ROUTE TO THE SEA ISLANDS OF GEORGIA. -- STORM-BOUND ON
GREEN ISLAND. -- OSSABAW ISLAND. -- ST. CATHERINE'S SOUND.
-- SAPELO ISLAND. -- THE MUD OF MUD RIVER. -- NIGHT IN A
NEGRO CABIN. -- "DE SHOUTINGS" ON DOBOY ISLAND. --
BROUGHTON ISLAND. -- ST. SIMON'S AND JEKYL ISLANDS. --
INTERVIEW WITH AN ALLIGATOR.-- A NIGHT IN JOINTER
HAMMOCK. -- CUMBERLAND ISLAND AND ST. MARY'S RIVER. --
FAREWELL TO THE SEA.
On February 24th, the voyage was again
resumed. My route lay through the coast
islands of Georgia, as far south as the state
boundary, Cumberland Sound, and the St.
Mary's River. This part of the coast is very
interesting, and is beautifully delineated on the Coast
Charts No. 56-57 of the United States Coast
Survey, which were published the year after my
voyage ended.
Steamers run from Savannah through these
interesting interior water-ways to the ports of
the St. John's River, Florida, and by taking this
route the traveller can escape a most
uninteresting railroad journey from Savannah to
Jacksonville, where sandy soils and pine forests present
an uninviting prospect to the eye. A little
dredging, in a few places along the steamboat
route, should be done at national cost, to make
this a more convenient and expeditious tidal
route for vessels.
Leaving Greenwich, Bonaventure, and
Thunderbolt behind me on the upland, the canoe
entered the great marshy district of the coast along
the Wilmington and Skiddaway rivers to
Skiddaway Narrows, which is a contracted, crooked
watercourse connecting the Skiddaway with the
Burnside River. The low lands were made
picturesque by hammocks, some of which were
cultivated.
In leaving the Burnside for the broad Vernon
River, as the canoe approached the sea, one of
the sudden tempests which frequently vex these
coast-waters arose, and drove me to a hammock
in the marshes of Green Island, on the left bank
and opposite the mouth of the Little Ogeechee
River. Green Island has been well cultivated
in the past, but is now only the summer home
of Mr. Styles, its owner. Two or three families
of negroes inhabited the cabins and looked after
the property of the absent proprietor.
I waded to my knees in the mud before the
canoe could be landed, and, as it stormed all
night, I slept on the floor of the humble cot of
the negro Echard Holmes, having first treated
the household to crackers and coffee. The
negroes gathered from other points to examine the
canoe, and, hearing that I was from the north,
one grizzly old darky begged me to "carry"
his complaints to Washington.
"De goberment," he said, "has been berry
good to wees black folks. It gib us our
freedom, -- all berry well; but dar is an noder ting
wees wants; dat is, wees wants General Grant to
make tings stashionary. De storekeeper gibs a
poor nigger only one dollar fur bushel corn,
sometimes not so much. Den he makes poor nigger
gib him tree dollars fur bag hominy, sometimes
more'n dat. Wees wants de goberment to make
tings stashionary. Make de storekeeper gib
black man one dollar and quarter fur de bushel
of corn, and make him sell de poor nigger de
bag hominy fur much less dan tree dollars.
Make all tings stashionary. Den dar's one ting
more. Tell de goberment to do fur poor darky
'nodder ting, -- make de ole massa say to me,
You's been good slave in ole times, -- berry
good slave; now I gib you one, two, tree, five
acres of land for yoursef.' Den ole nigger be
happy, and massa be happy too; den bof of um
bees happy. Hab you a leetle bacca fur dis ole
man?"
From the Styles mansion it was but three
miles to Ossabaw Sound. Little Don Island
and Raccoon Key are in the mouth of the
Vernon. Between the two flat islands is a deep
passage through which the tides rush with great
force; it is called Hell Gate. On the south
side of Raccoon Key the Great Ogeechee River
pours its strong volume of water into Ossabaw
Sound.
I entered the Great Ogeechee through the
Don Island passage, and saw sturgeon-fishermen
at work with their nets along the shores of
Ossabaw, one of the sea islands. Ossabaw Island
lies between Ossabaw and St. Catherine's
sounds, and is eight miles long and six miles
wide. The side towards the sea is firm upland,
diversified with glades, while the western
portion is principally marshes cut up by numerous
creeks. All the sea islands produce the long
staple cotton known as sea-island cotton, and
before the war a very valuable variety. A few
negroes occupy the places abandoned by the
proprietor, and eke out a scanty livelihood.
