Living and Reliving History

"I love Sunday morning driving," said Andy, as we set out from Richmond heading north. "People are all still sleeping, and those on the road are usually not in a terrible hurry." But already a pickup truck was pulled over. The cop handed the driver a ticket. "Virginia was always tough on speeders, but it's Maryland that is noted now as the speed trap," he added.
Temperatures at Chickahominy were brisk, but we walked out to the bluff in sweatshirts. Here Robert E. Lee waited for the arrival of Stonewall Jackson. Then with 45,000 troops he initiated his Seven Days' Battle, an offensive against the Union under McClellan, begun on June 26, 1862. McClellan retreated 25 miles from Richmond, the Confederate capital that was fortified with some of the best defended earthen forts in the world. The whole city was encircled with earthwork protection. The interpretive sign said if McClellan had won here, the Union would have been preserved without the abolition of slavery and the war would have been short. No telling how long it would have lasted, but U.S. history class would tell a very different story.

Through Richmond and Westmorland counties, farms stretched, gently rolling. "This is lumber area too," said Andy, as we passed a huge yard, "but their two-by-fours are warping." A bank thermometer in Warsaw read 42 degrees. "I didn't realize it was so rural this close to the coast and so near Washington, D.C.," he added. Route #3, a two lane country road, followed the terrain, gently rolling up and down and lined on both sides by fields of green clover, pine woods, beige corn stubble and brown grass.

Ranger Phillip at the George Washing-ton Birthplace said, "This is what they thought he would have lived in his first three years and where he was born on February 22, 1732. It is an authentic unauthentic replica." Footings were mistaken for the house location in 1931, when the replica was started." The real house burned to the ground on Christmas Day in 1779, and the real foundation was not discovered until 1936. Even then no one identified those footings as Washington's actual birthplace until recently.

"So what building was on the footings of the replica?" I asked him.

"We don't really know," he explained, "but the best guess is a warehouse for all the tobacco before it was shipped out. Washington's parents had a thriving tobacco plantation. It could also have housed some slaves."
Today the replica unauthentic house, colonial kitchen, formal gardens and outbuildings serve as a working farm from the mid-1700's.
Tobacco provided the cash crop for the family in earlier days of the 1700's. Plantation farms, self-sustaining in nature, grew products with the service of enslaved workers, loaded raw materials directly onto ships in the Potomac River, and imported finished goods from England. The tobacco required constant attention and such a labor-intensive operation in a sparsely populated colony depended on slaves--20 to 25 at Popes Creek--and meant only about 15 acres were devoted to the cash crop.

We watched the blacksmith forging a bar of steel and the sheep wandering freely. Otherwise, the plantation was quiet on this chilly February morning. 

Washington, a farmer at heart, absorbed the ideals and values of the Virginia tidewater culture--closeness to the natural world and lifelong attachment to the land; as well as ruling class superiority, that perpetuated itself through intermarriage and inheritance; and an emphasis on public service through positions of authority. A modest inheritance from his father, experience as a surveyor when his mother forbade a career in the British Navy, and marriage to Martha Custis, widow of a wealthy planter, carried Washington into tidewater aristocracy social status.

"He had no children," said Ranger Phillip. "Some say that smallpox, contracted the only time he ever left the country on a trip to Barbados, rendered him sterile. It's possible, even probable, since Custis had children from her first marriage. Here the father of our country couldn't be a father."

"But his solid judgment, imposing stature, dedication to country and high ideals were anything but myth," according to the pamphlet.

Victorious Confederates celebrated after the Battle of Fredericksburg, December 11-13, 1862. With the town devastated, the Union army retreated in humiliation.
"We recommend that you don't do more than one or two battlefields a day," said the guide at the Fredericksburg Visitor Center. "It's just too confusing and overwhelming to do more than that."

