Chapter 2

After winding through the channel for a few hours, we enter Currituck Sound. This shallow sea takes its name from a tribe of Indians which once owned the adjacent lands. It is quite a large sheet of water, though not deep, about fifty miles long, and nearly ten at the widest part. It is dotted with small, low, sedgy islands, marshes and swamps. After enduring the approaches to it, quite an enlivening scene is presented. Persons are seen on the shore of the mainland, and boats are moving about in various directions. Huge groaning windmills, with tattered sails, guard the shore and torture the Indian corn into bread-stuff. Now for the first time the traveler begins to realize what it is to see wild fowl. The water seems black with ducks and geese, and dazzling white with the graceful swans. The latter sit in great flocks on the shoals, for miles in length. As the steamer approaches, they arise in such vast numbers as to nearly blacken the heavens with a rushing sound like the coming tornado. Arriving as near our destination as the vessel can take us, we disembark, landing on a strong platform built far out from the shore. For a half hour we are busy getting our traps from the bait--guns, dogs, ammunition, boxes, bags, bales, bundles, baskets and barrels. We had left nothing unpurchased which could contribute to the comfort of the inner or outer man--especially the former. Now we transfer everything to a small boat, sent from the beach miles away, to meet and convey us to our journey's end--our home for a few weeks, where we must conform to the customs of the natives as near as possible. We do not reach the Hall until the twilight has faded into darkness. The water is too shallow to allow even this small craft to approach the shore near enough to enable us to land, so carts are driven out to it, and the baggage and provisions piled therein. The teams being loaded, us city folks, with store clothes on, are carried ashore on the backs of our amiable and hospitable friends. They have a contempt for dry places, water being their element. Proceeding to the house, we are welcomed in the warmest possible manner by our host and his ever busy and pleasant daughter Nora. We are installed as a part of the family, for we have been there before--we are not strangers. Nora and her sable assistants had prepared an abundant and inviting meal for us, and we enjoyed it with an appetite quickened by the sail across the Sound.

After supper we made our arrangements for the first day's shooting, and then retired--sinking into beds so downy as to induce sleep in a few moments--and we do sleep just as soundly as if we had always been wise and good and happy. The club house, "Raymond Hall," is an ordinary frame one, situated on the shore of the Sound, a few rods from the sea. It is surrounded by a tolerable growth of persimmon and other trees; it stands alone, and at night is as silent as the halls of death--not a sound being heard except the bark of the watchful house-dogs. The wind murmurs about the angles of the house, and through the branches of the trees, in dreary harmony with the roar of the ocean. It is somewhat startling, for a few nights, to us denizens of cities, to notice the entire absence of all precautions against depredators--there are neither locks nor bolts. Life is primitive here; all honor the head of the family, and bow to his will. The people, young and old, are universally kind and respectful to those strangers who sojourn among them, meeting them in a spirit of frankness and exacting the same. We shoot whenever the weather is suitable, and amuse ourselves at other times in various ways--repairing boats, rigging decoys, cleaning guns, loading shell, and making ready for a good day when it does come. We breakfast between eight and nine o'clock, then, donning our shooting attire, including rubber boots, which are indispensable, we go to the landing. Wading out to our boats, laden with all the implements of destruction, we depart for the day's sport. A small fleet of five sail starts in a bunch like a flock of white-winged birds; the swiftest of them shoot ahead, fading out in the distance; others disappear behind the islands or into some of the numerous creeks, and for that day we are lost to each other.

We meet again at night, however, and compare notes. The number of birds each has secured, the good and bad shots, with other events of the day, are all pleasant topics at supper. After the evening meal, we plan the next day's business, and then, wearied, we seek our feather beds and sleep too soundly even to dream. So we pass the days in a sort of luxurious vagabondism. How very pleasant it is to be a vagabond, when one may return to starched linen and the trammels of civilization whenever one wishes!

Our club was composed of six persons: Mondray H. Charles, Rory Theodoric, Jas. O'Kelly, Geo. H. Crege, H. H. Josephus and Geo. G. Paullo. Two servants accompanied the party--Steve and Jacob, Steve is a rattling, roaring fellow, who had never before been without the sound of the breakers of his native Long Island, and was ready to perform any act for his friends, from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter. Jacob, the companion of Steve, is the very opposite in all things; is a genteel fellow, wears a clerical necktie of immaculate whiteness, and has the appearance of having studied for the ministry, and graduated as a cook. His table is a marvel of neatness, and his culinary experience has enabled him to set many a tempting dish before us.

