October 26, 2008

It was many and many a year ago
In a kingdom by the sea…

So begins Edgar Allan Poe’s haunting “Annabel Lee,” which the troubled poet is said to have penned while staying at the luxurious Hygeia Hotel in Hampton. Then, shortly before his squalid death in Baltimore, he recited the mournful ode to lost love before a rapt audience on the hotel’s veranda.

The story of Poe’s connection to Old Point Comfort – he also served in the Army at Fort Monroe – was not lost on the restorers of the 80-year-old Chamberlin Hotel, successor to the Hygeia, which has recently reopened as a luxury apartment for seniors.

“Annabel Lee,” among several other of his poems, is now framed and hanging in the Edgar Allan Poe Library in the meticulously restored residence overlooking Hampton Roads.

A tour of the Chamberlin reveals many other nods to the history of that spot. And why not? Presidents Abraham Lincoln, John Tyler, Andrew Jackson, Theodore Roosevelt and Dwight Eisenhower either stayed at hotels there or gazed out over the waterscape from nearby, and their names are now associated with a variety of apartment choices.

The two-year, $54 million renovation includes black-and-white terrazzo floors, brass chandeliers and a restored 1914 Steinway piano in the hotel’s impressive grand corridor, with sweeping views of the water. One level down, in the Hygeia Health Club, a heated swimming pool, a recreation of the original, is lined with hundreds of thousands of custom-made tiles.

All the better to imagine what it was like way back when.

The first Hygeia – named for the Greek goddess of health – was built to house construction workers at Fort Monroe. It was torn down during the Civil War and replaced by a second, far grander hotel. Harrison Phoebus, a one-time Point Comfort freight agent, took it over and turned it into a posh resort for guests who came for Turkish baths and healthful “airs.”

When it fell into disrepair, the Hygeia was demolished, and that’s where John Chamberlin comes into the picture. Historian John Quarstein, who is writing a book about Old Point Comfort hotels, says he was a gambler and restaurateur who formerly ran the Senate dining room in the U.S. Capitol. A photo hints at almost a caricature of the 1900-era high roller, “rotund, with diamond shirt button, holding a champagne glass and smoking a cigar.”

Influential Washington friends helped him pull the strings to get the land and raise capital. After money delays, the Chamberlin opened in 1896. According to a new book by J. Michael Cobb and Wythe Holt, the immense hotel, with 554 rooms, offered a heated saltwater pool, a "business center” with telephone and telegraph connections and a round pavilion standing over the water “for cool, breezy summer dancing.”

By this time, there was stiff competition for tourists across the Roads at Ocean View, but Old Point had the edge on luxury hotels. At the turn of the century, Quarstein says, there were more than 2,000 hotel rooms on the Old Point-Phoebus side, with steamship lines vying for dockage. But this fledgling tourism industry suffered a blow in 1920 when John Chamberlin’s extravagant venture burned to the ground. Finally, in 1928, the new Chamberlin took its place.

The eight-story red brick hotel, long an icon of the local waterfront, was doomed by security restrictions limiting access to Fort Monroe after Sept. 11, 2001. Weathered and full of leaks, it seemed ready for the wrecking ball. Now, with the fort due to close in three years, the Chamberlin appears poised for a new era.

Sketch of the Hygeia Hotel, late 1800s. Hampton History Museum.

October 26, 2008

It was a good day for a walk. Sunny, windy, cool, with a dull tidewater blush of color in the trees. On the York River, white caps and white sails speckled the water. And out on the fields surrounding the historic village of Yorktown, flags indicating where siege lines once formed snapped in the breeze.

And I couldn’t help but think of that time, 227 years ago, of the terrible furry that had been unleashed against the defenders of Yorktown by American and French forces. Eight days of relentless, round the clock bombardment pulverized British defenses and reigned death and misery upon them. Then, finally, a white flag flew and the world was turned upside down.

Today, the folks at Colonial National Historical Park and the Yorktown Victory Center will observe Yorktown Day, the anniversary of the British surrender. One of the highlights will be a parade at 1:30 p.m., but there’s much more: tours and demonstrations, musket and artillery drills, encampments and hands-on interpretive programs. (See local listings for details.)

Like me, you may have done this a number of times, but the miracle of this place always delivers. Especially at this time of year.

