CHAPTER 16

Fort Monroe

HAMPTON

We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Cask of Amontillado”

MY FIRST EXPOSURE to ghosts at Fort Monroe, the legendary “Gibraltar of Chesapeake Bay,” occurred a decade ago, when I visited the post as a member of the U.S. Army Inspector General Agency. My purpose then was official, and, as was the convention, the local inspector general provided me with a tour of the post.

I have visited most, if not all, of the Army’s posts in the United States. Many, like Fort Meyer in Virginia or Fort Leavenworth in Kansas, are steeped in history. Others, like the Presidio of Monterey, are remarkable for their setting. But none is like Fort Monroe. It is truly the most unique post in the country. It is not just the only Army fort surrounded by a moat, it is also the one with the earliest history. In 1609, two years after the first permanent English settlement was founded at Jamestown and eleven years before the Mayflower landed at Plymouth Rock, a fortification called Algernourne Fort was started on this very site by a detachment from Jamestown. There have been fortifications of various sorts here ever since.

The present fort resulted from lessons learned in the War of 1812. In 1813, the British fleet made anchor in Hampton Roads harbor, raided the village of Hampton, and in 1814 proceeded up the Chesapeake Bay to burn the city of Washington, D.C. Not wishing to ever again repeat this ignominy, Congress ordered the construction of the present fort in 1819. It was virtually completed by 1834—and none other than Robert E. Lee, then a lieutenant, oversaw the final stages of construction. The quarters that Lee resided in with his wife are much the same today as they were then.

Fort Monroe was originally named Fortress Monroe, a designation that, while incorrect, was probably a result of biblical and religious connotations (e.g., “a mighty fortress is our God”). By definition, however, a fortress encloses a town, and Fort Monroe does not. For that reason, the U.S. Secretary of War renamed the post Fort Monroe in 1832, although the U.S. Postal Service did not change the name on its records for more than a century—not until 1941.

Fort Monroe, including its moat, occupies an area of sixty-three acres. With an armament of nearly two hundred guns, it dominated the channel into Hampton Roads and controlled the sea approach to Washington by way of the Chesapeake Bay, much as the British fortifications at Gibraltar dominated access to the Mediterranean.

It was a beautiful spring day back in the late 1990s when the Fort Monroe IG and I set out on foot from his office. We walked toward the red-brick ramparts of the fort and crossed the causeway. As we emerged from the arched gateway of the main sally port, we stepped into another age—a gracious era of officers in tailored blue uniforms and hoop-skirted ladies. We strolled past stately antebellum residences, including the one where Lieutenant Robert E. Lee had once resided. Then we turned right onto Ruckman Road and proceeded past the narrow lane known as “Ghost Alley.” My guide, however, did not comment on that, and I have no idea if he even knew of the nickname for that quiet sunlit alleyway that ran behind those elegant quarters.

Shortly, on our left, however, we came to what appeared to be a vacant house—that is to say, unoccupied family quarters. It was a wood-framed and wood-sided structure that appeared to date from the late 1800s or early 1900s. Unlike the other quarters we had passed, this one had a run-down and almost abandoned look.

“It’s haunted,” the IG said. “Nobody wants to live there, so the housing office just leaves it vacant.”

He went on to tell me about what had spooked earlier residents. I listened, amused—skeptical, but with an open mind. He was, after-all, the inspector general. Unfortunately, I took no notes. That was not what I was there for. Now, of course, I wish I had recorded it all. I’ve tried in vain to recall the details of what he said to me, but I only retain a faint recollection of ghostly sightings, strange noises, and blinds that would not stay down—or maybe it was up.

But the basic memory never left me, and when I had the opportunity to return to Fort Monroe specifically for the purpose of researching the matter of ghosts, I took the task on eagerly in the hope of finally getting to the bottom of my recollections.

