The following story is taken from the book The Huntsman in the South, Volume I, written by Alexander Hunter, which was published in 1908.
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| Alexander Hunter (1843-1914) |
Alexander Hunter was a Virginia aristocrat who wrote about rural life, his life living on his family plantation, and of his beloved Confederacy. His books include Johnny Reb & Billy Yank and The Women of Debatable Land, all penned after his service in the Confederate Army from 1861-1865. Alexander is buried in Arlington Cemetery.
The book The Huntsman of the South, Volume I has 15 chapters that is artistically rendered and provides colorful detailed descriptions of his pursuit of fish and game along the Virginia and North Carolina coasts. The chapter, A Sporting Fiasco, takes Alexander and his duck-hunting friends to Goose Creek Island and Pamlico Point Lighthouse. While he is accustomed to the "sportsmanlike conduct" of waterfowl hunting, his exploit to Goose Creek Island showed that the Islanders were accustomed to being "pot-hunters" - they fill the cook pot.
A SPORTING FIASCO
As in every business or profession, the sportsman has his ups and downs;
chiefly the latter. … For years I had hoped and planned to have a
private shooting-box on the North Carolina sounds, where I could carry
out my pet theories, raise my own decoys, and, above all, entertain a
few choice sportsmen of the dead-game sort. My hopes were realized, but,
like the Scriptural apples, they turned to dead-sea fruit on the lips.
I learned that the light-house at Pamlico Point, near Goose Creek
Island, was to be abandoned by the government on account of shoaling
water. I made application, gave bond to protect the property, and the
tower, buildings and island were turned over to me, and that winter I
gathered a choice party to join me in a hunt that was to be a
record-breaker.
There were four of us, a duck-hunting quartette, comprising Messrs.
Charles Hallock, William Wagner, one of the finest wing-shots of
America; George Ransdell, an old Black Horse cavalryman in the war days,
who had spent the last quarter of a century roaming over the frontiers
of the far West and Mexico, and myself. It was a goodly company of
Bohemians and sportsmen who confidently went forth in the North Carolina
sounds to slay vast quantities of water fowl, and to enjoy the pleasure
that only a coterie of congenial spirits can find in out-of-the-way
places, far from the swirl of the "madding crowd." Most men have a touch
of the savage in their composition or a tinge of the old Norse blood in
their veins, and take keen delight in severing themselves from all the
luxuries and charms of civilized life, and roughing it in a way that a
tramp would despise.
It takes some thirty hours to reach Pamlico Sound from Norfolk by way of
steamer. Half of the time the route is through narrow canals that
connect the Currituck, Chowan, Albemarle and Pamlico sounds. The scenery
is flat and unpicturesque, and consists entirely of swamps and pine
barrens.
Reaching Pamlico Island in due time, the steamer's whistle blew the
warning signal and a boat put out from the place to meet us. Its owner
was the ex-light-house keeper, who when the light was abandoned … still
remained at his old quarters, simply because he was too lazy to move
away.
It was a small boat that came dancing over the waves, … but certainly
not capacious enough to hold four men, one dog, a small arsenal of guns,
boxes of provisions, several hundred pounds of ammunition, eight bags
of decoy-ducks with their weights attached, a half dozen trunks, besides
any number of traps, not counting a huge demijohn—a cure for snake
bites, and the only cure for any accident, home-sickness, or mishap that
might befall us.
The wind was blowing great guns, and the whole sound, as far as the eye
could reach, was full of white-caps. It was with great difficulty that
the little craft could be made fast to the leeward side of the steamer,
and as we looked down from the gangway and watched the lantern rise and
fall in the swell of the billows, some eight feet from the crest to the
trough, there arose a protest from all.
" I am not prepared to leave the world yet," remarked the Professor, as
we nicknamed Mr. Hallock." Davy Jones won't get me in his locker
to-night if I can help it."
"I'm rather timid of water, anyway," said Wagner, whom we had dubbed
"Major Clam," because, being a silent man, he rarely opened his mouth
except to take a drink. "I was on a yacht once on Lake Erie, and it was
overturned and all hands lost on board. I'd just as leave commit suicide
at once as to get in that cockle-shell."