During our stay on the beach many amusing incidents occurred; we will try and give some of them as they return to our memory. It may not be uninteresting to know how and where we shoot, and so we give something of a description. We draw lots for the choice; each selects the point, or island, or strait, which, in his judgment will afford the best shooting for the day, and there builds a blind. This blind is made by breaking down the tall reeds, leaving a fence in front, next the water, to secrete the gunner from the game. Behind this screen a sort of nest is formed by matting down the reeds and marsh grass. It is rendered more comfortable by spreading a rubber blanket, upon which are arranged for use, guns, ammunition, lunch and a bottle--of water. The decoys are placed out in long range, in such a manner as to make them appear as natural looking as possible, and then we are ready for business. Now here they come--a flock of seven geese, plump down among the stool, but get up again with equal haste. Two of them are knocked down with the breech-loader, one dead, the other only wounded--a third stopped by the muzzle-loader. Theodoric was dreamily watching his decoys as they danced about, when a bunch of sprig-tail swooped dawn, hovering above the stool. He picked his bird, and dropped two with the first barrel, and another responded to the discharge of the second. They came tumbling down into the water--dead. One could not easily imagine a duck's head capable of expression, but when they come lively, alight among the dummies, and hear no quack of recognition, they soon discover the fraud, and the frightened haste with which they gather themselves up and attempt to make off, is expression all over. Crege, who is one of the best amateur shots on Long Island, as a medal now in his possession will attest, had taken his number twelve, and walked the marshes for snipe. So far as the ducks were concerned, he had missed the sport, but he brought in a bunch of forty-five English snipe, which compared favorably with the success of the others. Crege is a superior marksman, but he shoots much better when the boys gather about the table at the club on a winter evening, where they talk their shots over again, and trot their horses at impossible speed. O'Kelly is one of the constitutionally chosen Senators for the great State of New York, is a prime shot, an enthusiastic sportsman, and one of the most genial of our friends. He had located on a distant island, and expended powder and shot with his usual prowess--returning laden with game. This was decidedly the best day we had had, and the score was as follows: Charles, nineteen canvas-back, eleven teal, three geese and twelve red-head, mallard and black duck; Theodoric brought in sixty-five birds--canvas-back, red-head, sprig-tail and black-head; O'Kelly, who had had surprising luck, counted fifty canvas-back, and twenty-five common ducks. It was a good count, and the game was hung up in the boat house with the other birds.

Many of the natives are professional gunners, and haunt the marshes day and night, shooting for market, and thus making a living. If one cannot shoot, one may resort to these people and purchase a boat load. It is, however, a reprehensible practice.

There is no tide in the Sound except that which is caused by the wind, and as high water and a stiff breeze are essential to good sport, it is not possible to have good shooting every day. When the wind comes from the right quarter it makes a full tide, and drives the fowl nearer the shore and up into the creeks where they may feed.

It was getting toward the end of our sojourn; we had experienced several quiet balmy days--no wind, low water, general listlessness. "Should we have any more fun?" we asked, and went to bed. About midnight the wind came howling through the trees, the weather became cold, and the rattling windows responded to the hope of a good day to-morrow. Getting our breakfast early, we selected our points and hastened to the boats. Dark clouds, flying over a dull wintry sky, denoted a steady blow--it was cheering. The blinds were quickly reached, and decoys thrown out. Only a few birds were flying, the fitful wind becoming higher and higher and then dying out entirely. The clouds, however, soon drifted away, the sun appeared as bright and beautiful as summer--almost persuading us to take off our coats. Disheartened at the coquettish nature of the weather, we gave it up. Not a bird to be seen--we took our bottles, and throwing our heads back on our shoulders, tried to look through the bottoms of them--they in turn gave out a gurgling sound of complaining emptiness. We fell into a refreshing sleep; the hours passed away unheeded, until we were awakened by the rustling of the reeds bending in the breeze, whispering of the coveted blow. Heavy black clouds were gathering, and soon old Boreas came cracking out from the right point of the compass.

This aroused the ducks in the open water to flight, and they came in, seeking the shelter of the shore--a fatal protection. Charles, the original explorer of the Sound as a sporting place, and founder of the "Raymond Hall" Club, did some good work--taking them, right and left, with each barrel, and dropping single blue-winged teal with unerring aim.

