It may be that the young ghost drummer, still sometimes seen at Berkeley, is the father of Malcolm Jamieson, the current owner. For it was John Jamieson who returned years later and bought the plantation where he was once a drummer boy with McClellan’s army.
Do rooms in old houses harbor sounds of past events, latent, ready to be touched off by some slight vibration, rare frequency, or even an echo? Now and then in the afterdusk, faint laughter, tinkling glasses, and the murmur of voices have been heard. Could it be one of the many genial gatherings that the rooms of this home have seen?
There have been other reports of unusual sightings at this meeting-place of historic events and people, such as a tall, gaunt figure, down at the water’s edge, walking slowly toward Berkeley. Abraham Lincoln himself had been to Berkeley twice during the war. Does he return to review his army? On the way the figure is sometimes accompanied by a little drummer boy, and together they turn right up the path, toward the hill with the split-rail fence. The two are obviously friends. Does the drummer boy remind President Lincoln of his own son?
If you are among the very fortunate, you might behold two shadowy figures cresting the hill some September evening or hear the last faint roll of a drum as they disappear from view. And while a late summer storm rumbles overhead, what is that on the far side of the rise? Can it be the Army of the Potomac, passing in review for Lincoln?
Berkeley Plantation is on Highway 5 in Charles City, Virginia. It is open year-round (with limited hours in January and February). Visit www.berkeleyplantation.com or call (804) 829-6018.
THE TRAMPING FEET
THE GAFFOS HOUSE, PORTSMOUTH, VIRGINIA
The front door of 218 Glasgow opens during the night, heavy footsteps can be heard going up three flights of stairs, and then the attic door closes.
The grizzled old sea captain didn’t know when he had prayed last. It must have been many years ago, but it hadn’t saved her. His lovely Maureen had died anyway. She had never been a strong one, and when the baby was born and there were complications, she was gone in a day or two. But behind her she left a treasure: tiny Cathy.
Fortunately, his mother had stepped in and taken care of the infant. It was hard to realize that Cathy was now a young girl. For the past two years, since his mother’s passing, she had made a home for him. Now he was about to lose her, too.
“God, don’t let the girl die. I know I could have been a better man, and I don’t deserve her. I never have talked much to you. Maybe I don’t know how. But I’m trying, Lord.” On he went, up the steps of the four-story house that had been turned into a hospital for Portsmouth’s yellow-fever victims. The house was filled with patients, and beds had even been placed in the halls. Cathy was on the fourth floor, and that day she was tossing and turning so much that it made tears run down the old captain’s weather-beaten cheeks just to watch her.
He cradled her frail body in his arms, pleading, “I will take you to Richmond and buy you such lovely clothes—everything you want. Look at me; speak to me! Cathy, you must get well, you must,” he cried out. But like many other poor souls who were brought to the hospital, turning and tossing in the throes of the virulent yellow fever, Cathy did not get well.
A Portsmouth gentleman who swears that his seagoing grandfather knew the captain says that the captain stayed out at sea as much as he could after Cathy’s death. When he returned for brief shore stays, his solitary figure could be seen striding along in front of the homes a few blocks from the water. There he often paused to stare up at the fourth-floor windows of the house at 218 Glasgow Street.
How could so much happen in this cheerful-looking house? It is yellow with blue shutters, and its interior is bright with shades of red, green, and gold. But the house did not always look this attractive. When Mary Alice and George Gaffos were first married, they moved into a ground-floor apartment here, as the old house was then divided into apartments. A full English-basement home, it rises four stories above ground. The couple soon began to dream of buying and restoring it, despite its unhappy history and their modest income.
A few years later, however, they did buy and remodel it. Their dream had come true, but it was not all that they had expected. Or should we say that the house contained more than they expected and could ever have believed?
The Gaffoses are a pleasant, attractive couple. Mary Alice tells the story. From the first few weeks we lived here, strange things happened. The children noticed it first. Andrea would call us time after time, telling us that she had heard heavy feet going up the stairs. The girls slept on the third floor and were very frightened there for a while. One night Andrea called, and I ran up to her room.
“It was going up the stairs again tonight, Mother,” she said. “I could hear the footsteps tramping up each tread, like someone with boots on, and I wondered if those feet were going to stop at the top of the stairs on my floor. I just held my breath!”
She threw her arms around my neck and hung on to me for dear life.
