I don't know why I've thought of it now, it has been years since I thought of the campout with scout troop 469 that we met on old man who knew the story of the phantom ferryman of the Potomac river. Maybe its the weather, the 88 dergee summer like day that made me think of the outings with the boyscouts so many years ago.
It was a summer weekend that Mr. Van, our scoutmaster found a new place for us to campout. Up and down the river there were private fishing clubs, with wooded grounds right on the water. In the late 1960's there was a movement to make the property all along the Potomac river a National Park, and it ultimatly became one, and the private clubs and camps vanished under the bulldozer as ordered by the courts, to let nature re-claim the river bank.
But the summer we camped out, all this was off in the future. Mr. Van had made arangements for us to be able to camp at a private fishing club, and have use of the canoe's and skiffs for fishing, and the dock for swiming. The cabins would be off limits to us so we'd tent out.
Even though there was a private drive to the club, Mr. Van believed it would help build charater if we had to hike in, so we humped our canvas Yukka packs up the then overgrown C&O canal trail a couple of miles to the camp. In no time we had our canvas pup tents set up and kindling gatherd for the nights fire, and it was time for fun. As usual Mr. Van had us leave our hatchets at home, and we did all camp chores with our official scout knives. He was a stickler for drilling us in being prepared for anything with just what was in our pocket. I guess if Mr. Van would have been born a couple decades later, he'd have been one of the poineers of the ultralight backpacking movment.
The club was deserted that weekend expept for the old care taker, a Mr. Carlin. Mr. Carlin had been at the fishing club long enough that legend had it, he was there to greet John Smith when Smith was up exploring from Jamestown, down the south end of the Chesapeake. A stooped white haired old man, he was a bit on the gruff side, and he gave us a list of do's and don't with the club canoe's. I guess he did'nt want one of us drifting off and he's have to chase us clear down to Great Falls to get the canoe back.
Lecture over, we had a good afternoon of activities paddling canoes, fishing for dinner, swiming in the slow moving river. Some of us had a good catch to clean for dinner, and Mr. Van was going to show us how to cook the fish without modern things like tin foil. He'd show us how to pack the fish in mud and put it in the coals of the fire and bake it. That evening we set to work getting our fish ready to feast upon, and many a Camillus, Schrade, and Imperial scout knife cleaned the evenings dinner. Some of us had brought a bottle cap to screw to a stick for scaling. To this day, I still like to use a bottle cap off a beer to scale a fish, it does such a wonderful job. And a predrilled bottle cap and a screw takes up so little space in an outdoors kit.
That evening as the dusk settled and we washed our mess kits and pocket knives in the river and dried everything thoughly, we gathered round the campfire for some Ovaltine. Mr. Carlin joined us, and even had his own Ovaltine in his own special thermos. He must have really liked his Ovaltine because the more he drank out of his thermos, the more he relaxed and loosened up he became. It was then he told us about the phantom boatman.
Mr. Carlin sat in a folding chair on one side of the fire, and took a long pull of his Ovaltine.
"Now when it gets to be full dark, I don't want to see any of you boys down by the river. Sometimes theres things that make no sense out there, and you boys stay in your tents and get some sleep" he said.
"What things?" asked Everett Snyder.
"Jist you stay off the river tonight," Mr. Carlin said, "You boys had your fun today, now leave it at that".
Of course boys being boys there was not an end to that, and with a great deal of pestering we wore him down.
"Okay," he said, "If you really want to know, I'll be tellin ya. Jist don be goin home to your mamas telling hows I scared ya." He paused for another drink of his Ovaltine.
"When the rivers calm, and its a full moon like tonight, some folks say the ghost of old Mason is out on the river in his skiff. Mason was an old farmer lived here back durring the war of Northern Agression. The island out there is named for him, he had a cornfield on it. Well old Mason may have lived here in Maryland, but he was born over there in Virginia. He moved here because his wife wanted to be close to family. When the war between the states came, he wanted to go back to serve the south, but he was asked by some to stay and be a part of a Confederate spy ring. Old Mason had a ferry service across the river and he could row over to deliver messages to those who needed the information he carried. Some folks say he even carried information for John Mosby and Jeb Stuart."
Mr. Carlin took another drink, and it was quiet around the fire.
"Well," he went on, "one night the Federal troops were waiting on him here because they got onto him. Don't know how, but they was waitin on him. He gets close to the shore and somebody yells halt, and old Mason tries to row back to the Virginia side. A whole bunch of .58 Springfields open up on him and shoot him to rags. But they don't kill him outright. The skiff's sinkin under him, and the last thing they hear is him tryin to sing "Dixie". Then the boats gone under, and theres no sign of Mason, and they never find no body. " Carlin paused for a drink.