Theodoric is the most amiable, patient friend imaginable; can conduct a bank equal to any man in New York; and we all esteem him very much. He labors under the mild hallucination, however, that he must be constantly doing something, and nearly all this is expended in cleaning his gun. Morning and evening it undergoes this polishing process, and on Sunday he rests himself by giving it another wipe.

"It's a little leaded, you know, George," he remarks, and at it he goes. Human nature may stand this, but guns won't.

On one occasion when he tried to jam a cleaning rod through it, larger than the bore, it refused to go.

"You won't, won't you," said he, as he raised it aloft and brought it down with all his might on the floor. It went in; but the gun bulged just as any good gun will do, and the eruption yet stands on the barrel, a monument of his determination.

Steve was called in, and a pulling match ensued. Steve had hold of the gun and Thee firmly clenched the rod. The gun could stand the combined strength of two powerful men no better than it could resist the jamming of the rod, and they parted. Steve went backwards over Mary Rogers, a dog, and took a moist seat in a tub of warm water, which had been prepared for cleaning guns. Steve said the water was hot, while our fastidious friend looked bland, gathered himself up from out a pile of empty shells, mixed with scraps of red flannel and oil-rags, and said "I knew it would come out."

Josephus, the great Canarsie fisherman, is not an enthusiast about gunning, and left his sporting traps at home. He only went down for a few days' fishing, and was prepared to take large numbers of bluefish. Armed with a stout line and squid, he invited us over to see him do it. The ocean was rough, and came rolling up in long heavy swells; the fish were far out at sea. After getting his line arranged to his satisfaction, he took firm hold of it a few feet above the squid; we all looked admiringly on. By a series of dexterous gyrations about his head he sent it flying a hundred feet out into the water--it was beautifully done. Skillfully he hauled it in, hand over hand. The squid followed, as bright and shining as when he had cast it out, but no fish. He made ready again, and with that nonchalant air of a man who feels perfectly sure that he can do just what he wants to, he gave it that preparatory whirling motion again, and away it went.

The best efforts will fail sometimes, and the most skillful are often doomed to disappointment--it was so in this case. The hook did not go for a blue fish, but fastened itself in the leg of a too confiding dog that stood looking curiously on, just as those canine friends of man so often do. The misguided animal went howling away, and had to be captured and the hook extracted.

He felt sure he could do it, however, and he tried it again, with as much preparation as before, and twice the determination; he missed the sea altogether, and the barbed instrument buried itself into that portion of male wearing apparel that comes in contact with the chair, when one indulges in that agreeable and refreshing posture of sitting down: they will need repairing.

Paullo is a good shot--with a knife and fork--and can look on at others who are doing hard work, with more nerve and complacency than any man who visits the Sound. He had been persuaded to go to a certain pond where ducks were abundant and easy to shoot. This was good; he put his decoys out and waited. A bird was coming down--it went among the stool. It was a beautiful specimen of the feathered tribe, with a bill like a crow. In some places it is known as a crow duck, but the proper local name here is "blue-peter." Blue-peter seemed to have no fear, but sported around and among the dummies, and tossed the bright drops of water from its shining plumage. With the true feelings of a sportsman, Paullo wanted the bird to have a fair chance, and so tossed bunches of marsh grass at it--it would not fly. Picking up his gun he fired, wounding several decoys.

The battle raged all that day and the next, blue-peter diving at the flash of the gun, and defiantly coming up and wailing for it to be reloaded.

On the morning of the third day, our Nimrod was late. When he arrived, the duck was there patiently waiting to renew the fight, and was busily engaged picking the shot from the bottom of the pond, tossing it up and catching it in its bill as it came down. With such a gunner and such game, this might last a week. Strategy was resorted to, and when blue-peter went under at the flash, our hero waded out and struck it with a club as it came to the surface. The victory was not to the duck. Late that evening Steve and Jacob were seen carrying from the landing to the house the dead B. P., strung by the neck to the centre of a ten-foot pole, one pall-bearer at each end, and the conqueror leading the procession. On his arrival he was greeted by his fellow members with that distinguished consideration which our people so freely accord to actors of great deeds.

We remained on the beach four weeks, and had many pleasant days. We have now returned to our respective homes, wearied in body but refreshed in mind, well pleased with our trip, with each other, and with a decided inclination for a repetition of the jaunt.

