About midnight a great commotion was raised outside the house by the tramping of horses, rattling of sabres, and loud voices. We were surrounded by a troop of cavalry (our cavalry). They were very excited, and they threatened us with everything, until I took the Commandant aside and made him aware of who we were; even then he soundly upbraided me for giving him such a scare. He finally departed.
The next day we went over to the Chesapeake Bay side of the peninsula. When we arrived there we divided into two parties, in order to approach the harbor from two directions. When we arrived on the bluff (about twenty feet above water) my party of four was first to discover that there were a number of sailing vessels at anchor in the little bay. What to do was the question. I determined that we four must capture the whole fleet. Which we did in this way: As quietly as possible we possessed ourselves of one vessel and from it, under the persuasive influence of our revolvers, we compelled the men on all the other vessels to go below deck. Then we searched the vessels in detail, detaining only the "Frances E. Burgess."
This harbor was an ideal place for such "traders," i. e., blockade-runners. It was perfectly land-locked, could not be seen from the bay, and was very hard to get in or out of; it was impassable for gunboats, and so it was well chosen for the business.
The Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries are indented almost continuously with smaller estuaries, which make excellent hiding places. Beautiful places for residence, and likely spots for romance.
While laying at Point Lookout on our way home a severe March storm came up, dreadful to a land lubber like me. The point is where the Potomac empties into the Chesapeake. Storms are felt there nearly as greatly as at Old Point. It blew so hard I feared it would blow us over onto the wharf. The water was up to the wharf's surface, and there was no sleep for us that night. Next morning, when we started for Baltimore (ninety miles away), as we were rounding the Point a big boiling sea took the yawl of the "Burgess," davits and all, throwing it high in the air. But to turn back spelled death. Our pilot was Captain Cannon, an old bay pilot. He did not conceal that he was frightened. He said he never had seen such weather. We breasted that storm for about twelve hours. The only encouragement from Captain Cannon was that if our boat could live until we got under the influence of North Point we would be all right; we lived.
The heavens were never more unkind in appearance. I did not spend much time in gazing that way, for the awful waves occupied me. Captain Cannon kept the vessel as near head on as possible, first on top of the wave and then in a trough of the sea. Half the time our screw was revolving in the air. Everything loose on deck washed away. I never had a better chance to contemplate my past and future than in that twelve hours. I remember my great regret was that if we should go down, no one could know what became of us, for I had not reported at Point Lookout and we were unknown on the peninsula. The severity of this storm became a matter of history. Seagoing steamers remained tied to their wharves. The shores of the Chesapeake Bay were strewn with wrecks. The "Adriatic" (our vessel) was iron bottomed and drew six feet of water. The Chesapeake can kick up a sea, give it a northeaster, that would gratify the most hungry tar.
When we were opposite the mouth of the Severn river we saw the steamer "Nellie Pentz" headed out, her bow tossing up and down in the air like a cork. She did not dare come out, to certain wreck, dared not turn around, so she backed up the river again. When we got under the lee of North Point I became courageous and generous; off towards the west was in view a schooner, on the rocks. Her crew of four men were in the rigging. I proposed to Captain Cannon to rescue them. He said it was impossible, as our boat drew more water than theirs and would be wrecked before we could reach them. However, we notified the revenue cutter and they were rescued. When we arrived at Baltimore (nine o'clock P.M.) the wharves were afloat. The big Bay Line steamers, sea-going vessels, had not left the wharf. They had not dared to venture out in the storm our little eighty-foot craft had passed through.