Out on the bluffs overlooking the river there’s an array of cannon, the largest of which is a 24-pounder. As an interpreter will tell you, George Washington and his French allies were able to stand off, out of range of the defenders’ 6- and 12-pound guns, and reign havoc upon the town. There’s another fearsome weapon, a mortar that fired shells that burst in the air above the fortifications. The inscription on one of the ancient mortars facing the harbor is in Latin, but a translation is provided: “Send not the rays of the sun but the thunderbolts of Jupiter.”

It had come to this: British Gen. Cornwallis, after leaving Portsmouth, had chosen Yorktown for its harbor and, he thought, defensible location. But he hadn’t reckoned on a French blockade of the Chesapeake Bay, no on the ability of the American and French forces to march from New York, haul their big guns down the bay on ships and place him and his men in a perfect hellhole of destruction.

During the bombardment, most of the once-prosperous town was leveled, including the house belonging to former colonial secretary Thomas Nelson that Cornwallis used as headquarters. All that’s left are the stones of the original foundations.

Down on the waterfront, you can get an idea of how devastating the attack was. Near a picnic area are the remains of a cave carved out of sandstone. You can peer in and just about hear the cries of children. This is where townsfolk, their homes destroyed, sought shelter. Or, when it reopens – there’s construction going on to repair a footbridge – you can hike up a former tobacco road where a sign informs you that, after Nelson’s home came under fire, Cornwallis and his staff built a kind of grotto where they hid while their defenses crumbled and their troops were slaughtered.

At one point, the British made a desperate nighttime attempt to flee across the York, only to be hurled back by a sudden storm. The last hope was gone. The defenders were staring at heavy guns now brought to within pointblank range. Cornwallis realized that, as far as his troops were concerned, it would be “wanton and inhuman” to continue.

The bombardment was still in progress on the chilly morning of October 17 when a lone drummer boy, his heart no doubt thumping, stepped upon the parapet and began an unsteady cadence and an officer holding high a white flag fell in with him. American and French guns finally fell silent. Two days later the vanquished defenders, Englishmen, Scotsmen, Welchmen, Hessians and loyalists, marched out to what is now called Surrender Field and, bitterly, gave up their weapons.

It was British Prime Minister Frederick North who put the coda on the American Revolution when he heard the news.

“Oh God! It’s all over!”


Painting by John Trumbull of the British surrender at Yorktown. National Archives.

October 12, 2008

The photographs begin with the earliest work on a spidery steel bridge over the Southern Branch of the Elizabeth. They show concrete being poured for the pilings, sections being floated on the river, timbers waiting for use as fenders. Then, on Aug. 24, 1928, opening ceremonies and, soon after, vintage cars approaching.

These remarkably clear images of the Norfolk-Portsmouth Bridge, later named the Jordan, are part of an extensive collection that South Norfolk historian Raymond Harper received from a bridge superintendent many years ago. Not too many months from now, photographs and memories will be all that’s left of the bridge’s 80-year history.

Harper, who was born three weeks after the bridge was completed, is probably its biggest fan. In a history of the bridge that he recently placed on the Web at http://www.historicsouthnorfolk.com/, we learn that it was a business venture of the owners of a local lumber company, C. M. Jordan and W. P. Jordan Jr. It cost the whopping sum of $1.1 million, but it turned a profit for the young entrepreneurs for many years until it was turned over to the city of Chesapeake in 1977.

According to the city, the Jordan is the oldest operating lift bridge in Virginia. It completely changed the map of Tidewater, the department says, supplanting unreliable ferry service and connecting Norfolk for the first time to other parts of the state by highway.

Chesapeake City Council is expected to act on staff recommendations to close the Jordan permanently by November 1. It would be locked in an up position and barricades placed at the entrances. Within six months, dismantling would begin.

“I hate to see it go,” says Harper, “but I’m afraid it’s already been decided.”

One week ago, I paid a visit to the Jordan, thanks to the Bridge Division of the Public Works Department, and rode up and down on the rusty, creaky, marvelous lift span as tugs, barges and a south-bound sailboat passed beneath.

Glenn Crawford of Portsmouth, 41, a bridge tender since 1996, handed me hearing protectors as one of the tugs approached. After a quick conversation with the skipper, he sounded the alarm, dropped the gates and turned the crank on the big 80 hp electric motor. Once more, the span rose more than 100 feet above the river, taking us and the motor with it.