Parked at the Visitor Center lot, we walked the Sunken Road, past the Innis House to Marye's Heights. Although owners had re-sided the clapboards, the house inside still showed all the bullet holes on dividing walls. We peaked through windows and stood in Sunken Road beside the stone wall. We looked out over Fredericksburg as Confederate soldiers had done, awaiting futile Union charges over fields below. What a terrible waste! Union dead numbered 7,500, and soldiers were expendable. After the three-day battle, Lee said "It is well that war is so terrible--we should grow too fond of it."
The Battlefield Tour led us by car to Lee's Hill, where Lee conferred with General James Longstreet about battle plans. Here Lee nearly died twice, once when a 32-pound parrott cannon exploded, sending debris flying, and once when a Union shell from Stratford Heights landed next to him in the embankment and failed to explode.

Union forces under McClellan shelled Howison Hill from their vantage point on Stratford Heights. Confederates responded with their one remaining 30-pound gun. Shells reached two miles with a round about every five minutes. It kept both sides busy while a couple miles away Union General George C. Meade's forces crossed Slaughter Penn Farm and broke through Jackson's line. Union cannon fire from the distance had killed at least 100 horses here. "...bloated, on their backs, legs straight up in the air," said the sign. The spot is sometimes called Dead Horse Hill.
Nearby, the Hamilton Crossing became a huge Confederate rail depot when the line through Fredericksburg was cut. At war's end, the rail business returned to Fredericksburg. As we stood nearby, a long train lumbered by. It seemed fitting, but Hamilton Crossing is barely a gap in the trees.

Not far from Prospect Hill, we saw the spot where Colonel Maxcy Gregg mistook Union soldiers for Confederate pickets. The lawyer and ardent secessionist, shot in the spine by the Union soldiers, died two days later.

Fredericksburg proved Lee's good use of frontal and crossfire defense. His forces had two days notice to prepare where attacks were most likely to occur based on terrain. With time on their side, they cut trees for angling the big guns and calculated correct settings for maximum damage. Chalk one up for Lee.
By late afternoon when we headed to Chancellorsville, I already felt tired. In several places signs told of soldier fatigue, sick of marching back and forth and of all the bloodshed. That's so alien to today's peaceful landscape of wide brown fields and mature woodlands of oak and hornbeam. In the spring of 1863, Chancellorsville was actually an inn at a crossroads, not a town, but it became the site of Lee's greatest victory and at the same time his greatest loss.
Andy and I walked around the ruins of the Chancellor house site after watching the 22-minute film at the Visitor Center. Only brick foundation remains. Ironically, the mother and five daughters, owners of the inn, entertained rebel soldiers prior to the battle and turned a cold shoulder on Union soldiers a short time later. When Confederate artillery set the property on fire, it was those same Union troops who saved the family. Slaves had escaped earlier, leaving one little girl. Her fate was never recorded, but historians assume Union soldiers, not the Chancellors, saved her life. Here, 17,500 died on May 3, 1863, one every second for five hours.

The driving tour took us past open fields where Lafayette McLaws' Confederates kept Union forces busy while Jackson marched around Hooker to attack the flank. The drive also marked the spot where Lee and Jackson bivouacked to plan the battle. As Jackson marched his forces around the end of Hooker's line to attack from the rear, he passed the Catharine Furnace Iron Foundry. What remains today, the base of the furnace stack, created desolation by polluting the air and land. Today forest surrounds the rim. Only the damaged chimney remains. At Hazel Grove Confederate artillery blasted Union artillery at Fairview in a futile power duel for five hours.

Little did Lee know that while Jackson circled Hooker, his own men mistook him for enemy. Shot in his hand and arm, Jackson contracted pneumonia and died five days later.

Lee's greatest victory proved an incalculable loss. He couldn't replace Stonewall Jackson. By the time we finished the walk, it was nearly dark, but Little Red waited patiently. I can't begin to imagine the horror of being a Civil War soldier with limited food, no shelter and shells exploding day and night.

"I know war is hell," said Andy, "but what bothers me the most is how little life is valued. People are expendable, and it hasn't changed all that much."