There are many deer in the forests of
Ossabaw Island. One of its late proprietors
informed me that there must be at least ten
thousand wild hogs there, as they have been
multiplying for many years, and but few were shot
by the negroes. The domestic hog becomes a
very shy animal if left to himself for two or
three years. The hunter may search for him
without a dog almost in vain, though the woods
may contain large numbers of these creatures.
The weather was now delightful, and had I
possessed a light tent I would not have sought
shelter at night in a human habitation anywhere
along the route. The malaria which arises from
fresh-water sinks in many of the sea islands
during the summer months, did not now make
camping-out dangerous to the health. Crossing
the Great Ogeechee above Middle Marsh Island,
I followed the river to the creek called Florida
Passage, through which I reached Bear River,
with its wide and long reaches, and descended it
to St. Catherine's Sound.
Now the sea opened to full view as the canoe
crossed the tidal ocean gateway two miles to
North Newport River. When four miles up the
Newport I entered Johnson's Creek, which flows
from North to South Newport rivers. By
means of the creek and the South Newport
River, my little craft was navigated down to the
southern end of St. Catherine's Island to the
sound of the same name, and here another inlet
was crossed at sunset, and High Point of Sapelo
Island was reached.
From among the green trees of the high bluff
a mansion, which exhibited the taste of its
builder, rose imposingly. This was, however,
but one of the many edifices that are tombs of
buried hopes. The proprietor, a northern
gentleman, after the war purchased one-third of
Sapelo Island for fifty-five thousand dollars in
gold. He attempted, as many other enterprising
northerners had done, to give the late slave a
chance to prove his worth as a freedman to the
world.
"Pay the negro wages; treat him as you
would treat a white man, and he will reward
your confidence with industry and gratitude."
So thought and so acted the large-hearted
northern colonel. He built a large mansion, engaged
his freedmen, paid them for their work, and
treated them like men. The result was ruin,
and simply because he had not paused to
consider that the negro had not been born a
freedman, and that the demoralization of slavery was
still upon him. Beside which facts we must
also place certain ethnological and moral
principles which exist in the pure negro type, and
which are entirely overlooked by those
philanthropic persons who have rarely, if ever, seen a
full-blooded negro, but affect to understand him
through his half-white brother, the mulatto.
Mud River opened its wide mouth before me
as I left the inlet, but the tide was very low, and
Mud River is a sticking-point in the passage of
the Florida steamers. It became so dark that I
was obliged to get near the shore to make a
landing. My attempt was made opposite a
negro's house which was on a bluff but the water
had receded into the very narrow channel of
Mud River, and I was soon stuck fast on a flat.
Getting overboard, I sank to my knees in the
soft mud. I called for help, and was answered
by a tall darky, who, with a double-barrelled gun,
left his house and stood in a threatening manner
on the shore. I appealed for help, and said I
wished to go ashore. "Den cum de best way
you can," he answered in a surly manner. "What
duz you want 'bout here, any way? What duz
you want on Choc'late Plantation, anyhow?"
I explained to this ugly black that I was a
northern man, travelling to see the country, and
wished to camp near his house for protection,
and promised, if he would aid me to land, that I
would convince him of my honest purpose by
showing him the contents of my canoe, and
would prove to him that I was no enemy to the
colored man. I told him of the maps, the
letters, and the blankets which were in the little
canoe now so fast in the mud, and what a loss it
would be if some marauder, passing on the next
high tide, should steal my boat.
The fellow slowly lowered his gun, which had
been held in a threatening position, and said:
"Nobody knows his friends in dese times. I'se
had a boat stealed by some white man, and spose
you was cumin to steal sumting else. Dese folks
on de riber can't be trussed. Dey steals
ebryting. Heaps o' bad white men 'bout nowadnys
sens de war. Steals a nigger's chickens, boats,
and ebryting dey lays hands on. Up at de big
house on High Pint (norfen gemmin built him,
and den got gusted wid cotton-planting and went
home) de white folks goes and steals all de
cheers and beds, and ebryting out ob de house.
Sens de war all rascals."
It was a wearisome and dangerous job for me
to navigate the canoe over the soft, slippery mud
to the firm shore, as there were unfathomed
places in the flats which might ingulf or entomb
me at any step; but the task was completed, and
I stood face to face with the now half tranquillized
negro. Before removing the mud that hung upon
me to the waist in heavy clods, I showed the
darky my chart-case, and explained the object
of my mission. He was very intelligent, and,
after asking a few questions, said to his son:
"Take dis gun to de house;" and then turning
to me, continued: "Dis is de sort ob man I'se am.
I'se knows how to treat a friend like a white man,
and I'se can fight wid my knife or my fist or my
gun anybody who 'poses on me. Now I'se knows
you is a gemmin I'se won't treat you like a
nigger. Gib you best I'se got. Cum to de house."
When inside of the house of this resolute
black, every attention was paid to my comfort.
The cargo of the paper canoe was piled up in
one corner of the room. The wife and children
sat before the bright fire and listened to the story
of my cruise. I doctored the sick pickaninny of
my host, and made the family a pot of strong
coffee. This negro could read, but he asked me to
address a label he wished to attach to a bag of
Sea-Island cotton of one hundred and sixty
pounds' weight, which he had raised, and was
to ship by the steamboat Lizzie Baker to a
mercantile house in Savannah.
As I rested upon my blankets, which were
spread upon the floor of the only comfortable
room in the house, at intervals during the night
the large form of the black stole softly in and bent
over me to see if I were well covered up, and he
as noiselessly piled live-oak sticks upon the dying
embers to dry up the dampness which rose from
the river.
He brought me a basin of cold water in the
morning, and not possessing a towel clean enough
for a white man, he insisted that I should use his
wife's newly starched calico apron to wipe my
face and hands upon. When I offered him
money for the night's accommodation and the
excellent oyster breakfast that his wife prepared
for me, he said: "You may gib my wife
whateber pleases you for her cooking, but nuffin for
de food or de lodgings. I'se no nigger, ef I is
a cullud man."
It was now Saturday, and as I rowed through
the marsh thoroughfare called New Tea Kettle
Creek, which connects Mud River with Doboy
Sound near the southern end of Sapelo Island, I
calculated the chances of finding a resting-place
for Sunday. If I went up to the mainland
through North and Darien rivers to the town of
Darien, my past experience taught me that
instead of enjoying rest I would become a forced
exhibiter of the paper canoe to crowds of people.
To avoid this, I determined to pass the day in
the first hammock that would afford shelter and
fire-wood; but as the canoe entered Doboy
Sound, which, with its inlet, separates Sapelo
from the almost treeless Wolf Island, the wind
rose with such violence that I was driven to take
refuge upon Doboy Island, a small marshy
territory, the few firm acres of which were occupied
by the settlement and steam saw-mill of Messrs.
Hiltons, Foster & Gibson, a northern lumber firm.
Foreign and American vessels were anchored
under the lee of protecting marshes, awaiting
their cargoes of sawed deals and hewn timber;
while rafts of logs, which had been borne upon
the currents of the Altamaha and other streams
from the far interior regions of pine forests, were
collected here and manufactured into lumber.
One of the proprietors, a northern gentleman,
occupied with his family a very comfortable
cottage near the store and steam saw-mill. As the
Doboy people had learned of the approach of the
paper canoe from southern newspapers, the little
craft was identified as soon as it touched the low
shores of the island.
I could not find any kind of hotel or
lodging-place in this settlement of Yankees, Canadians,
and negroes, and was about to leave it in search
of some lone hammock, when a mechanic kindly
offered me the floor of an unfinished room in an
unfinished house, in which I passed my Sunday
trying to rest, and obtaining my meals at a
restaurant kept by a negro.
A member of the Spaulding family, the
owners of a part of Sapelo Island, called upon me,
and seeing me in such inhospitable quarters,
with fleas in hundreds invading my blankets,
urged me to return with him to his island
domain, where he might have an opportunity to
make me comfortable. The kind gentleman
little knew how hardened I had become to such
annoyances as hard floors and the active flea.
Such inconveniences had been robbed of their
discomforts by the kind voices of welcome
which, with few exceptions, came from every
southern gentleman whose territory had been
invaded by the paper canoe.
There was but one place of worship on the
island, and that was under the charge of the
negroes. Accepting the invitation of a nephew of
the resident New England proprietor of Doboy
Island to attend "de shoutings," we set out on
Sunday evening for the temporary place of negro
worship. A negro girl, decked with ribbons,
called across the street to a young colored
delinquent: "You no goes to de shoutings, Sam!
Why fur? You neber hears me shout, honey,
and dey do say I shouts so pretty. Cum 'long
wid me now."
A few blacks had collected in the small shanty
and the preacher, an old freedman, was about to
read a hymn as we entered. At first the singing
was low and monotonous, but it gradually swelled
to a high pitch as the negroes became excited.
Praying followed the singing. Then the black
preacher set aside "de shouting" part of the
service for what he considered more important
interests, and discoursed upon things spiritual
and temporal in this wise:
"Now I'se got someting to tell all' of yese
berry 'portant." Here two young blacks got up
to leave the room, but were rudely stopped by a
negro putting his back against the door. "No,
no," chuckled the preacher, "yese don't git off
dat a-way. I'se prepared fur de ockasun.
Nobody gits out ob dis room till I'se had my say.
Jes you set down dar. Now I'se goin' to do one
ting, and it's dis: I'se goin' to spread de Gospel
all ober dis yere island of Doboy. Now's de
time; talked long 'nuf, too long, 'bout buildin'
de church. Whar's yere pride? whar is it? Got
none! Look at dis room for a church! Look
at dis pulpit -- one flour-barrel wid one candle
stickin' out ob a bottle! Dat's yere pulpit. Got
no pride! Shamed o' yeresefs! Here white
men comes way from New York to hear de
Gospel in dis yere room wid flour-barrel fur
pulpit, and empty bottle fur candlestick. No
more talk now. All go to work. De mill
pebple will gib us lumber fur de new church;
odders mus' gib money. Tell ebbry cullud
pusson on de island to cum on Tuesday and carry
lumber, and gib ebbry one what he can, -- one
dollar apiece, or ten cents if got no more. De
white gemmins we knows whar to find when we
wants dar money, but de cullud ones is berry
slippery when de hat am passed round."
At the termination of the preacher's
exhortation, I proposed to my companion that I should
present the minister with a dollar for his new
church, but, with a look of dismay, he replied:
"Oh, don't give it to the preacher. Hand it to
that other negro sitting near him. We never
trust the preacher with money; he always
spends the church-money. We only trust him
for preaching."
Monday, March 1st, opened fair, but the wind
arose when the canoe reached Three Mile Cut,
which connects the Darien with Altamaha River.
I went through this narrow steamboat passage,
and being prevented by the wind from entering
the wide Altamaha, returned to the Darien
River and ascended it to General's Cut, which,
with Butler River, affords a passage to the
Altamaha River. Before entering General's Cut,
mistaking a large, half submerged alligator for a
log on a mud bank, the canoe nearly touched the
saurian before he was roused from his nap to
retire into the water. General's Cut penetrates
a rice plantation opposite the town of Darien,
to Butler's Island, the estate of the late Pierce
Butler, at its southern end. Rice-planting, since
the war, had not proved a very profitable
business to the present proprietors, who deserve
much praise for the efforts they have made to
educate their freedmen. A profitable crop of
oranges is gathered some seasons from the
groves upon Butler's Island.
From the mouth of General's Cut down
Butler River to the Altamaha was but a short row.
The latter stream would have taken me to
Altamaha Sound, to avoid which I passed through
Wood's Cut into the South Altamaha River, and
proceeded through the lowland rice-plantations
towards St. Simon's Island, which is by the sea.
About the middle of the afternoon, when close
to Broughton Island, where the South Altamaha
presented a wide area to the strong head-wind
which was sending little waves over my canoe,
a white plantation-house, under the veranda of
which an elderly gentleman was sitting, attracted
my attention. Here was what seemed to be the
last camping-ground on a route of several miles
to St. Simon's Island.
If the wind continued to blow from the same
quarter, the canoe could not cross Buttermilk
Sound that night; so I went ashore to inquire if
there were any hammocks in the marshes by the
river-banks between the plantation and the sound.