We cannot leave the subject without paying tribute to our friend and companion, Joe Creed. Joe is a large resolute dog of an amiable disposition, a dirty yellow coat, and a small bright eye of the same color. He has a keen sense of duty, but never leaves the blind until he sees the game falling, when he proceeds to bring it in. He was undoubtedly born for it. If two birds fall, with almost human intelligence he gets both. Taking the farthest first, stopping on his way in to pick up the other, he comes in with one swinging on each side of his great shaggy head. They tell of him that he has been caught stealing sheep. We do not believe it--it is a mistake; he may have been in bad company, that is all. Joe was the property of a gentleman on Long Island, and we trusted his exploits in the North might vie with his achievements in the South.

"When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been; But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend; Whose heart is still his master's own, Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonored falls."

But Joe came to an untimely end; he was found shot to death. The following was placed over his grave:

"Near this spot Are deposited the remains of one Who possessed beauty without vanity, Strength without insolence, Courage without ferocity, And all the virtues of man without his vices."

_Born in North Carolina, March, 1875._ _Died at Jamaica, Long Island, March, 1876._

* * * * *

THE HAUNTED ISLAND.

"A jolly place," said he, "in times of old, But something ails it now; the place is curst."

Far up the Potomac, in the shadow of the mountains, among the hundreds of small islands which dot the river in that picturesque region, is one which has the reputation of being haunted. It is but a few miles above the ferry at the Point of Rocks, and is unknown to the thousands of persons who are whirled past there every year in the railroad trains.

This island is about fifty acres in extent, and is bordered with stately oaks to the very river's edge--whose waters lave their roots; its margin is paved with pearly pebbles, while the drooping branches of the trees, festooned with tangled vines of every hue, hang down in glorious clusters, toying with the blue stream which runs beneath. The scenery here is truly enchanting. Islands of every size seem floating in a charmed atmosphere; to pass one pleasing spot is but to disclose another more beautiful than the last. Some are covered with a forest growth; others cultivated, and waving in the summer breeze with yellow ripening grain; and yet others are overgrown with varied shrubs, filled with singing birds, and wild flowers breathing perfume.

I had been fishing--had fished the river from the ferry up above and around the island. I was well satisfied with the day's sport, and was sitting in the stern of the boat in a sort of day dream. Jasper, my boatman, was gently guiding the little vessel to keep it from striking the many projecting rocks, as well as to prevent it from gliding too rapidly down the current. The river, changed to a dark green color, from the reflected foliage, ran now deep and sluggish against the huge boulders which stand defiantly up: now over shallow places, shining with silver sand, fretting itself into white foam and flinging up jets of spray as if in anger. Waking from my reverie, I said:

"Jasper, that is a tranquil-looking island; to whom does it belong?"

Jasper shook his woolly head as if he were puzzled, and with the air of a person about to impart some awful secret, replied:

"Dat don't belong to nobody; dat's haunted."

"Haunted, Jasper! that is impossible. There are no such things as haunted places."

"Well, massa," he replied, his faith still unshaken, "dat's what I was tole long, long years ago when I was a chile. Ye could hear noises comin' fum da like distress, and dem sounds war jined wid de talkin' ob men."

"Very likely, but such sounds came from persons on the island, and they were living, just as you and I are."

"Dar war sounds," answered my boatman, "but da warn't no people on dat island. Dem sounds warn't ob dis world."

Such an opinion could not be weakened, for my dusky companion had been raised in this local superstition and it was as firmly rooted as was his faith in future forgiveness, and so I merely inquired:

"Is there a house there, Jasper?"

"Yes sar," said he, promptly, "da am a big squar one right in de middle ob it."

"We must go and see what it looks like, and try to learn where those sounds came from."

"S'cuse me, massa, dis chile don't set he foot on dat lan', kase ef he do, he neber leabe it agin."

"Then if you are afraid," said I, tauntingly, "I will go alone; you wait until I return."

"Massa," implored the frightened negro, "don't go; you neber kum back; you is lost."

"Take me as near the shore as you dare go, and leave me there."

"Good-bye, massa; you is lost foreber."

Jasper took up the oar and pushed as near the shore as the shallow water would permit; the keel of the boat grated on the sandy shore. I stepped over the side of the boat and waded close up under the overhanging branches, and forced my way through the dense growth which shut this mysterious place from human sight. My black friend was right; in the centre of the island stood the remains of a large stone mansion, surrounded by what had once been a well-kept lawn. The grass was growing green and rank, mingled with weeds, and both were struggling for the mastery. Broken statues of costly marble and workmanship were lying scattered about; great flower vases, shattered, and green with the mould and moss of years, were covered with weak and flowerless creepers.