Marching to Battlefields

This morning demanded some scheduled maintenance chores, basic utility time to attend to Little Red for an oil change, re-track our GPS and locate a gas station. Little Red was reading a quarter tank.
We arrived at Petersburg Battlefield in time for the 10:30 a.m. showing of a 17-minute video about the fall of Petersburg in 1865. Grant believed "the key to taking Richmond, capital of the Confederacy, is Petersburg." Eight or ten children in the audience watched with their parents. "This is the first time in months that we have seen kids in any number," I told Andy. "Must be the weekend of winter break since so many schools needed to make up snow days."
Confederates defended Petersburg with a line of earthworks ten miles long and dominated by 55 gun batteries, and General Ulysses S. Grant was not quick to charge. He had not forgotten the terrible loss at the Battle of Cold Harbor a couple years before.

The Dimmock Line Confederate defenses around Petersburg fell in a Union attack in June, 1864. Union soldiers broke through one and a half miles of Confederate defensive earthworks designed and constructed months before. Had they pursued the offensive, the Union troops could have taken Petersburg, once they had captured Battery 5 in the single day. Instead, they hesitated, remembering the massacre at Cold Harbor.
Below the crest was the Dictator, a mortar with 225-pound shells that could shoot two miles. Even though the huge Dictator by itself inflicted a minimal amount of damage, mortars proved the most effective weapons. They rained down damage indiscriminately day and night during the siege. Union troops dug in, and the siege lasted nine months. Boredom of trench warfare lured soldiers out at night to watch the amazing light shows of exploding shells. On the front they built small log cabins to sleep four and spent their time in open-air pavilions writing letters and playing cards.

At Union stronghold Fort Stedman outside Petersburg, Grant dug in to confront the Confederates. Lee, in a last desperate attempt, attacked at 4:30 a.m. on March 25, 1865, to break the tightening noose on his supply lines. We walked into the earthen fort, which initially fell to Lee. When the Union retook Fort Stedman later in the morning, Lee's final threat was squelched. Within a week Petersburg would fall, Lee would surrender the Richmond capital and his army would be forced to surrender at Appomattox.

We hiked part of the Colquitt Salient Trail. It was closed off for nesting eagles. A sign warned of fines in excess of $350,000.00 and three and a half years in prison for violators. Two joggers ran past us down the trail. I guess they didn't read the sign. "I'm all for eagles," I told Andy.

He had already headed the other direction. "I'm all for letting eagles nest in peace," he said.
Fort Stedman, the site of an offensive on July 18, 1864, marked the greatest regimental loss in a single action. A regiment from Maine attacked the Confederate earthworks about 300 yards northeast. It was suicide. Standing in the lower area at the memorial stone, we could understand the ridiculous loss. No one backed up the 900 Maine soldiers when they were told to attack, and 604 were killed. "It sounds like another Pickett's charge," said Andy.

At the Crater, Union troops, miners by profession, had dug an underground trench 511 feet long from Union picket lines underneath the Confederate position. The side magazines, packed with 8,000 pounds of powder, were exploded early in the morning on July 30, 1864. The initial blast sent body parts, dirt and provisions flying. It killed 278 outright and should have ended the war. But Union soldiers hesitated, some just staring from the edge of the blast crater. A Confederate counter around 9:00 a.m. held the 150-foot breach, and by afternoon the Confederates regained their control. So the war continued almost nine more months.

At Fort Wadsworth Union soldiers took control of the Weldon Railroad on August 21. We followed the Battlefield Tour signs south of the city. Planted fields had turned bright green. "I think it's clover," said Andy. "The farmer will plow it under for nitrogen."