The bachelor proprietor of Broughton Island,
Captain Richard A. Akin, posted me as to the
route to St. Simon's Island, but insisted that the
canoe traveller should share his comfortable
quarters until the next day; and when the next
day came round, and the warm sun and smooth
current of the wide Altamaha invited me to
continue the voyage, the hospitable rice-planter
thought the weather not settled enough for me
to venture down to the sound. In fact, he held
me a rather willing captive for several days, and
then let me off on the condition that I should
return at some future time, and spend a month
with him in examining the sea islands and game
resources of the vicinity.
Captain Akin was a successful rice-planter on
the new system of employing freedmen on
wages, but while he protected the ignorant blacks
in all their newly-found rights, he was a
thorough disciplinarian. The negroes seemed to
like their employer, and stuck to him with
greater tenacity than they did to those planters
who allowed them to do as they pleased. The
result of lax treatment with these people is
always a failure of crops. The rivers and swamps
near Broughton Island abound in fine fishes and
terrapin, while the marshes and flats of the sea
islands afford excellent opportunities for the
sportsman to try his skill upon the feathered
tribe.
On Monday, March 9th, the Maria Theresa
left Broughton Island well provisioned with the
stores the generous captain had pressed upon
my acceptance. The atmosphere was softened
by balmy breezes, and the bright sunlight played
with the shadows of the clouds upon the wide
marshes, which were now growing green with
the warmth of returning spring. The fish
sprang from the water as I touched it with my
light oars.
St. Simon's Island, -- where Mr. Pierce Butler
once cultivated sea-island cotton, and to which
he took his English bride, Miss Kemble, -- with
its almost abandoned plantation, was reached
before ten o'clock. Frederica River carried me
along the whole length of the island to St.
Simon's Sound. When midway the island, I
paused to survey what remains of the old town
of Frederica, of which but few vestiges can be
discovered. History informs us that Frederica
was the first town built by the English in
Georgia, and was founded by General
Oglethorpe, who began and established the colony.
The fortress was regular and beautiful, and was
the largest, most regular, and perhaps most
costly of any in North America of British
construction. Pursuing my journey southward, the
canoe entered the exposed area of St. Simon's
Sound, which, with its ocean inlet, was easily
crossed to the wild and picturesque Jekyl Island,
upon which the two bachelor brothers Dubignon
live and hunt the deer, enjoying the free life of
lords of the forest. Their old family mansion,
once a haven of hospitality, where the northern
tourist and shipwrecked sailor shared alike the
good things of this life with the kind host, was
used for a target by a gunboat during the late
war, and is now in ruins.
Here, twenty years ago, at midnight, the
slave-yacht "Wanderer" landed her cargo of African
negroes, the capital for the enterprise being
supplied by three southern gentlemen, and the
execution of the work being intrusted, under
carefully drawn contracts, to Boston parties.
The calm weather greatly facilitated my
progress, and had I not missed Jekyl Creek, which is
the steamboat thoroughfare through the marshes
to Jekyl and St. Andrew's Sound, that whole
day's experience would have been a most happy
one. The mouth of Jekyl Creek was a narrow
entrance, and being off in the sound, I passed it
as I approached the lowlands, which were
skirted until a passage at Cedar Hammock
through the marsh was found, some distance
from the one I was seeking. Into this I entered,
and winding about for some time over its
tortuous course, at a late hour in the afternoon the
canoe emerged into a broad watercourse, down
which I could look across Jekyl Sound to the
sea.
This broad stream was Jointer Creek, and I
ascended it to find a spot of high ground upon
which to camp. It was now low water, and the
surface of the marshes was three or four feet
above my head. After much anxious searching,
and a great deal of rowing against the last of the
ebb, a forest of pines and palmetto-trees was
reached on Colonel's Island, at a point about four
miles -- across the marshes and Brunswick River
-- from the interesting old town of Brunswick,
Georgia.