Having been an IG, and knowing “how things should be done,” my first step was to contact the official voice of Fort Monroe, the Public Affairs Office. In what I have now seen, in retrospect, as a pattern, officialdom was not at all eager to discuss the subject. Whether they believed the topic to be frivolous, or whether they had something to hide, I cannot say. Suffice it to say, I obtained no satisfaction from the telephone call. I even brought up my previous visit, some ten years earlier as an IG, and what the local IG had told me. This elicited only nervous consternation, and a hasty, “I cannot comment on that.” In short, my hopes of a productive interview with the Public Affairs Office were dashed. All that remained was to go to Fort Monroe and see what I could find out for myself.

I had done my research and knew that there were many ghost stories associated with the fort—not to mention the “moat monster” that a colonel had reported seeing swimming in the moat surrounding the fort. There were also a number of the stories set in the casemates and the museum that is now located there. This is where Confederate President Jefferson Davis had been imprisoned after the Civil War. It was also where America’s arguably greatest writer of ghost stories, Edgar Allan Poe, had been stationed as a young soldier in the 1820s, when the fort was still under construction.

I believe, whatever one’s purpose, that the Casemate Museum is the best place to start an exploration of Fort Monroe. It is the one place where a visitor still has access to the casemates. It is also where the cannons that guarded the approaches to the Chesapeake were situated. Moreover, the marvelous exhibits give the visitor an excellent introduction to Fort Monroe and what life would have been like there during the 19th century. There is, among the many exhibits, the cell in which Jefferson Davis was so cruelly imprisoned by a vengeful nation. It is also here that his ghost is reported to return, revisiting the site of his torment and humiliation in conditions that surely hastened his passing. (This is not where Jefferson Davis actually died, although some sources allege otherwise.)

It only took a single glance down the range of low brick arches that supported the ceiling of the casemates to grasp the inspiration for the story that Sergeant Poe wrote while stationed here, “The Cask of Amontillado.” Fort Monroe in those days, being still under construction, must have been strewn with piles of bricks and sacks of mortar as the masons went about their decade-and-a-half task. And if that were not enough, there was also a story in circulation of a soldier who had been bricked up behind one of those walls. But one cannot help but wonder if there was even more than that. Fort Monroe and, indeed, the whole Virginia coast, as I was to learn, is steeped in ghosts and supernatural occurrences. Almost everybody I met had a ghost story—or, to be more precise, almost everybody who wasn’t a public affairs officer. A tour guide at the nearby Fort Story assured me that the Virginia coast is the most haunted locale in the United States. One can only wonder what influence serving in such a place had on the young and still-impressionable Poe.

The tour of the Casemate Museum ends in the bookstore. There I heard my first account of a ghostly sighting. Some weeks earlier, parents, visiting the bookstore after their tour, reported what their young daughter had told them. She had been viewing one of the historical exhibits when something inexplicable occurred. It was an artillery exhibit, with several life-sized manikins in post-Civil War uniforms in the process of servicing an artillery piece. The little girl reported that one of the life-sized manikins had turned to her and had warned her to cover her ears as they prepared to fire their cannon.

I talked to a number of other employees who also had stories to tell. They requested, however, that I not reveal their identities. Suffice it to say, they were well-placed to receive the accounts of visitors to the post and to the museum. I must admit, although I am a skeptic on the issue of ghosts, the stories had an aura of credibility. They were received directly from those involved and reported to me by an official who was also a skeptic. There is not space to recount them all here. The two that follow I found not only to be interesting and credible, but I also could not find them published anywhere else.

One story occurred several years earlier but had made a lasting impression on my reporter, an Army wife, still shaking from her experience. She had been standing in the window of her quarters, which were to the left of the former post commander’s house known as Quarters One (where the ghost of Abraham Lincoln is said to make an occasional appearance). She was watching an interview with Boy George conducted by Barbara Walters, taking place on the grounds below. All of a sudden, the table behind her rose up and flew into the fireplace as the lamp that was on it hurtled to the other side of the room. Between the table and the fireplace was the family dog, who was so startled that he scratched the floor so deeply that the post engineers were never able to buff the marks out.