In a 40-m.p.h. wind we walked around Fort Fisher. Mid-60 degree temperatures allowed for a jacketless stroll. "Look at the size of this!" exclaimed Andy. Larger than a city block squared, Fort Fisher, a Union stronghold, was the largest earthen fortification on the Petersburg front. Union troops had already secured the railroad lines, one by one, leading into Petersburg, the supply line to Confederate capital Richmond, about 25 miles to the north. When a single shot from Fort Fisher on April 2, 1865, signaled the final bombardment of Petersburg, Lee had already slipped away to Richmond and warned Confederate President Jefferson Davis to flee the city. Within days he surrendered at Appomattox Court House. The moment Petersburg fell, Lee gave up. Grant was right in assessing its importance.
It was easy to see why Grant changed his attack strategy to conquer Richmond after the Battle of Dewry's Bluff on May 15, 1862. The Battleship U.S.S. Galena and the ironclad Monitor sailed up the James River to within range of the Confederate gun placement on Dewry's Bluff. "Look at how high we are," said Andy, after we hiked to the fort. Fifteen Confederates were killed, but the Galena took so many shells it "looked like it had smallpox" and 27 Union sailors were killed before the Navy pulled back. They didn't try again to take Richmond until 1865, and that was not via direct assault but by siege through the supply center at Petersburg. Grant had learned a painful lesson.
Tredegar Iron Works in downtown Richmond on the James River operated into the 1980's. Today the main building is a Visitor Center for the Civil War Battlefields. In the 1800's the huge industrial complex produced railroad spikes. Along with Boy Scout troops, we watched the movie about the fall of Richmond.

On June 26, 1862, General Robert E. Lee tested the strength of Union defenses in an offensive strike at Beaver Dam Creek. Lee's untested and inexperienced troops moved erratically and were cut down by Union defenses. None of them crossed the creek, and Union soldiers held Cold Spring Road. Cautious, General McClellan never followed retreating Confederates after Lee lost 1,500 men. Instead, he withdrew to Cold Harbor.
We walked across the bridge of a swampy creek. "That's the original Cold Spring Road," said Andy, pointing to the wide dirt path, "and up there is where the Union soldiers lay in wait for their enemy."
At Gaines Mill we walked the trail down to Boatswain Creek. Here, on June 27, 1862, Confederate infantry repeatedly assaulted the fortified Union line along the creek in the valley. It was the heaviest fighting of the Seven Days' Battles with 15,000 casualties--9,000 Confederates and 6,000 Union dead. Texas and Georgia troops broke through the Union line, so Lee earned a Confederate victory, and McClellan retreated toward the James River, fearing a repeat of Cold Harbor three weeks before.
Futility and despair marked a Union army repulsed at Cold Harbor on June 2, 1862. Grant lost 4,000 in the morning and another 2,000 in the afternoon when he ordered the head-on assault. He said later it was a terrible mistake to try charging well-selected, well-manned entrenchments that were supported by artillery. Today trees cover the rolling hills and earthworks. Then the open field attack meant suicide. The Battle of Cold Harbor changed the war in the east from a war of maneuver to a war of siege. And that was Grant's eventual and ultimate key to victory.

Archaeology Unearths the Stories

"It's spring now," said Andy, as he took off his sweatshirt at noon. All morning we had walked Yorktown Battlefield without jackets, but the sun warmed enough for removal of yet another layer. By 1:00 p.m. we noticed bugs. Little black flies flew in tight swarms around our heads at the Surrender Field and the Moore House. Andy was right. Spring has arrived in Virginia. Another day or two in the high 60's and the grass would green.

Yorktown provided a fascinating glimpse into the past. A 16-minute film Siege of Yorktown gave us an overview, and a half hour in the museum showed us some specifics of what was really the final battle of the Revolutionary War. Pitched in one display in controlled temperature environment were General George Washington's oval-shaped dining tent with china and silver service and his rectangular sleeping tent with privacy flaps.

Before the ranger-guided program, we drove along the British portion of the seven-mile self-guided Battlefield Tour. Here, in May of 1781, British General Charles Lord Cornwallis still had hopes of subjugating the South after battles in the North and in North Carolina had reached stalemate. He moved his forces to Virginia, believing that if he could control Virginia, the valuable tobacco and cotton states to the south would readily fall in line and return to British allegiance. In June, after receiving orders from New York from his superior Sir Henry Clinton to establish a naval base around Chesapeake Bay, Cornwallis chose the port of Yorktown.

By August he had moved his army and fortified the town and Gloucester Point across the wide York River. Later, during our ranger-guided walk, Ranger Robbie explained that Cornwallis chose the site with advice from his engineers, because the York River, 85-90 feet deep in one channel, offered a deep-water port; two creeks on the York side gave him natural defense; the land on the river offered higher ground for defense; Chesapeake Bay meant easy access to supplies and reinforcements via the Atlantic Ocean; and Gloucester on the opposite shore offered support and potential retreat. He set aside boats for that possibility.
Andy and I stopped at the outer defensive earthworks, a line of dirt mounds built by the British connecting the two creeks on the north and south, and the second line of defensive earthworks, some scattered mounds closer to the main fortress area.

During our 10:00 a.m. tour, Ranger Robbie pointed out strategic advantages of the site, but Cornwallis never counted on the large French fleet that sailed up from the West Indies and blockaded the mouth of Chesapeake Bay, cutting off his supplies and potential escape by sea.

At the same time General George Washington moved his forces from near New York City and a French army under the Comte de Rochambeau from Rhode Island toward Virginia to attack Cornwallis by land. About 17,000 strong, they gathered at Williamsburg, moved toward the garrison of 8,300 British on September 28, finished digging siege lines on October 6 and commenced bombardment by October 9.

Ranger Robbie walked us to Redoubts 9 and 10. The Colonists stormed Redoubt 10 in less than 30 minutes, less time than it took the French professional soldiers to conquer Redoubt 9, but both were crucial to complete a second siege line to bring Allied artillery to within point blank range. "It was those big siege guns that made the difference in the battle," she said. That morning October 17, after nine days of round-the-clock bombardment, Cornwallis requested a cease fire to parley surrender terms. He had tried to escape across the York River, but a storm had scattered or destroyed all but four of the boats he had harbored. He had no escape.

Ranger Robbie pointed to the 32-pound artillery cannon. "That made all the difference. The English only had 12-pound guns," she said. Then she pointed across the field. "That break between the creeks was the weakest point for the English, but they had extensive earthworks to defend themselves. It's an amazing story and it changed the course of world history."

We drove the rest of the Battlefield Tour road with pullouts for different encampment sites and ended at the Moore House where four representatives hammered out surrender terms on October 18, 1781: British commissioners Lt. Col. Thomas Dudas and Maj. Alexander Ross and Allied officers Lt. Col. John Laurens for the Americans and Second Col. Viscomte de Noailles, brother-in-law of Marquis de Lafayette for the French. A young volunteer with a French accent told us the parley actually lasted 14 hours and Cornwallis did not get his way.

"Revenge?" I asked Ranger Robbie.

"No, I don't think so. It was Washington's statement to Cornwallis that we were equals in the eyes of the world." But the pamphlet suggested otherwise.
Andy and I read more about it at the Surrender Field, an agreed upon neutral site where all surviving British soldiers relinquished their weapons. Later, they were marched to prison camps in Fort Frederick, Maryland, and Winchester, Virginia. That afternoon of October 19, the defeated British marched a mile from Yorktown through shoulder-to-shoulder columns on both sides of the road: American soldiers and citizens on one side and French soldiers on the other, a horrendous humiliation for the professional British who considered themselves the best army in the world. Cornwallis had requested the honors of war. Washington had answered, "The same honors will be granted to the surrendering army as granted to the garrison of Charlestown." The Articles of Capitulation demanded, "march out... with shouldered arms, colors cased, and drums beating a British or German march." That meant no regiment flags and no proud military music. For Cornwallis, it was humiliation. He stayed in his tent "ill" and sent a substitute, his British pride obliterated.