"Are you uns a-comin'?" cried the voice of the boatman, commencing in a
high tenor and sinking slowly to a low stomach note, as the boat dropped
from the crest deep in the hollow of a rolling wave.
"As for me," remarked Old Boreas, so-called because Ransdell was always
blowing his money about, "as for me, if you catch me inside that coffin,
then I'm a bigger fool than all the three wise men of Gotham who went
to sea in a bowl."
The result was that the captain of the steamer launched the life-boat, and six stalwart rowers soon landed us on the island.
It was a barren sandbank in a wide waste of waters, and as we scrambled
ashore we were prepared to see the ex-keeper's wife and even a whole
tribe of children; but the crowd of Goose Creek Islanders who stood
crouching, leaning, reclining, and slouching around the tower and house
rather astonished us. They did not show any extravagant delight in the
meeting, only welcoming us with a nod and a grunt. Their appreciation of
rest was most patent—every man of them leaned or reclined against
something; half a dozen or so were propping up the tower, another squad
braced up the house, while others ballasted their boats, made fast to
the shore, by lying full length on the seats.
The typical Goose Creek Islanders are tall, most of them being fully six
feet when standing erect—a thing they rarely do except when yawning.
Their hair is generally of the color known as carrotty, and it is combed
every Sunday morning in honor of the day. Their foreheads are receding,
their organs of vision … in color a dull blue. A sparkling black or
clear hazel is rarely seen. The said eyes are generally as destitute of
expression …except, indeed, when their glance rests upon a roll of money
or a handful of coin, and then it is curious to watch them light up,
and really scintillate. … Their cheeks are lank, and covered with a
sparse beard which grows in detached spots like clumps of wire-grass in a
run-down field. The jaw is their best feature, being strong and firm,
denoting tenacity, and, if not courage, at least the absence of fear. …
Their throats are long, and the Adam's apple especially prominent. They
always stoop, simply for the reason that it is too great an effort to
hold the backbone erect. That part of the body known as the abdomen is
very long, a wise provision of nature, intended to allow a large storage
of food within. The limbs are lengthy and the hand enormous, with
knuckles as big as door-knobs. Clothe these figures in a mixed costume
of sportsmen's cast-off garments of the finest material and the native's
coarse butternut fashioned by the native house-wife, and the man, the
typical Goose Creek Islander, will stand before you.
Take, for instance, Tim Cignal, the ci-devant light-house keeper. Tim
was one of the crowd that awaited us, and he was the only one that
abided with us—to our sorrow. He wore a fashionable billycock hat,
dogskin jacket, over which his homespun coat hung; fine corduroy
breeches, and a pair of india-rubber boots.
While we busied ourselves in housing our stores and traps, not an
islander moved; they kept their gaze fixed on vacancy, inert and
motionless, except that their jaws moved regularly, and they spit, ever
and anon, a long stream of tobacco juice from between their closed
teeth. This is an art to be accomplished only after long practice; but
only the expert can expel it with his jaws clenched tight.
At last the ex-keeper, who had elected himself as host and custodian of our stores, stepped out on the porch.
"Boys, walk up and reef yer sails."
The motionless figures were touched into life and motion. … They all
arose as one man, and actually hurried in, and imbibed in a way to make
the famous major and judge blush with envy.
To make a long story short, the islanders remained with us for three
days, eating, drinking, and lounging, until they cleaned out our whole
large stock of wet and dry groceries; then all except Tim launched their
boats, spread their sails, and departed for their island home.
The morning after our arrival our party started off on a reconnaissance,
visiting many points in the vicinity; the result of our observations
was that, with the exception of a few black-duck, there was no shooting
around the island, and Messrs. Hallock and Wagner left for home the next
day. George and I determined to stay for a week, anyhow.
The ex-keeper and his wife, her friend Nancy, George and myself
constituted the household. Nancy was a big, buxom girl from Goose Creek
Island, and was far superior to any of her clan, inasmuch as she could
read and write, and was a noted musician on the island. She could, in
the language of the street, "knock an accordion cold"; but,
unfortunately, she could only play hymns. She explained to us that the
hymns made her sad, and, as Artemus Ward said, "If she was sad, we were
sadder than she was." Of all the lugubrious strains that were ever
evolved from an instrument, the most lugubrious were brought from that
diabolical accordion by Nancy.