"That was 1863, and to this day, theres some folks say that on a still moonlite night, sometimes you hear a distant voice singin Dixie, and some have seen a shadowy figure in a skiff rowing cross the river."
There was total silence around the campfire, and a piece of wood popped in the fire and my bud Ev gave a start, and Bobby Ryerson almost fell off the stump he was sitting on.
"I'm turnin in boys" old man Carlin said as he walked off toward the cabin he stayed at.
That night we turned in, but 12 year old boys being boys, it was not long before a few of us wanted to steal down to the river. Just out of curiousity of course. We did'nt believe in ghosts. We whispered among ourselves and Bobby was not too keen on the idea.
"Uh-Uh, I'mmm not going down ther alone!" he stated.
""Your not going alone, we'll all go" Ev said.
We all stood in the pale moonlight, shoulder to shoulder to give each other some courage and slowly walked down to the rivers edge. It was a quiet still night, and our young ears strained to hear the faint sounds of Dixie on the night air. We had made it almost to the waters edge, with just a thin screen of brush twixt us and the gleaming water. We had just stated pushing through the bushes when a sudden loud "Gronk" and a flash of something silvery filled the air in front of us.
I don't know what the land speed record is for the 100 yard dash, but I do know that night four 12 year old boy scouts beat whatever the record was. Like cartoon charaters whose blurring feet never touch the ground, we made it back to our tents faster than a speeding bullet. Meanwhile a large great blue heron flapped away downriver, "Gronking" his horse cry, telling all the world about the four scouts who had disturbed his night roosting. With fast beating hearts, sleep seemed a long time comming to four scouts that night.
The next day dawned sunny and clear, and the river seemed still and mysterious. We tried to imagine what lay benith the calm surface, with an old rotting skiff. Mr. Van and Mr. Carlin seemed in good spritis, and shared a laugh over something while talking over to the side of the campground. We broke camp and cleaned up any trace of our being there, and hiked out to the cars and waiting parents. The weekend finished without further incident.
It was not untill many years later, while visiting Mr. Van when I was home from the army on leave, I mentioned the campout in question. He laughed, and then told me the whole thing was made up by Mr. Carlin and himself, to keep us away from any unsupervised mischief with the boats at night. He then told us that he and old Carlin had watched our slow walk down to the river and our flight at the heron being flushed at our aproach with very great amusement. They had great trouble stiffling thier laughter that night. We had a good laugh then at the whole thing.
It was the only time I knew Mr. Van to be less than honest, but I guess I forgive him!
It was a summer weekend that Mr. Van, our scoutmaster found a new place for us to campout. Up and down the river there were private fishing clubs, with wooded grounds right on the water. In the late 1960's there was a movement to make the property all along the Potomac river a National Park, and it ultimatly became one, and the private clubs and camps vanished under the bulldozer as ordered by the courts, to let nature re-claim the river bank.
But the summer we camped out, all this was off in the future. Mr. Van had made arangements for us to be able to camp at a private fishing club, and have use of the canoe's and skiffs for fishing, and the dock for swiming. The cabins would be off limits to us so we'd tent out.
Even though there was a private drive to the club, Mr. Van believed it would help build charater if we had to hike in, so we humped our canvas Yukka packs up the then overgrown C&O canal trail a couple of miles to the camp. In no time we had our canvas pup tents set up and kindling gatherd for the nights fire, and it was time for fun. As usual Mr. Van had us leave our hatchets at home, and we did all camp chores with our official scout knives. He was a stickler for drilling us in being prepared for anything with just what was in our pocket. I guess if Mr. Van would have been born a couple decades later, he'd have been one of the poineers of the ultralight backpacking movment.
The club was deserted that weekend expept for the old care taker, a Mr. Carlin. Mr. Carlin had been at the fishing club long enough that legend had it, he was there to greet John Smith when Smith was up exploring from Jamestown, down the south end of the Chesapeake. A stooped white haired old man, he was a bit on the gruff side, and he gave us a list of do's and don't with the club canoe's. I guess he did'nt want one of us drifting off and he's have to chase us clear down to Great Falls to get the canoe back.
Lecture over, we had a good afternoon of activities paddling canoes, fishing for dinner, swiming in the slow moving river. Some of us had a good catch to clean for dinner, and Mr. Van was going to show us how to cook the fish without modern things like tin foil. He'd show us how to pack the fish in mud and put it in the coals of the fire and bake it. That evening we set to work getting our fish ready to feast upon, and many a Camillus, Schrade, and Imperial scout knife cleaned the evenings dinner. Some of us had brought a bottle cap to screw to a stick for scaling. To this day, I still like to use a bottle cap off a beer to scale a fish, it does such a wonderful job. And a predrilled bottle cap and a screw takes up so little space in an outdoors kit.