Shirtless bathers lined the beach pullouts along the James River, as we followed detour signs and paused at one-lane road construction stops on Colonial Parkway on the way to Jamestown.

"They are college kids," said Andy, as if that explained their appearance.

"They are sun bathers," I answered, "on the Virginia coast in February." And some still lolled on the sand at 6:00 p.m. when we headed back to town. No doubt about it, spring has sprung.
Our country's history began in Jamestown more than 400 years ago. Only 23 miles away at Yorktown, that first 174 years of hope, discovery, settlement, struggle, suffering, war, growth and development ended. How ironic that so much happened in so little space!

Scientists and historians long believed that the remains of Jamestown, the first permanent English settlement in North America, had washed into the James River years ago. Only in the past few years did archaeologists discover the 1607 James Fort site buried at the river's edge. Three cultures--British, American Indian and African--joined in the frontier colony and have been unearthed and displayed in the Archaearium of artifact discoveries.

Volunteers manned the fort site and told how depressions in the ground had been clues to the existence of collapsed buildings. "Unearthing will continue in April," said one volunteer, "when the ground dries. Otherwise it's kept covered."

Andy and I had learned in school that John Smith ordered, "No work, No food." But the Archaearium explained that many of those who came to Jamestown were second and third English sons. They inherited nothing under the laws of primogeniture so had skills of the middle class. And for some gentlemen, their job was protection of the colony. Maybe history has warped the story somewhat.

A cross marked the site of the first Anglican service and iron crosses marked burial sites of those who had died here in 1607. Life was not easy on a wilderness frontier. We read fascinating stories of discovery in the Archaearium, including information about exhumed bodies that revealed rampant disease and malnutrition.

The bones of one young man, 18-20 years old when he died as evidenced by his wisdom teeth, showed he was shot in the leg at close range. The musket ball with a misshapen cut in it had created a dirty wound. And dissension plagued the early colony of 104 men and boys. Had it been murder during a military muster or could it have been a hunting accident? Death was common in that first year. But colonists kept coming and women shipped across the Atlantic to pacify the men. Each display made me want to discover more. I should have been an archaeologist.

We walked along the river to the ruins of the town. As Jamestown grew, it expanded well beyond the fort site and survived for a couple hundred years. Only a few ruins remained. Most have been covered--buried under dirt for preservation.

Finally we drove around Pitch and Tar Swamp, all lowland tidal marsh where Passmore Creek penetrates the land from the James River. "It's brackish water," explained one volunteer to a visitor. "That means it is somewhat salty, but not like the ocean."

Then I remembered what I had read about the wells in early Jamestown. Those dug too deep hit salt water; those dug too shallow hit sewage; only a few dug just right found fresh water. This beautiful land showed the deadly hazards of settlement. The early colonists chose the site for friendly Indians so they could barter for food and spend their time looking for gems. It had easy accessibility to the ocean, and they had been told by the sponsoring company to choose a defensible position upriver that the Spanish wouldn't notice. Hence, this place called Jamestown on a river that had only one deep channel far out toward the opposite bank. But even I would know better than to settle in a marsh.

Bugged

"It's 47 degrees in New York City this morning," said Andy. "That's warmer than it is here." The clouds disappeared as we drove from Nags Head to Kitty Hawk and then north. A brilliant sun warmed the land. "When we came through here on vacation for two days in 1977, this was all marsh." With hardly a plot of land vacant now, Route #158 reminds me of Boston Post Road, wall-to-wall "sell something" and a solid line of three-story houses next to the water.
We took Route #12 north toward Currituck Beach Lighthouse in Corolla. Homes along the way begged For Sale. "I'm guessing many of these have huge mortgages," said Andy.
"Why do you say that?" I asked, not following his line of reasoning. "Because so many are huge, raised beach-style houses away from town. These are the kinds of homes people buy for investment--put a little down intending to sell at a profit after a year or two.
Then the housing market collapsed and people lost their jobs. They can't afford the mortgages, but so many are for sale that it will take years to rebound. And this time of year should bring the sellers a peak price. You know, going into the summer, but it's a buyers' market, a glut of houses for sale." It made sense, but it was sad to see so many beautiful homes for sale in so beautiful a place.
We passed through Duck. Palm trees, brown and bent at a resort motel, had died, probably from frost burn. "Those trees were wrapped," said Andy. "That tells me they have a real winter here. It's too far north for palms." Even some of the long-needle pine were tinged brown.
"Corolla, what a beautiful little town," said Andy. "No ands, ifs or buts about it. In fact, the whole ride here from Kitty Hawk is lovely. Density, but not ticky-tacky."