Home of the Alligator (101K)
The soft, muddy shores of the hammock were
in one place enveloped in a thicket of reeds, and
here I rested upon my oars to select a
convenient landing-place. The rustling of the reeds
suddenly attracted my attention. Some animal
was crawling through the thicket in the direction
of the boat. My eyes became fixed upon the
mysterious shaking and waving of the tops of the
reeds, and my hearing was strained to detect the
cause of the crackling of the dry rushes over
which this unseen creature was moving. A
moment later my curiosity was satisfied, for there
emerged slowly from the covert an alligator
nearly as large as my canoe. The brute's head
was as long as a barrel; his rough coat of mail
was besmeared with mud, and his dull eyes were
fixed steadily upon me. I was so surprised and
fascinated by the appearance of this huge reptile
that I remained immovable in my boat, while he
in a deliberate manner entered the water within
a few feet of me. The hammock suddenly lost
all its inviting aspect, and I pulled away from
it faster than I had approached. In the gloom I
observed two little hammocks, between Colonel's
Island and the Brunswick River, which seemed
to be near Jointer's Creek, so I followed the
tortuous thoroughfares until I was within a quarter
of a mile of one of them.
Pulling my canoe up a narrow creek towards
the largest hammock, until the creek ended in
the lowland, I was cheered by the sight of a
small house in a grove of live-oaks, to reach
which I was obliged to abandon my canoe and
attempt to cross the soft marsh. The tide was
now rising rapidly, and it might be necessary for
me to swim some inland creek before I could
arrive at the upland.
An oar was driven into the soft mud of the
marsh and the canoe tied to it, for I knew that
the whole country, with the exception of the
hammock near by, would be under water at
flood-tide. Floundering through mud and
pressing aside the tall, wire-like grass of the lowland,
which entangled my feet, frequently leaping
natural ditches, and going down with a thud in
the mud on the other side, I finally struck the
firm ground of the largest Jointer Hammock,
when the voice of its owner, Mr. R. F. Williams,
sounded most cheerfully in my ears as he
exclaimed: "Where did you come from? How
did you get across the marsh?"
The unfortunate position of my boat was
explained while the family gathered round me,
after which we sat down to supper. Mr.
Wilhams felt anxious about the cargo of my boat.
The coons, he said, "will scent your
provisions, and tear everything to pieces in the
boat. We must go look after it immediately."
To go to the canoe we were obliged to follow a
creek which swept past the side of the hammock,
opposite to my landing-place, and row two or
three miles on Jointer Creek. At nine o'clock
we reached the locality where I had abandoned
the paper canoe. Everything had changed in
appearance; the land was under water; not a
landmark remained except the top of the oar,
which rose out of the lake-like expanse of
water, while near it gracefully floated my little
companion. We towed her to the hammock;
and after the tedious labor of divesting myself
of the marsh mud, which clung to my clothes,
had been crowned with success, the comfortable
bed furnished by my host gave rest to limbs and
nerves which had been severely overtaxed since
sun set.
The following day opened cloudy and windy.
The ocean inlet of Jekyl and St. Andrew's sounds
is three miles wide. From the mouth of Jointer
Creek, across these unprotected sounds, to
High Point of Cumberland Island, is eight
miles. The route from the creek to Cumberland
Island was a risky one for so small a boat as the
paper canoe while the weather continued
unpropitious. After entering the sounds there was
but one spot of upland, near the mouth of the
Satilla River, that could be used for camping
purposes on the vast area of marshes.
During the month of March rainy and windy
weather prevail on this coast. I could ill afford
to lose any time shut up in Jointer's Hammock
by bad weather, as the low regions of
Okefenokee Swamp were to be penetrated before the
warm season could make the task a disagreeable
one. After holding a consultation with Mr.
Williams, he contracted to take the canoe and
its captain across St. Andrew's Sound to High
Point of Cumberland Island that day. His little
sloop was soon under way, and though the short,
breaking waves of the sound, and the furious
blasts of wind, made the navigation of the shoals
disagreeable, we landed quietly at Mr. Chubbs'
Oriental Hotel, at High Point, soon after noon.
Mr. Martin, the surveyor of the island,
welcomed me to Cumberland, and gave me much
information pertaining to local matters. The
next morning the canoe left the high bluffs of
this beautiful sea island so filled with historic
associations, and threaded the marshy
thoroughfare of Cumberland and Brickhill River to
Cumberland Sound. As I approached the mouth of
the St. Mary's River, the picturesque ruins of
Dungeness towered above the live-oak forest
of the southern end of Cumberland Island.
It was with regret I turned my back upon that
sea, the sounds of which had so long struck
upon my ear with their sweet melody. It
seemed almost a moan that was borne to me
now as the soft waves laved the sides of my
graceful craft, as though to give her a last,
loving farewell.