Fort Delaware, Very Much Alive
My sister and I wanted to have a ghostly experience around Halloween last year, and we visited a supposedly haunted Civil War prison named Fort Delaware. To begin our adventure, we had to take a ferry across the mouth of the river and past the marsh in order to get to Pea Patch Island. I noticed our tour guide had on rubber boots. I hate getting my feet wet.
Taking my steps gingerly, I crossed the gangplank onto a dirt and tile walkway where the tread in my sneakers filled with squishy soil until we hit the well-kept lawn. Lovely, I thought to myself as I dragged my shoes across the grass to wipe off some of the mud.
I didn’t know what to expect tonight, but I was pretty sure my feet would be cold and wet.
When we arrived safely at our destination, our group of twelve assembled under a tent that protected us from the light rain. A man in a black sweatshirt with a purple logo began, “Hi, I’m Jack, and I’ll be one of your guides tonight.”
Jack isn’t from the Delaware Department of Natural Resources and Environmental Control. He’s part of the Diamond State Ghost Investigators, which partners with DENREC to give visitors a history lesson along with a glimpse into the paranormal world.
Jack is a full head taller than everyone else in the group. He is dressed in a hunter green fleece pullover and jeans. His surfer dude, bleached blond hair, golden brown tan, and fit upper body were at odds with my idea of a ghostbuster.
“Hello, I’m Gladys.” Once again, my preconceived notions are shot. She is not a goth-obsessed, black makeup-wearing woman. “I’m going to be the pest that keeps us moving along. Thank you for being here. A little about me: I’m from Bear, less than ten miles from here.”
Gladys is wearing waterproof Wellies, and she looks to be in her mid-thirties with blond, permed, streaked hair. She had on the same pullover as Jack, with navy chinos that looked cute tucked into her dry boots.
“I’ve been documenting the existence of paranormal phenomena for ten years,” she began. “Right now, I’m about to defend my PhD dissertation in parapsychology from the University of Virginia’s School of Medicine with critical research that came from Fort Delaware.”
Impressive credentials, I noted. She looked over to the third member of the team.
“And I’m Brad, bringing up the rear.” Brad tipped his hat to us. “I’m your DENREC historian who can answer questions about the engineering, construction, history, and lore of Fort Delaware. How is everyone tonight?”
The crowd waved or said it felt great. He had a pleasant oval face with medium skin, hair, and eyes. Brad’s unremarkable looks except for the contentment he conveyed. He looks like my idea of a spirit-finder. Yet he’s the engineer, I mused.
“Fort Delaware was conceived long before the Civil War began. During the War of 1812, the newly established Department of War saw the need for a military fortress to guard the mouth of the river and places like Philadelphia.” His brown eyes survey the crowd.
“A less grand version was envisioned in 1817 after a wooden one didn’t work out well.” He paused for a laugh. It didn’t land.
Brad goes on to talk about the obstacles the builders encountered and how this fortress was unlike any other. The reasons were numerous, and I zoned out until we got to the part about the Civil War.
“We may never know exactly how many people died in Fort Delaware during the Civil War and its aftermath.” Brad’s voice becomes somber, and he bows his head slightly.
“There were over thirteen thousand POWs incarcerated here at one time. Of those, twenty-four hundred souls died. We also have to include women who perished in childbirth and babies who succumbed to childhood diseases.”
The gentle raindrops make me think of the buckets of tears that must have fallen for those who died in this sorrowful place.
Brad’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “By the time the prison was functional in 1860 it was considered the state-of-the-art prison for war criminals.”
I learned that throughout its construction the project suffered from setbacks that included a court-martial for poor building practices and concluded with a fire. I found it ironic that the prison held more Confederate soldiers than it ever did foreign POWs. It made me wonder if the original architect, Captain Delafield, ever imagined that the first prisoners held in his fort would be born on US soil.
Jack stepped in to speak. “As with most wars, there’s money to be made by someone.” Rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, he licked his lips. I noticed my sister’s eyebrow’s raised as she grinned a little lasciviously at his gestures. I made a note for future teasing.
“Fortunately, it didn’t all go to the top three percent.” He paused and got a chuckle and flashed a brilliant smile. “This brick fortress provided a significant income to women in surrounding townships and hamlets.”
Jack pointed to a display with period reproductions of women photographed in stern poses. They once lived in Delaware City, near Pea Patch Island and made their living at Fort Delaware. DENREC had meticulously matched the photos with records and created small biographies for each of them. I hoped we’d be given a chance to get a view into their lives at some point.
“On a daily basis, scores of staff washed laundry, cooked, cleaned, nursed, and tutored the children residing here. Their stories are hidden within the stone walls of this gray, granite medieval fortress. I’ve even heard the cries of the dying here.”
My sister senses my eyeroll and nudges me. Sitting in my chair I keep my latest observation to myself and refocus my attention on Jack.
“One man, whose soul has seen no rest, walks these brick cellars looking for the brother he promised his mother he’d take care of, but has yet to find him.”
With a move that looked kind of like he was demonstrating high-end cars at the auto show, Jack smiles again and motions to Gladys.
“That’s right. You may see him walking the halls of the prison cell where he died looking for his brother.” Her compassion filled the room.
“These are the tools we’ll use to detect spirits tonight.” She held up a few L-shaped metal bars called dowsing rods and a presence detector that looked like an old fashioned remote.
“Let’s hope the spirits want to share their evening with you. It isn’t always the case. If that happens, try not to react negatively. Keep your conversation to a minimum. You’re guests in their space, remember that.”