Another story involved a military family that that had just moved into the old, now-demolished pre-World War II white, framed quarters locally known as “white elephants.” The wife was unpacking the boxes containing their household goods and, each time she cut open a box, she would set the knife on the refrigerator. But every time she went to reach for it, it had moved to another location. Finally, in frustration, she shouted. “Get out of my house and don’t come back!”

That seemed to solve the problem—but when the family was moving out, there was another occurrence, which maybe held the explanation for the strange events that had occurred when they had first moved in. All their possessions had been packed up, and the family was standing in front of the quarters waiting for transportation when their young son went back into the house to get a drink of water. He stepped into the kitchen and saw another little boy, but this one was wearing a long white smock, as was the fashion in the 19th century. Evidently, this boy was the prankster who had kept moving the knife. Having been ordered away, he waited patiently until the family had departed before returning to what may well have been his home. Now that this house has been torn down, one can only wonder what refuge that boy has since found.

There are also a number of stories at Fort Monroe that involve family pets, usually cats. Sometimes a cat is seen in the quarters of a family that doesn’t own one. In other cases, the cat mysteriously leaves and enters closed rooms. What is interesting is that none of the accounts ever link these pet stories to what I found to be one of the most unique features of Fort Monroe—the pet cemetery.

Since at least the 1930s, military families have used this part of Fort Monroe as a pet cemetery.

The ramparts of the fort are faced with red brick on the moat side, but on the inside they are composed of packed earth and rise approximately forty feet above the inside level of the fort. There were once gun emplacements here, and their iron tracks are still visible. All along this earthen embankment, interspersed between the iron tracks, are the graves of the family pets of the soldiers once stationed here. When this custom started I have no idea. The earliest grave I could find was from 1936. Most are either conventional granite headstones or home-made concrete slabs. There were also some of less durable material, such as wooden crosses, many of which had undoubtedly deteriorated. One can only wonder if at the root of some of the stories is the ghost of a beloved family pet vainly searching the family quarters for masters who, subject to military orders, have long since moved on to other assignments.

I should also mention the small but very excellent bookstore located in the casemate. It carries a number of books dealing with the subject of ghosts at Fort Monroe and the surrounding area. These included two coauthored by Jane Polonsky, the wife of a retired Army colonel who had once served on the post.

Among the stories is the one about the so-called “White Lady.” Some say her name was Camille Kirtz, although the Fort Monroe historian told me there is no record of a woman with that name ever having lived at the fort. Nevertheless, this is Fort Monroe’s oldest documented ghost story. Legend has it that it is because of Camille that Mathew’s Lane has been called “Ghost Alley” since at least 1885. The story that has drifted down over the years is that it was here, in the alley, that this beautiful young woman would meet her lover, a dashing young officer (some accounts have him a French officer) with flowing mustaches and a flair for the ladies. Unfortunately for the lovers, Camille was married—so their trysts had to take place not only after darkness had fallen, but also only when Captain Kirtz was away. From the alley, the lovers would then enter her quarters by the stable entrance. As luck would have it, the husband returned unexpectedly one night to find the pair in his bed. Enraged, he snatched up a pistol and shot his wife. The young officer made his escape, and the “White Lady” is still sometimes seen searching for him at the stable entrances on Ghost Alley.

So what about the “haunted” house that the IG had shown me on my first visit to Fort Monroe a decade ago? It is still there on Ruckman Road and it is still vacant. My current source, however—who had regaled me with so many stories of ghosts and mysterious happenings—assured me that he had never heard of any ghostly sightings associated with this property. It had been condemned, he said, by the post engineers because of structural issues, not supernatural ones.

I have no reason to doubt the truthfulness of that assertion. Rather, I suspect that the IG, having heard many ghost stories associated with the post—to include stories of quarters that families had refused to live in (documented in Jane Polonsky’s books)—had leapt to a logical, but ultimately incorrect, conclusion. Many quarters at Fort Monroe are haunted, but not all of them are, and there are still structural and maintenance issues whose causes are solely of this plane.