FROM THE SAVANNAH RIVER TO FLORIDA.
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
gate-way 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 nowadays 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
freed man, 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
people 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.
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. Williams 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 sunset.
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.