That evening as the dusk settled and we washed our mess kits and pocket knives in the river and dried everything thoughly, we gathered round the campfire for some Ovaltine. Mr. Carlin joined us, and even had his own Ovaltine in his own special thermos. He must have really liked his Ovaltine because the more he drank out of his thermos, the more he relaxed and loosened up he became. It was then he told us about the phantom boatman.
Mr. Carlin sat in a folding chair on one side of the fire, and took a long pull of his Ovaltine.
"Now when it gets to be full dark, I don't want to see any of you boys down by the river. Sometimes theres things that make no sense out there, and you boys stay in your tents and get some sleep" he said.
"What things?" asked Everett Snyder.
"Jist you stay off the river tonight," Mr. Carlin said, "You boys had your fun today, now leave it at that".
Of course boys being boys there was not an end to that, and with a great deal of pestering we wore him down.
"Okay," he said, "If you really want to know, I'll be tellin ya. Jist don be goin home to your mamas telling hows I scared ya." He paused for another drink of his Ovaltine.
"When the rivers calm, and its a full moon like tonight, some folks say the ghost of old Mason is out on the river in his skiff. Mason was an old farmer lived here back durring the war of Northern Agression. The island out there is named for him, he had a cornfield on it. Well old Mason may have lived here in Maryland, but he was born over there in Virginia. He moved here because his wife wanted to be close to family. When the war between the states came, he wanted to go back to serve the south, but he was asked by some to stay and be a part of a Confederate spy ring. Old Mason had a ferry service across the river and he could row over to deliver messages to those who needed the information he carried. Some folks say he even carried information for John Mosby and Jeb Stuart."
Mr. Carlin took another drink, and it was quiet around the fire.
"Well," he went on, "one night the Federal troops were waiting on him here because they got onto him. Don't know how, but they was waitin on him. He gets close to the shore and somebody yells halt, and old Mason tries to row back to the Virginia side. A whole bunch of .58 Springfields open up on him and shoot him to rags. But they don't kill him outright. The skiff's sinkin under him, and the last thing they hear is him tryin to sing "Dixie". Then the boats gone under, and theres no sign of Mason, and they never find no body. " Carlin paused for a drink.
"That was 1863, and to this day, theres some folks say that on a still moonlite night, sometimes you hear a distant voice singin Dixie, and some have seen a shadowy figure in a skiff rowing cross the river."
There was total silence around the campfire, and a piece of wood popped in the fire and my bud Ev gave a start, and Bobby Ryerson almost fell off the stump he was sitting on.
"I'm turnin in boys" old man Carlin said as he walked off toward the cabin he stayed at.
That night we turned in, but 12 year old boys being boys, it was not long before a few of us wanted to steal down to the river. Just out of curiousity of course. We did'nt believe in ghosts. We whispered among ourselves and Bobby was not too keen on the idea.
"Uh-Uh, I'mmm not going down ther alone!" he stated.
""Your not going alone, we'll all go" Ev said.
We all stood in the pale moonlight, shoulder to shoulder to give each other some courage and slowly walked down to the rivers edge. It was a quiet still night, and our young ears strained to hear the faint sounds of Dixie on the night air. We had made it almost to the waters edge, with just a thin screen of brush twixt us and the gleaming water. We had just stated pushing through the bushes when a sudden loud "Gronk" and a flash of something silvery filled the air in front of us.
I don't know what the land speed record is for the 100 yard dash, but I do know that night four 12 year old boy scouts beat whatever the record was. Like cartoon charaters whose blurring feet never touch the ground, we made it back to our tents faster than a speeding bullet. Meanwhile a large great blue heron flapped away downriver, "Gronking" his horse cry, telling all the world about the four scouts who had disturbed his night roosting. With fast beating hearts, sleep seemed a long time comming to four scouts that night.
The next day dawned sunny and clear, and the river seemed still and mysterious. We tried to imagine what lay benith the calm surface, with an old rotting skiff. Mr. Van and Mr. Carlin seemed in good spritis, and shared a laugh over something while talking over to the side of the campground. We broke camp and cleaned up any trace of our being there, and hiked out to the cars and waiting parents. The weekend finished without further incident.
It was not untill many years later, while visiting Mr. Van when I was home from the army on leave, I mentioned the campout in question. He laughed, and then told me the whole thing was made up by Mr. Carlin and himself, to keep us away from any unsupervised mischief with the boats at night. He then told us that he and old Carlin had watched our slow walk down to the river and our flight at the heron being flushed at our aproach with very great amusement. They had great trouble stiffling thier laughter that night. We had a good laugh then at the whole thing.
It was the only time I knew Mr. Van to be less than honest, but I guess I forgive him!
Another great story!
:thumbup: