Bay in the early part of the day.
From Cape Henlopen, following the general contour of the coast, to Cape
Charles at the northern entrance of Chesapeake Bay, is a distance of one
hundred and thirty-six miles; from Cape Charles across the mouth of
Chesapeake Bay to Cape Henry is thirteen miles; from Henlopen south, the
state of Delaware occupies about twenty miles of the coast; the eastern
shore of Maryland holds between thirty and forty miles, while the
eastern shore of Virginia, represented by the counties of Accomac and
Northampton, covers the peninsula to Cape Charles.
Commencing at Rehoboth Bay, a small boat may follow the interior waters
to the Chesapeake Bay. The watercourses of this coast are protected from
the rough waves of the ocean by long, narrow, sandy islands, known as
beaches, between which the tides enter. These passages from the sea to
the interior waters are called inlets, and most of them are navigable
for coasting vessels of light draught. These inlets are so influenced
by the action of storms, and their shores and locations are so changed
by them, that the cattle may graze to-day in tranquil happiness where
only a generation ago the old skipper navigated his craft. During June
of the year 1821 a fierce gale opened Sandy Point Inlet with a foot
depth of water, but it closed in 1831. Green Point Inlet was cut through
the beach during a gale in 1837, and was closed up seven years later.
Old Sinepuxent Inlet, which was forced open by the sea more than sixty
years ago, closed in 1831. These three inlets were within a space of
three miles, and were all north of Chincoteague village. Green Run
Inlet, which had a depth of about six feet of water for nearly ten
years, also closed after shifting half a mile to the south of its
original location. The tendency of inlets on this coast is to shift to
the southward, as do the inlets on the coast of New Jersey.
Oystermen, fishermen, and farmers live along the upland, and in some
cases on the island beaches. From these bays, timber, fire-wood, grain,
and oysters are shipped to northern ports. The people are everywhere
kind and hospitable to strangers. A mild climate, cheap and easily
worked soils, wild-fowl shooting, fine oysters and fishing privileges,
offer inducements to Northerners and Europeans to settle in this
country; the mild form of ague which exists in most of its localities
being the only objection. While debating this point with a native, he
attacked my argument by saying:
"Law sakes! don't folks die of _something_, any way? If you
don't have fever 'n' ague round Massachusetts, you've got an
awful lot of things we hain't got here--a tarnashun sight wuss
ones, too; sich as cumsempsun, brown-critters, mental
spinageetis, lung-disease, and all sorts of brown-kill
disorders. Besides, you have such awful cold winters that a
farmer has to stay holed four months out of the year, while we
folks in the south can work most of the time out of doors. I'll
be dog-goned if I hadn't ruther live here in poverty than die up
north a-rolling in riches. Now, stranger, as to what you said
about sickness, why we aren't no circumstance to you fellows up
north. Why, your hull country is chuck-full of pizenous
remedies. When I was a-coasting along Yankeedom and went ashore,
I found all the rocks along the road were jist kivered with
quack-medicine notices, and all the farmers hired out the
outsides of their barns to advertise doctor's stuff on."
In no portion of America do the people seem to feel the burden of
earning a livelihood more lightly. They get a great deal of social
enjoyment out of life at very little cost, and place much less value on
the "mighty dollar" than do their brother farmers of the northern
section of the states. The interesting inquiry of "Who was his father?"
commences at Philadelphia, and its importance intensifies as you travel
southward. Old family associations have great weight among all classes.
It was six miles from the mouth of Love Creek across the little sound to
Burton's marshy island at the entrance of Indian River Sound. Indian
River supplies its bay with much of its fresh water, and the small inlet
in the beach of the same name with the salt water of the ocean. Large
flocks of geese and ducks were seen upon the quiet waters of the sound.
Pursuing my southward course across Indian River Sound three miles, I
entered a small creek with a wide mouth, which flows north from the
cedar swamp, known as White's Creek, which I ascended until the stream
became so narrow that it seemed almost lost in the wilderness, when
suddenly an opening in the forest showed me a clearing with the little
buildings of a farm scattered around. It was the home of a Methodist
exhorter, Mr. Silas J. Betts. I told him how anxious I was to make a
quick portage to the nearest southern water, Little Assawaman Bay, not
much more than three miles distant by road.
After calmly examining my boat, he said: "It is now half-past eleven
o'clock. Wife has dinner about ready. I'll hurry her up a little, and
while she is putting it on the table we will get the cart ready." The
cart was soon loaded with pine needles as a bed for the canoe. We lashed
her into a firm position with cords, and went in to dinner.
In a short time after, we were rattling over a level, wooded country
diversified here and there by a little farm. The shallow bay, the east
side of which was separated from the ocean by sandy hills, was bounded
by marshes. We drove close to the water and put the Maria Theresa once
more into her true element. A friendly shake of the hand as I paid the
conscientious man his charge of one dollar for his services, with many
thanks for his hospitality, for which he would accept nothing--and the
canoe was off, threading the narrow and very shallow channel-way of this
grassy-bottomed bay.
The tall tower of Fenwick's Island Light, located on the boundary line
of Delaware and Maryland, was now my landmark. It rises out of the low
land that forms a barrier against which the sea breaks. The people on
the coast pronounce Fenwick "Phoenix." Phoenix Island, they say, was
once a part of the mainland, but a woman, wishing to keep her cattle
from straying, gave a man a shirt for digging a narrow ditch between
Little and Great Assawaman bays. The tide ebbed and flowed so strongly
through this new channel-way that it was worn to more than a hundred
feet in width, and has at high tide a depth in places of from ten to
fifteen feet of water. The opening of this new thoroughfare so
diminished the flow of water through the Little Assawaman Inlet to the
sea, that it became closed. The water was almost fresh here, as the
nearest inlet which admits salt water at high tide is at Chincoteague
Island, some fifty miles distant.
Passing to the west of the light-house through this passage, I thought
of what a woman could do, and almost expected to hear from the rippling
waters the "Song of the Shirt," which would have been in this case a
much more cheerful one than Hood's. I now entered Great Assawaman Bay,
the waters of which lay like a mirror before me; and nearly five miles
away, to the southwestern end, the tall forests of the Isle of Wight
loomed up against the setting sun. Ducks rose in flocks from the quiet
waters as my canoe glided into their close vicinity. If I could have
taken less cargo, I should have carried a light gun; but this being
impossible, a pocket revolver was my only fire-arm: so the ducks and
other wild-fowl along my route had reason to hold the paper canoe in
grateful remembrance.
Upon reaching the shores of the Isle of Wight I entered the mouth of St.
Martin's River, which is, at its confluence with Isle of Wight Bay, more
than two miles wide. I did not then possess the fine Coast Chart No. 28,
or the General Chart of the Coast, No. 4, with the topography of the
land clearly delineated, and showing every man's farm-buildings, fields,
landings, &c., so plainly located as to make it easy for even a novice
to navigate these bays. Now, being chartless so far as these waters were
concerned, I peered about in the deepening twilight for my friend's
plantation buildings, which I knew were not far off; but the gloomy
forests of pine upon the upland opened not the desired vista I so
longed to find.
Crossing the wide river, I came upon a long point of salt-marsh, which I
hoped might be Keyser's Point, for I knew that to the west of this point
I should find Turval's Creek. While rowing along the marsh I came upon
two duck-shooters in their punt, but so enveloped were they in the mist
that it was impossible to do more than define their forms. I, however,
ventured a question as to my locality, when, to my utter astonishment,
there came back to me in clear accents my own name. Never before had it
sounded so sweet to my ears. It was the voice of my friend, who with a
companion was occupied in removing from the water the flock of decoys
which they had been guarding since sunrise. Joyful was the unexpected
meeting.
We rowed around Keyser's Point, and up Turval's Creek, a couple of miles
to the plantation landing. Here, upon the old estate in the little
family burial-ground, slept, "each in his narrow cell," the children of
four generations. Our conversation before the blazing wood-fire that
night related to the ground travelled over during the day, a course of
about thirty-five miles. Mr. Taylor's father mentioned that a friend,
during one week in the previous September, had taken upon his hook,
while fishing from the marshes of Rehoboth Bay, five hundred rock-fish,
some of which weighed twenty pounds. The oysters in Rehoboth and Indian
River bays had died out, probably from the decrease in the amount of
salt water now entering them. A delightful week was spent with my
friends at Winchester Plantation, when the falling of the mercury
warned me to hurry southward.
On Wednesday, November 25, I descended the plantation creek and rowed
out of St. Martin's River into the Bay. My course southward led me past
"the Hommack," an Indian mound of oyster-shells, which rises about seven
feet above the marsh on the west side of the entrance to Sinepuxent bay,
and where the mainland approaches to within eight hundred feet of the
beach. This point, which divides the Isle of Wight Bay from Sinepuxent,
is the terminus of the Wicomico and Pocomoke Railroad, which has been
extended from Berlin eastwardly seven miles. A short ferry conveys
the passengers across the water to a narrow island beach, which is
considered by Bayard Taylor, the author, the finest beach he has ever
visited. This new watering-place is called Ocean City; and my friend,
B. Jones Taylor, was treasurer of the company which was engaged in
making the much-desired improvements. The shallow bays in the vicinity
of Ocean City offer safe and pleasant sailing-grounds. The summer
fishing consists chiefly of white perch, striped bass, sheep's-head,
weak-fish, and drum. In the fall, blue-fish are caught. All of these,
with oysters, soft crabs, and diamond-backed terrapin, offer tempting
dishes to the epicure. This recently isolated shore is now within
direct railroad communication with Philadelphia and New York, and
can be reached in nine hours from the former, and in twelve hours
from the latter city.
From the Hommack to South Point is included the length of Sinepuxent
Bay, according to Coast Survey authority. From South Point to below
the middle of Chincoteague Island the bay is put down as "Assateague,"
though the oystermen do not call it by that name. The celebrated
oyster-beds of the people of Chincoteague commence about twenty miles
south of the Hommack. There are two kinds of oysters shipped from
Chincoteague Inlet to New York and other markets. One is the long
native plant; the other, that transplanted from Chesapeake Bay: this
bivalve is rounded in form, and the most prized of the two. The
average width of Sinepuxent was only a mile. When I turned westwardly
around South Point, and entered Assateague Bay, the watery expanse
widened, between the marshes on the west and the sandy-beach island
on the east, to over four miles.
The debouchure of Newport Creek is to the west of South Point. The
marshes here are very wide. I ascended it in the afternoon to visit
Dr. F. J. Purnell, whose attempts to introduce the pinnated grouse
and California partridges on his plantation had attracted the
attention of Mr. Charles Hallock, editor of "Forest and Stream";
and I had promised him, if possible, to investigate the matter.
This South Point of Sinepuxent Neck is a place of historical
interest, it being now asserted that it is the burial-place of
Edward Whalley, the regicide.
Early in 1875, Mr. Robert P. Robins found in a bundle of old family
documents a paper containing interesting statements written by his
great-great-grandfather, Thomas Robins, 3d, of South Point, Worcester
County, Maryland, and dated July 8, 1769. We gather from this reliable
source that Edward Whalley left Connecticut and arrived in Virginia in
16--, and was there met by a portion of his family. From Virginia he
travelled to the "province of Maryland, and settled first at ye mouth
of ye Pokemoke River; and finding yt too publick a place he came to
Sinepuxent, a neck of land open to ye Atlantic Ocean, where Colonel
Stephen was surveying and bought a tract of land from him and called it
Genezar; it contained two thousand two hundred acres, south end of
Sinepuxent; and made a settlement on ye southern extremity, and called
it South Point; to ye which place he brought his family about 1687, in
ye name of Edward Middleton. His own name he made not publick until
after this date, after ye revolution in England, (in ye year of our
Lord 1688,) when he let his name be seen in publick papers, and had
ye lands patented in his own name."
The writer of the above quotation was the great-grandson of Edward
Whalley (alias Edward Middleton), the celebrated regicide.
Four miles from South Point I struck the marshes which skirted Dr.
Purnell's large plantation, and pushing the canoe up a narrow branch of
the creek, I waded through the partially submerged herbage to the firm
ground, where the doctor was awaiting me. His house was close at hand,
within the hospitable walls of which I passed the night. Dr. Purnell has
an estate of one thousand five hundred acres, lying along the banks of
Newport Creek. Since the civil war it has been worked by tenants. Much
of it is woodland and salt-marshes. Five years before my visit, a
Philadelphian sent the doctor a few pairs of prairie-chickens, and a
covey of both the valley and the mountain partridge. I am now using
popular terms. The grouse were from a western state; the partridges had
been obtained from California. The partridges were kept caged for
several weeks and were then set at liberty. They soon disappeared in the
woods, with the exception of a single pair, which returned daily to the
kitchen-door of a farm tenant to obtain food. These two birds nested in
the garden close to the house, and reared a fine brood of young; but the
whole covey wandered away, and were afterwards heard from but once. They
had crossed to the opposite side of Newport Creek, and were probably
shot by gunners.
The prairie-chickens adapted themselves to their new home in a
satisfactory manner, and became very tame. Their nests, well filled with
eggs, were found along the rail-fences of the fields in the close
vicinity of the marshes, for which level tracts they seemed to have
strong attachment. They multiplied rapidly, and visited the cattle-pens
and barn-yards of the plantation.
The Maryland legislature passed a law to protect all grouse introduced
into the state; but a new danger threatened these unfortunate birds. A
crew of New Jersey terrapin-hunters entered Chincoteague Inlet, and
searched the ditches and little creeks of the salt-marshes for the
"diamond-backs." While thus engaged, the gentle grouse, feeding quietly
in the vicinity, attracted their attention, and they at once bagged most
of them. A tenant on the estate informed me that he had seen eighteen
birds in a cornfield a few days before--the remnant of the stock.
The Ruffled Grouse (_Bonasa umbellus_), so abundant in New Jersey, is
not a resident of the peninsula. Dr. Purnell's first experiment with the
Pinnated Grouse (_Cupidonia cupido_) has encouraged others to bring the
ruffled grouse to the eastern shore of Maryland. That unapproachable
songster of the south, the American Mocking-bird (_Mimus polyglottus_),
is becoming scarce in this region, from the inroads made by
bird-catchers who ship the young to northern cities. This delightful
chorister is only an accidental visitor in the New England states.
Indeed, as far south as Ocean County, New Jersey, I saw but one of these
birds, in a residence of nine years on my cranberry plantations; though
I have heard that their nests are occasionally found about Cape May, at
the extreme southern end of New Jersey.
My time being limited, I could enjoy the doctor's hospitality for but
one night. The next morning the whole family, with tenants both black
and white, assisted me to embark. By dusk I had crossed the division
line of two states, and had entered Virginia near the head of
Chincoteague Island, a locality of peculiar interest to the student of
American character. The ebb-tide had left but little water around the
rough pier abreast of the town, and heaps of oyster-shells rose from the
mud flats and threatened the safety of my canoe. I looked up through the
darkness to the light pier-head above me, and called for assistance. Two
men leaned over to inquire, "What's the row now, stranger?" To which I
replied, "I wish to land a light boat on your pier; and as it is made of
paper, it should be carefully handled." For a moment the oystermen
observed a silence, and then, without one word of explanation,
disappeared. I heard their heavy boots tramping up the quay towards the
tavern. Soon a low murmur arose on the night air, then hoarse shouts,
and there came thundering down the wharf an army of men and boys. "Pass
her up, stranger!" they cried. "Here, give us your bow and starn
painters, and jest step overboard yourself, and we'll hist her up." Some
of the motley crew caught me by the shoulders, others "histed away," and
the canoe and its captain were laid roughly upon the ground.
There was a rush to _feel_ of the paper shell. Many were convinced
that there was no humbug about it; so, with a great shout, some of the
men tossed it upon their shoulders, while the rest seized upon the
miscellaneous cargo, and a rush was made for the hotel, leaving me to
follow at discretion and alone. The procession burst open the doors
of the tavern, and poured through the entrance to a court-yard, where
they laid the boat upon a long table under a shed, and thought they
had earned "drinks." This was the spontaneous way in which the
Chincoteague people welcomed me. "If you don't drink, stranger, up
your way, what on airth keeps your buddies and soulds together?"
queried a tall oysterman. A lady had kindly presented me with a peck
of fine apples that very morning; so, in lieu of "drinks," I
distributed the fruit among them. They joked and questioned me, and
all were merry save one bilious-looking individual, not dressed, like
the others, in an oysterman's garb, but wearing, to use a term of the
place, "store clothes."
After the crowd had settled in the bar-room, at cards, &c., this
doubting Thomas remained beside the boat, carefully examining her. Soon
he was scraping her hull below the gunwale, where the muddy water of the
bay had left a thin coat of sediment which was now dry. The man's
countenance lighted up as he pulled the bartender aside and said, "Look
ahere; didn't I tell you that boat looked as if she was made to carry on
a deck of a vessel, and to be a-shoved off into the water at night jest
abreast of a town to make fools of folks, and git them to believe that
that fellow had a-rowed _all_ the way ahere? Now see, here is _dust, dry
dust_, on her hull. She ahain't ben in the water mor'n ten minutes, I
sware." It required but a moment's investigation of my Chincoteague
audience to discover that the dust was mud from the tide, and the
doubter brought down the ridicule of his more discriminating neighbors
upon him, and slunk away amid their jeers.
Of all this community of watermen but one could be found that night who
had threaded the interior watercourses as far as Cape Charles, and he
was the youngest of the lot. Taking out my note-book, I jotted down his
amusing directions. "Look out for Cat Creek below Four Mouths," he said;
"you'll catch it round there." "Yes," broke in several voices, "Cat
Creek's an awful place unless you run through on a full ebb-tide. Oyster
boats always has a time a-shoving through Cat Creek," &c.
After the council with my Chincoteague friends had ended, the route to
be travelled the next day was in my mental vision "as clear as mud." The
inhabitants of this island are not all oystermen, for many find
occupation and profit in raising ponies upon the beach of Assateague,
where the wild, coarse grass furnishes them a livelihood. These hardy
little animals are called "Marsh Tackies," and are found at intervals
along the beaches down to the sea-islands of the Carolinas. They hold at
Chincoteague an annual fair, to which all the "pony-penners," as they
are called, bring their surplus animals to sell. The average price is
about ninety dollars for a good beast, though some have sold for two
hundred and fifty dollars. All these horses are sold in a semi-wild and
unbroken state.
The following morning Mr. J. L. Caulk, ex-collector of the oyster port,
and about fifty persons, escorted me to the landing, and sent me away
with a hearty "Good luck to ye."
It was three miles and three quarters to the southern end of the island,
which has an inlet from the ocean upon each side of that end--the
northern one being Assateague, the southern one Chincoteague Inlet.
Fortunately, I crossed the latter in smooth water to Ballast Narrows in
the marshes, and soon reached Four Mouths, where I found _five_ mouths
of thoroughfares, and became perplexed, for had not the pilots of
Chincoteague called this interesting display of mouths "Four Mouths"? I
clung to the authority of local knowledge, however, and was soon in a
labyrinth of creeks which ended in the marshes near the beach.
Returning over the course, I once more faced the four, or _five_ mouths
rather, and taking a new departure by entering the next mouth to the one
I had so unsatisfactorily explored, soon entered Rogue's Bay, across
which could be seen the entrance to Cat Creek, where I was to experience
the difficulties predicted by my Chincoteague friends. Cat Creek
furnished at half tide sufficient water for my canoe, and not the
slightest difficulty was experienced in getting through it. The
oystermen had in their minds their own sloop-rigged oyster-boats when
they discoursed to me about the hard passage of Cat Creek. They had not
considered the fact that my craft drew only five inches of water.
Cat Creek took me quite down to the beach, where, through an inlet, the
dark-blue ocean, sparkling in its white caps, came pleasantly into view.
Another inlet was to be crossed, and again I was favored with smooth
water. This was Assawaman Inlet, which divided the beach into two
islands--Wallops on the north, and Assawaman on the south.
It seemed a singular fact that the two Assawaman bays are forty-five
miles to the north of an inlet of the same name. In following the creeks
through the marshes between Assawaman Island and the mainland, I crossed
another shoal bay, and another inlet opened in the beach, through which
the ocean was again seen. This last was Gargathy Inlet. Before reaching
it, as night was coming on, I turned up a thoroughfare and rowed some
distance to the mainland, where I found lodgings with a hospitable
farmer, Mr. Martin R. Kelly. At daybreak I crossed Gargathy Inlet.
It was now Saturday, November 28; and being encouraged by the successful
crossing of the inlets in my tiny craft, I pushed on to try the less
inviting one at the end of Matomkin Island. Fine weather favored me, and
I pushed across the strong tide that swept through this inlet without
shipping a sea. Assawaman and Gargathy are constantly shifting their
channels. At times there will be six feet of water, and again they will
shoal to two feet. Matomkin, also, is not to be relied on. Every
northeaster will shift a buoy placed in the channels of these three
inlets, so they are not buoyed.
Watchapreague Inlet, to the south of the three last named, is less
changeable in character, and is also a much more dangerous inlet to
cross in rough weather. From Matomkin Inlet the interior thoroughfares
were followed inside of Cedar Island, when darkness forced me to seek
shelter with Captain William F. Burton, whose comfortable home was on
the shore of the mainland, about five miles from Watchapreague Inlet.
Here I was kindly invited to spend Sunday. Captain Burton told me much
of interest, and among other things mentioned the fact that during one
August, a few years before my visit, a large lobster was taken on a
fish-hook in Watchapreague Inlet, and that a smaller one was captured in
the same manner during the summer of 1874.
Monday was a gusty day. My canoe scraped its keel upon the shoals as I
dodged the broken oyster reefs, called here "oyster rocks," while on
the passage down to Watchapreague Inlet. The tide was very low, but the
water deepened as the beach was approached. A northeaster was blowing
freshly, and I was looking for a lee under the beach, when suddenly the
canoe shot around a sandy point, and was tugging for life in the rough
waters of the inlet. The tide was running in from the sea with the force
of a rapid, and the short, quick puffs of wind tossed the waves wildly.
It was useless to attempt to turn the canoe back to the beach in such
rough water, but, intent on keeping the boat above the caps, I gave her
all the momentum that muscular power could exert, as she was headed for
the southern point of the beach, across the dangerous inlet.
Though it was only half a mile across, the passage of Watchapreague
taxed me severely. Waves washed over my canoe, but the gallant little
craft after each rebuff rose like a bird to the surface of the water,
answering the slightest touch of my oar better than the best-trained
steed. After entering the south-side swash, the wind struck me on the
back, and seas came tumbling over and around the boat, fairly forcing
me on to the beach. As we flew along, the tumultuous waters made my
head swim; so, to prevent mental confusion, I kept my eyes only upon
the oars, which, strange to say, never betrayed me into a false stroke.
As a heavy blast beat down the raging sea for a moment, I looked over
my shoulder and beheld the low, sandy dunes of the southern shore of
the inlet close at hand, and with a severe jolt the canoe grounded
high on the strand. I leaped out and drew my precious craft away from
the tide, breathing a prayer of thankfulness for my escape from
danger, and mentally vowing that the canoe should cross all other
treacherous inlets in a fisherman's sloop. I went into camp in a
hollow of the beach, where the sand-hills protected me from the
piercing wind. All that afternoon I watched from my burrow in the
ground the raging of the elements, and towards evening was pleased
to note a general subsidence of wind and sea.
The canoe was again put into the water and the thoroughfare followed
southward for a mile or two, when the short day ended, leaving me
beside a marshy island, which was fringed with an oyster-bed of
sharp-beaked bivalves. Stepping overboard in the mud and water, the
oars and paddle were laid upon the shell reef to protect the canoe,
which was dragged on to the marsh. It grew colder as the wind died
out. The marsh was wet, and no fire-wood could be found. The canvas
cover was removed, the cargo was piled up on a platform of oars and
shells to secure it from the next tide, and then I slowly and
laboriously packed myself away in the narrow shell for the night. The
canvas deck-cover was buttoned in its place, a rubber blanket covered
the cockpit, and I tried to sleep and dream that I was not a sardine,
nor securely confined in some inhospitable vault. It was impossible to
turn over without unbuttoning one side of the deck-cover and going
through contortions that would have done credit to a first-class
acrobat. For the first time in my life I found it necessary to get
_out_ of bed in order to turn over _in_ it.
At midnight, mallards (_Anas boschas_) came close to the marsh. The soft
_whagh_ of the drake, which is not in this species blessed with the loud
quack of the female bird, sufficiently established the identity of the
duck. Then muskrats, and the oyster-eating coon, came round, no doubt
scenting my provisions. Brisk raps from my knuckles on the inside shell
of the canoe astonished these animals and aroused their curiosity, for
they annoyed me until daybreak.