Although the cables and the cranks that lift the span are well greased, I could imagine the 80 years of salt-water environment taking its toll, the concrete undercarriage wearing away, the nine-ton chains that are fastened to a concrete counter-weight letting go, the gears and wheels protesting. It does this 10,000 a year. Seven thousand cars a day cross its roadway. How much longer could it continue?

Part of a bridge’s history is often the times it has been struck. In the Jordan’s case, this includes the collision of an oil tanker in 1939, when the lift span fell 122 feet into the river. Another brush with calamity occurred on a warm day in January 2004 while Crawford was on duty.

It was Sunday, about noon, when a tug misjudged the height of a barge-mounted mast. It slammed into the lift span. “There’s a loud noise, and suddenly we’re moving,” he said. Alarmingly, he could see that the yellow line in the middle of the roadway had moved over to the edge of the tower, and he, along with the span, was suspended crookedly above the water. “I’m the only one who has operated this bridge in a horizontal manner,” he said.

Three hours later, after judging that the cables weren’t damaged, he was able to swing around the outside of the tower and climb down.

In spite of this, Crawford, who figures he’s lifted the bridge 20,000 times in 12 years, will be sorry to see it go. “It’s very sad,” he said. “I love this old girl.”


Photo: Jordan Bridge, possibly early 1950s. Note reserve fleet on Portsmouth side. Courtesy of Raymond Harper.

October 5, 2008

One, two, three, four, five….

If you climb to the top of the Old Cape Henry Lighthouse, that’s just the beginning, the steps leading to the greeting station. There’ll be 189 more, at least by my count, including those going up to the base of the tower.

You pause at the base, catching your breath, walking slowly around and gazing up at the red stone octagon rising in the humid morning sky. Then it hits you. You’re looking at history.

This isn’t the oldest still-standing lighthouse in America. That honor goes the light at Sandy Hook, N.J., built in 1764. Nor the tallest (Cape Hatteras). But it was a great leap of faith for the new republic, its first public works project.

The Cape Henry Light, long sought beacon for guiding ships safely past the Virginia Capes, had a troubled beginning. It was first authorized by the colonial General Assembly in 1752, to be paid for with tobacco revenue, but Britain disallowed the project. Two decades later, the colonists tried again, actually beginning construction with sandstone hauled from quarries in Northern Virginia. But this time, the Revolutionary War interfered. During the war, signal fires were used to warn of the approach of enemy ships. At last, victory achieved and the new government in place, Congress, with the backing of George Washington, approved the project in 1789.

Washington also picked John McComb Jr., who had designed Government House in New York as the first presidential residence, as the builder. Using the sandstone blocks that had been hauled there before the war, McComb set about his task. He had to dig down 20 feet before he could find solid ground on which to build the foundation. You can see the base, rising from the sandy earth, but then the beautiful blocks of redstone, giving the light its distinctive character, begin.

You scratch your head. How could they have done this? A perfect octagon rising 90 feet above the ground to the glass-enclosed lantern above. You enter the 11-foot-thick base, lined with whitewashed brick, and look up. The spiral steel staircase seems to form a perfect nautilus shape as it rises.

One, two, three…Your heart begins to thud, 84 stairs (I think) then two steep ladders (18 more steps), and you’re there. “We made it!” a few others say as they gain the lantern room, and look out at the best view they’ve ever had of the Virginia coast.

Turning slowly, you can see tourist hotels and high-rise condos near Lynnhaven Bay, Town Center, the Virginia Beach Oceanfront and then the vast Atlantic. Coal ships ride at anchor near the capes. A squadron of pelicans glides just above the gentle surf, and just beyond the breakers, dolphins rise and fall. And of course, the new black and white steel lighthouse, a mere baby at 127 years, bisects the view.

The old light did its job for just about 90 years, guiding what must have been hundreds of thousands of ships into safe harbor. There was a brief interruption during the Civil War after Confederate troops disabled the light. A lightship stationed between the capes took over until it could be repaired.

But it still stands, the official symbol of the City of Virginia Beach. How lucky can we get, not just one but two historic lighthouses. It has been faithfully maintained since 1930 by the Association for the Preservation of Virginia Antiquities. Some 60,000 visitors see it annually, most tromping up these ancient stairs. The APVA has kept the memories, if not the light, burning.

Virginian-Pilot photo by Charlie Meads.