The tools disappeared into a dark velvet shoulder bag. “Once we get inside, I’ll demonstrate how to use these. I hope that you will not only learn about life in Fort Delaware when it was at its busiest, but also experience the unfinished business of those souls who live here.” Gladys was a good teacher who knew how to keep the lecture short and sweet.
Jack signaled for us to rise from our seats. “Everybody ready?”
We exited the tent with Brad in the lead. “We’re going to briefly walk through the artillery magazines that held cannon and gunpowder.” His gait was perfect for those of us with short legs.
“When the Civil War turned and Union victory was assured, these areas were converted into cells. It was drafty, and naturally a breeding ground for diseases like tuberculosis.”
The group moved into one of the large brick rooms set off with graceful wide arches and portholes that could house cannons. Brad talked about the medical care that awaited the young men unfortunate enough not to die on the battlefield.
As he spoke my shoulders droop, giving way to the heaviness that blanketed the air. It’s easy to imagine the horrors our nation went through not so long ago. I said a silent prayer for the souls who died here.
“Pull out your phones and start taking photos or videos,” Jack said quietly with a low husky voice. “If there are any spirits here you won’t see them with the naked eye. They’ll show up as blue dots on your camera’s image gallery.”
Immediately we all pulled out our phones and we hear the click, click, click of happy fingers searching for blue orbs. The flashes going off made the prison cells look like a disco from the 1980s. Because the light was bothering my eyes, I retreated into a corner near the doorway and waited until we were ready to move to the next stop.
“We’re visiting the officer’s residences through the servant’s entrance. Only officers, visitors, and immediate family members were allowed through the main entrance. Careful, the steps are narrow.”
Jack leads us up a stairwell that goes into another section of the fort that’s on the third floor. As people in my group passed, I snuck glances at their photos and was gobsmacked. There must have been six or eight blue lights of the same size but different intensities randomly grouped together in the corners. In most of them was a single blue light in the middle of the room.
Tommy loved the restaurant business and wanted to be part of the region’s best eatery when it opened. He dedicated himself to learning about French food and wine. When he finally believed he was good enough at understanding how flavors blend to make the perfect meal, he applied.
His first interview was rigorous, but Tommy knew how to prepare tableside salads and desserts. He could also set a formal table of seventeen pieces, right down to the fish knife and fork. They wanted him to come back.
He was allowed to shadow for three nights. Next, he had to return to be a busboy for two dinner services. His last test was filling in as a dishwasher for a shift. After the restaurant got a full week’s worth of free labor from him, Tommy was offered Tuesday lunch and dinner.
Gradually he secured five dinner shifts. It had taken two years, but he had earned his spot. He knew his check average was the highest in the place. He also understood Chef secretly loathed the idea that an American waiter made more money than his fellow countrymen.
There were times Tommy felt mixed about his efforts.
“Madame’s steak, medium-rare with a Bearnaise the color of the sun and as light as a cloud.” Tommy smiled with cast-down eyes like a proud parent showing off their child while trying to appear humble.
“Oh, Tommy. Even if this steak wasn’t delicious, which of course it is, you would make me believe it was unmatched anywhere.” Madame had a bit of a crush on the gentle redhead with sad blue eyes.
She enjoyed being able to brighten his day with little compliments. She loved to see his eyes crinkle just a little when she said nice things. More than the meal itself, she believed they fed each other.
“But Madame, it is unmatched."
His internal conversation was more honest. It’s made by a man unmatched for the venom he’s allowed to spew in the name of mastery. Anyone can learn to make a Bearnaise, it’s a recipe for God’s sake. What I do is art and craft; I sell this stuff.
After arranging the table and freeing it of anything that may offend the visual appeal of the meal, Tommy stepped back. “I see you may need a glass of red wine to accompany your steak. Would you like one?”
Glancing at her empty champagne glass, Madame agreed. “That sounds perfect. What would you suggest?”
Tommy took a deep breath. “This beef is grass-fed and often takes on herbaceous undertones. That’s why our Bearnaise works so well with it. Tonight I have two good choices for you to consider.” He loved this part of the sale.
“I have a full-bodied French Cabernet that cuts through the unctuous aged steak beautifully. It is an appropriate pairing. An equally wonderful choice is our 2015 Grand Reserve Rioja which fills your mouth with leather and smoke. The question is, do you feel like being proper or rebellious?”
The Rioja was three dollars a glass more.
She blushed. “What would you have me do?”
Tommy appeared to consider her question as he took a quick look around the dining room to see if his other tables needed his attention. Then he glanced at the kitchen.
Looking back at Madame he said in a conspiratorial tone, “A rebel has no regrets.” His palate became tinged with a bittersweet flavor. Rebels also don’t accept abuse.
“You see what I mean? I can’t resist your teasing. The Rioja it is.”
Pleased with her selection, he excused himself to put in the order at the bar.
He had cooled off during his interlude in the dining room. No longer sweating, Tommy ventured into the kitchen to check on his appetizers for table seven.
“Checking on seven, one escargot, one Caesar, two bruschetta.” The table was given their cocktails seven minutes ago. According to Chef, the apps should be at the window, now. He was not happy with the customers’ choices.
“What stupid idiot comes to a French restaurant and orders Italian food? It is an outrage that it’s even on the menu. Did you explain this to them, American Imbacile?”
“Yes, Chef.” Tommy thought to himself that it was unfortunate for Chef that the owner didn’t agree.
“Where’s my escargot?” Chef was miffed that any server had to check on an order. Hearing this one inquire, made him boil. “I need it at the window. Now!”
He looked at the cold station for the salad and tomato compote laden crostini. The fresh herbs were being sprinkled on the top of the appetizer making it look picture perfect. “I should put ketchup on it.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Claude waved off Tommy imperiously. “Go, are you happy now?”
Yes, Chef.