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| They were singing "In The Sweet By and By" |
The night after our companions left was very stormy; in fact, there was a
hurricane off Hatteras, and we were catching the tail-end of it. The
ocean billows swept over the intervening sand dunes and came rolling
across the sound, raising the tide several feet above high-water mark.
The wind shrieked and howled, and when George opened the door the storm
burst into the room, strewing the floor with sleet. It required the
combined strength of the household to close that door. The keeper's wife
retreated to her room in a panic, and Nancy, awed and frightened,
brought out her accordion for comfort. It was a huge affair, about the
size of a barrel churn, and had been purchased by subscription by the
admiring Goose Creek Islanders. It was the only musical instrument on
the island.
Nancy could turn a tune and that was about all, but had she possessed a
good instrument one could have listened to her without feeling his blood
running cold. For years that accordion had been drawn, pulled, jerked,
twitched and squeezed by rough hands, until it had the same sort of
demoniacal melody that a boarding-house piano has. Some high-strung
musical people shrink from a false note as from a blow, and if any such
had been compelled to listen to Nancy that night they would have gone
mad. The mournful, melancholy strains made us shiver; my dog Jessie
darted under the bed, and lay there, from whence occasionally would come
a protesting, suffering yap or whine.
After a while Nancy let herself loose, and began to sing in a nasal
mezzo-soprano. This capped the climax, I thought, for discord had
reached its limit; but when the keeper butted in with a voice which
could only be likened to a crow afflicted with asthma, discordance could
no farther go.
George leaned over and shouted in my ear, "They are making Rome howl!"
… They were singing "In the Sweet By and By," and were at the last line,
"We shall meet on that beautiful shore." Nancy's eyes were closed, but
her mouth was wide open; the keeper's eyes were closed, and his mouth
open, and the raucous discord issuing from their throats was simply
gruesome. All at once, with a wheezy shriek, the accordion rent asunder,
the voices ceased, and Nancy burst into tears.
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| "The dern thing's busted." |
It is always sad to see beauty in tears, but this time "it were better so."
"The harp that once through Tara's Hall" would be heard never, never
more; for when the keeper examined the pride and delight of Goose Creek
Island, he flung it on the floor with the remark, "The derned thing has
done busted its insides out."
The next morning the gale had subsided, but a boisterous northwest wind
was still blowing. George and I spread our decoys on a point near the
light-house, and we had hardly regained the blind before a wild goose
came sweeping with the wind in grand style. We both fired, and he
tumbled head over heels before striking water. Jessie plunged in after
him, but the goose was only winged, and started for the sound. Now a
goose is a fast swimmer, and I watched the race with the keenest
delight. The water was very rough, and soon both pursued and pursuer
disappeared in the distance.
I ran to the house and obtained the keeper's glass and hurried to the
top of the tower. Adjusting the focus I could see Jessie about a mile
away, as she rose on the crest of the waves, her head turned seaward;
and as I watched she disappeared from sight. I went back and joined
George, greatly concerned about the dog. I told him that she was so
thorough-bred and game that she would follow that goose across the
Atlantic or sink in the attempt.
…
An hour passed and Jessie had not returned; my heart sank low. I would
rather have lost all the rest of my kennel—my hunting traps— my favorite
gun—than that she should come to grief. I cursed my thoughtlessness in
letting her go after that goose; I might have known what the result
would be. I went to the keeper and told him to man the boat, but I had
slight hope of ever finding her in that wide waste of water.
I was just climbing into the boat when the keeper shouted, "For Heaven's sake! There's your dog now."
I turned, and on the other side of the island was my peerless setter,
dragging herself along the beach with the neck of the dead goose between
her teeth. I flew across the sands like a shot. Jessie stopped, but not
until my arms were around her neck did she unclose her jaws. "Well,
Jessie," I said, "it was a tough old goose, after all. I am going to
have it roasted and you shall have it all."
Jessie understood me, for she licked her chops and wagged her tail.
…
Well, to return to our hunting expedition. The next evening, our
provisions being exhausted, George and myself determined to visit Goose
Creek Island and replenish our store. There was a heavy head-wind
blowing, and soon the rain came down in torrents. The sails were lowered
and we went to work with the oars; it was hard pulling, and we made
slow progress against both blast and tide, and not until night came on
did we make the landing. Then there was a tramp of two miles in our
heavy rubber boots, along the causeways of the swamp and the ox road
through the pines. In single file we stumped, slid, and waded along the
miry route, and at one time almost stalled in the quagmires, another
time up to our hips in some deep hog-wallow. It was tough work, and when
we finally reached the store, wet and miserable, we were panting from
our exertions like the winner of a four-mile steeplechase.
The store was closed, so we hunted around for some place in which to
lodge. Chance led us to a house not far off, and in response to our
knock we were civilly invited in. The picture of that room was full of
interest to us; one of strong lights and shadows, such as Rembrandt
would have loved to portray on canvas.
The room occupied the whole length of the cabin. The floor was of dirt,
packed hard; a large fireplace occupied one side, and the smouldering
pine knots would occasionally flare up into a bright blaze, alternately
glooming and lighting up the interior. A high four-post bed fronted the
fireplace, which was half concealed from the rear portion of the room by
a bed-quilt suspended from a rafter. The walls within had been adorned
with illustrated papers tacked to the logs, not only to keep out the
wind, but for decoration.
On the high bed sat one of the most aged beings that ever mortal eyes
rested upon. Her stockinged feet rested upon a chair, her long,
disheveled white hair fell in tangles down her back and about her
shoulders; but oh, her face! It was one not soon to be forgotten. …The
ancient visage was plaited with wrinkles, covered and intertwined with
lines, furrowed with creases and corrugated with crows' feet. Her age
was subject for wild conjecture. … This old woman's figure was clad in
homespun, and she rocked her body to and fro … . Her eyes were still
sharp and bright, and their glances elfin-like and uncanny.
Suddenly she stopped rocking, felt around the bed with her
skeleton-fingers, found her tin snuffbox, opened the lid, and then took
from the bosom of her dress a stick about the size of a lead pencil,
with one end chewed fine; this she rolled around in the snuff; next, she
lifted her lips with the fingers of her left hand, while with her right
she rubbed the stick along her blackened, toothless gums, wiping up the
grains of snuff from the outside of her mouth with her long, flexible,
discolored tongue; then she wiped the saliva from her mouth with the
back of her hand, which in turn was cleaned by rubbing it on the
bedclothes. Then she gave a sniff of content, and sat—her senses steeped
in dreamy repose.
It was the first time I had ever seen anybody "dip snuff,"… . At the
foot of the bed a little boy sat rocking a cradle, in which was an
infant not over a week old. The cradle and the grave were cheek by jowl.
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| "The cradle and the grave were cheek by jowl." |
We
decided to go farther and seek other quarters, …We met with success at
the next house, and though the houses were mostly alike, this one was
clean. A huge fire was made, and our host sold us a gallon of Catawba
wine. We decided to stay, though behind a hanging blanket was a bed
wherein four daughters of our host, aged anywhere from sixteen to
twenty-five, lay snugly tucked in. …
In the morning, before we awoke, the girls got up and cooked the
breakfast, and, on our return, after we had made our ablutions at the
branch just below the house, we found the beds made, the floor swept,
and a hot meal of Johnny cakes, bacon and coffee awaiting us.
Goose Creek Island is one of the most inaccessible, un-come-at-able
places to be found in the South. Its area comprises several thousand
acres; its soil is unusually fertile, and admirably adapted for the
raising of stock. The island is surrounded for many miles inland by
almost impassable swamps. Access by water is had through a narrow,
tortuous channel only navigable by the smaller craft. For miles around
the water outside of the passageway is only a few inches deep, a
worthless stretch of water, too shallow for fish and too deep for
agriculture. Hence the islanders lead a very retired and isolated life,
practically as much shut off from the world as if they were in the
middle of the Atlantic.
There are about 250 houses on the island, mostly cabins, though there
are several well-to-do planters, who, educated and refined, keep aloof
from the poor and illiterate inhabitants. The women of the latter class
are buxom, but with no symmetry of form—not one of them wears corsets. …
The girls are shy and retiring, but they are daughters of Eve, and in
their way strive to keep up with the latest fashions. Their dresses are
made principally of calico, cut straight, and many of them use bustles;
but as newspapers are scarce, they use dried sea-grass bunched in a
knot, and as their dresses are not fashioned long in the back they tilt
up in a most comical manner, displaying to a looker-on an expansive view
of their homemade yarn stockings.
The Goose Creek Island women are immeasurably superior to the men in
everything; they are good, modest, and hard-working, and they labor from
morning till night. All of them have peculiar, pathetic,
mournful-looking eyes, and they all use snuff. … One is apt to conclude
that, after all, these listless people are the happiest of their kind;
and, barring chills, their existence is one of passive content.
…
The creed of the Goose Creek Islander is that the wood, the water and
the wilderness is free to all. In the late fall nearly every able-bodied
man among them starts off to Currituck and other shooting-grounds where
the Northern sportsmen most abound, to serve as guides and hangers-on.
Most of the Northern club-men are very wealthy and they scatter their
money lavishly, and the Goose Creek Islanders receive so much for so
little service that they become spoiled, and charge enormously for
everything they are called upon to do. …
Having purchased our provisions, our trio put back to the light-house.
The wintry weather, interspersed with storms, kept us on the Point, and
we found that our anticipated sport of brant shooting was illusive as a
dream, for every brant had suddenly disappeared. The solution was easy:
some of the islanders had been shooting them in the night, and scared
them off for good and all.
In a few days our situation grew desperate. Our stock of food, thanks to
Tim, was well-nigh exhausted; bacon, hard-tack, flour, sugar, coffee,
were all gone, and we were living on corn-bread, rain-water, and ducks.
But we were sick of ducks; we felt like the Welsh vicar, when he said
grace:
" For ducks hot, and ducks cold,
For ducks young, and ducks old,
For ducks tender, and ducks tough,
We thank Thee, Lord, we've had enough."
The shipwrecked mariner was never more anxious to leave his abode than
my comrade and myself were to get off this desolate sandbank; but the
winds still held high carnival, and a sail of some twenty miles out in
the sound to catch the Newberne boat was more than Tim was willing to
undertake.
One morning we saw the U. S. tender
Violet beating to windward, so we
hastened to the top of the tower, and made frantic signals to them to
send a boat ashore. We could see through the spyglass the officers
consulting on the quarter-deck, but evidently the waves were too high
for them to think of launching their pinnace.
At last, when our cupboard was almost as bare as Mother Hubbard's, and
we were living on fat meat, meal and rain-water, the welcome sound of a
steamer's whistle was heard. We had joyfully collected our traps and
made ready to go, but what was our astonishment when Tim absolutely
refused to sail about a half mile out to meet the Manteo unless we paid
him fifteen dollars.
"Well," said Boreas, " if this doesn't take the rag off the bush! These
people don't know what gratitude is! Just think what I have given that
man—all my spare underclothing, boots, hat, handkerchiefs, ammunition
enough to last him half his life, tobacco that will keep his jaws moving
and his pipe full for the balance of the year, fed him like an
alderman, wined him like a lobbyist, and now to be blackmailed in this
manner ! I won't pay, that's flat!"
We sat there looking at each other, too angry to speak. … But it was no
use to kick; Tim held the trump cards, and he knew it, for he reclined
on the seat of the boat with an air of supreme indifference. We could
not afford to remain, it would be days before another steamer would pass
the place, and we were threatened with absolute famine.
All this time the boat was approaching rapidly, and whatever was done
must be done at once. So we were perforce compelled to submit to the
extortion, and we paid the money. … So we cashed up, Tim hoisted sail,
and in a few minutes we were safe on the steamer's deck. Tim shouted
good-by most cordially, and said we must be sure to let him know when we
came again to those parts.
Source:
Hunter, Alexander.
The Huntsman of the South, Volume I. Neale Publishing Co., 1908. Google books. Web. 28 July 2015. http://books.google.com
