steamed in to Old Point Comfort, in the lee of the great, rambling Hotel Chamberlin.
It was a bright sunny morning, and Val, leaning against the rail of the steamer, with Eddie standing just behind him, enjoyed the sail thoroughly. Chesapeake Bay had never been so sparkling, so calm; and to the right, in the distance, the grim, sullen guns of Fortress Monroe brooded over the Bay and Hampton Roads, powerful, menacing and silent; here and there an impertinent three-inch gun showed its black shield and saucy muzzle. Far over towards Lynhaven Straits is Fort Wool, and towards Norfolk is the narrow strip of land dignified by the name of Willoughby Spit, a four mile splinter of Virginia sand that at no place is so broad that one could not stand in its center and throw a half brick into the waters on either side.
It awoke memories in Val. During the early days of the war he had been stationed at the Officers’ Training School at Fortress Monroe—the school of the big guns. But Fortress Monroe, and Old Point Comfort on a sunny day, approached from the sea—these are not things to forget quickly. Val’s blood quickened as, far inland, he caught a sudden glimpse of the parade ground, bordered by the old brown and red brick barracks; to the right of that Battery Parrott reared its menacing bastion, and further inland he knew exactly where the mortar batteries were stationed, great black steel bulldogs that yawned at the sky and threatened the stars.
In the foreground was the Hotel Chamberlin, which Val decided to make his headquarters.
It was only a few minutes’ ride from Hampton, near where the Pomeroy estate was, he knew; it should be central enough for all his activities. He looked to-