When I emerged from my narrow bed, the frosty air struck my cheeks, and
the cold, wet marsh chilled my feet. It was the delay at Watchapreague
Inlet that had lodged me on this inhospitable marsh; so, trying to
exercise my poor stock of patience, I completed my toilet, shaking in my
wet shoes. The icy water, into which I stepped ankle-deep in order to
launch my canoe, reminded me that this wintry morning was in fact the
first day of December, and that stormy Hatteras, south of which was to
be found a milder climate, was still a long way off.
The brisk row along Paramore's Island (called Palmer's by the natives)
to the wide, bay-like entrance of Little Machipongo Inlet, restored
warmth to my benumbed limbs. This wide doorway of the ocean permitted me
to cross its west portal in peace, for the day was calm. From Little to
Great Machipongo Inlet the beach is called Hog Island. The inside
thoroughfare is bounded on the west by Rogue's Island, out of the flats
of which rose a solitary house. At the southern end of Hog Island there
is a small store on a creek, and near the beach a light-house, while a
little inland is located, within a forest of pines, a small settlement.
At noon, Great Machipongo Inlet was crossed without danger, and Cobb's
Island was skirted several miles to Sand Shoal Inlet, near which the
hotel of the three Cobb brothers rose cheerfully out of the dreary waste
of sands and marshes. The father of the present proprietors came to this
island more than thirty years ago, and took possession of this domain,
which had been thrown up by the action of the ocean's waves. He refused
an offer of one hundred thousand dollars for the island. The locality is
one of the best on this coast for wild-fowl shooting. Sand Shoal Inlet,
at the southern end of Cobb's Island, has a depth of twelve feet of
water on its bar at low tide.
In company with the regular row-boat ferry I crossed, the next day, the
broad bay to the mainland eight miles distant, where the canoe was put
upon a cart and taken across the peninsula five miles to Cherrystone,
the only point near Cape Charles at which a Norfolk steamer stopped for
passengers. It was fully forty miles across Chesapeake Bay from
Cherrystone Landing to Norfolk, and it was imperative to make the
portage from this place instead of from Cape Charles, which, though more
than fifteen miles further south, and nearer to my starting-point on the
other side, did not possess facilities for transportation. The slow
one-horse conveyance arrived at Cherrystone half an hour _after_ the
steamer N. P. Banks had left the landing, though I heard that the
kind-hearted captain, being told I was coming, waited and whistled for
me till his patience was exhausted.
The only house at the head of the pier was owned by Mr. J. P. Powers,
and fortunately offered hotel accommodations. Here I remained until the
next trip of the boat, December 4. Arriving in Norfolk at dusk of the
same day, I stored my canoe in the warehouse of the Old Dominion
Steamship Company, and quietly retired to an hotel which promised an
early meal in the morning, congratulating myself the while that I had
avoided the usual show of curiosity tendered to canoeists at city piers,
and above all had escaped the inevitable reporter. Alas! my thankfulness
came too soon; for when about to retire, my name was called, and a
veritable reporter from the Norfolk Landmark cut off my retreat.
"Only a few words," he pleadingly whispered. "I've been hunting for you
all over the city since seven o'clock, and it is near midnight now."
He gently took my arm and politely furnished me with a chair. Then
placing his own directly before me, he insinuatingly worked upon me
until he derived a knowledge of the log of the Paper Canoe, when leaning
back in his chair he leisurely surveyed me and exclaimed:
"Mr. Bishop, you are a man of _snap_. We like men of snap; we
admire men of snap; in fact, I may say we _cotton_ to men of
snap, and I am proud to make your acquaintance. Now if you
will stop over a day we will have the whole city out to see
your boat."
This _kind_ offer I firmly refused, and we were about to part, when he
said in a softly rebuking manner:
"You thought, Mr. Bishop, you would give us the slip--did you
not? I assure you that would be quite impossible. Eternal
Vigilance is our motto. No, you could not escape us. Good
evening, sir, and the 'Landmark's' welcome to you."
Six hours later, as I entered the restaurant of the hotel with my eyes
half open, a newsboy bawled out in the darkness: "'Ere's the 'Landmark.'
Full account of the Paper Canoe," &c. And before the sun was up I had
read a column and a half of "The Arrival of the Solitary Voyager in
Norfolk." So much for the zeal of Mr. Perkins of the "Landmark," a
worthy example of American newspaper enterprise. Dreading further
attentions, I now prepared to beat a hasty retreat from the city.
[Illustration: DELAWARE WHIPPING-POST AND PILLORY.]