Currituck means land of the wild geese in Indian tongue. We didn't see any, but the evidence covered the park lawn, and we heard the honking in the distance. "Birds migrate based on the length of daylight," I read in a display at the Outer Banks Center for Wildlife Education. Workmen were busy painting the outside; the inside included incredible displays about the history of the Whalehead Club, the vacation getaway home of Philadelphia industrialist Edward C. Knight, Jr. and his wife Marie Louise, both avid hunters. They used the house with its cork floors, corduroy walls and Tiffany light fixtures, as a private hunt club.

We browsed in the museum and learning center. "Andy, did you know that birds migrate primarily at night because it keeps their body temperatures eight degrees cooler on the average?" I asked him. I studied the map about the Atlantic flyways.
He looked at the tank of live fish that provided a cross section of underwater habitat. "I don't have my glasses," he answered.
I read the information to him.
From the boardwalks we viewed the lighthouse. "The sign says you can just about walk across Currituck Sound here," said Andy. From the island to the mainland at this point, the water is only about five feet deep, and the depth is determined more by wind than by tides controlled from the moon. Northern winds keep it low and southerly winds increase water depth."
"If I lived here, I think I'd try it," I said, "except for the cottonmouths in the marsh and the mucky bottom." Sea oats, over our head on the boardwalk, waved gently. "And probably the bugs in the summer," Andy reminded me. "This is marshland."

The lighthouse, left unpainted to distinguish it from others on the Outer Banks, flashed its warning, on for three seconds and off for 17 seconds. Visibility extended as far as 19 nautical miles. Completed in 1875, it was the first lighthouse illuminated but the last major brick lighthouse built on the 40 miles of dark Outer Banks coastline, where southbound ships veered too close to shore to avoid the Gulf Stream currents.
The mainland side of Currituck Sound looked like another world. We drove north along the coast up route #158 to #168. Fields of corn stubble lined the road with farm houses in the distance by the water. Tinges of green suggested spring at hand, and temperatures climbed. Andy cracked the window and asked me how to turn on the air in Little Red. "The next thing you know," I said, "the bugs will be out."
Road repairs made travel in Virginia a nightmare. Through Norfolk and up to Chesapeake Bay we crawled, traffic in left lanes directed in and lanes closed down by moving trucks with signs that said, Move In. Crack Repair. "They should be doing this at night," said Andy. "To top it all off, they aren't doing anything except moving traffic into one lane. That bugs me. There isn't even a repair crew or vehicle in sight, just those Left Lane Closed trucks." It took an hour to cover the miles. The redeeming grace was warm temperatures and blue skies, not much to be grateful for on a crowded city highway.
The GPS helped us find my college roommate Carol in Hampton, Virginia, for hours of catching up on years of separate histories, not to mention her treat to us of fresh Atlantic seafood.
In addition, her surprise included a tour of Fort Monroe, complete with the house where Lincoln planned the attack on Richmond, the casement where Jefferson Davis was imprisoned, the area that housed Robert E. Lee from 1831-1834, the famous chapel with its Tiffany windows, and the one-lane tunneled bridge over the water-filled moat. As we drove past Old Point Comfort Lighthouse, I noticed the red light. A little research showed that the 360 degree light showed white for 132 degrees and red for the rest. If a ship at sea noticed the red, it had entered the "danger course." We kept driving... no danger.