26 
FOREST AND STREAM 
January, 1921 
FORGOTTEN ISLANDS OF GEORGIA 
WITH NAUGHT BUT THE POUNDING BREAKERS TO DISTURB THEIR QUIET 
SLEEP THEY LIE ALONG THE COAST DREAMING OF DAYS THAT ARE GONE 
By P. C. SPACE 
O N the coast of Georgia are islands 
as little known as many of the 
South Sea Islands. There are to be 
found thousands of acres unoccupied 
and uncultivated. Time passes by them 
unnoticed. They know only the changes 
of the turning leaves, the fading sea- 
sons. They are alone and weary, see- 
ing ships that pass but never stop. 
Wolf Island is entirely uninhabited 
and known to few. On one end stands 
an abandoned lighthouse, still the prop- 
erty of the United States, though many 
years have passed since a service has 
been maintained. At the other end was 
a clubhouse, which only recently fell a 
victim to one of the angry moods of the 
mighty Atlantic. For many years this 
was a rendezvous of prominent families 
from Savannah, Brunswick, and Dar- 
ien, then, with the middle part, became 
the property of an old New Jersey fish- 
erman, who for years shipped fish and 
oysters taken from the prolific waters 
surrounding the lonely island. Very re- 
cently it again changed hands and now 
pastures a herd of cattle. 
Here are found sturgeon in abund- 
ance, that great fish so rich in food 
values, from the roe of which caviar is 
made; vast oyster beds line the creeks 
and inlets; fish of countless varieties 
may be had in practically unlimited 
quantities; hundreds of pelicans circle 
over the waters diving into the waves 
and rising with fish in their mouths. 
A beautiful beach and surf with a glori- 
ous sweep of ocean breeze should make 
it an ideal resort, but in certain places 
there is a treacherous undertow. Break- 
ers from a sand bank extending far out 
to sea prevent vessels passing near. 
Only an occasional row-boat or launch 
with a fishing party breaks the quiet 
serenity. 
Doboy, a little farther up the river, 
reminds one very forcibly of Gold- 
smith’s “Deserted Village.” Long be- 
fore the “War Between the States and 
until recent years, the island presented 
a busy scene with great saw mills in 
operation, the homes of officers and 
employees full of life and social ac- 
tivity, its docks crowded with timber and 
with scores of vessels loading for for- 
eign ports. The mill, long idle, was 
burned a few years ago, the homes 
where gayety once reigned are decaying 
and deserted. One has been partially 
restored by a recent purchaser. Many 
orange trees and immense fig bushes 
annually produce freely and abundantly 
their delicious fruit. A few years ago a 
huge century plant sent forth its beau- 
tiful mass of bloom as a reminder of 
some long-forgotten mistress. 
Just opposite is Cane Creek Island, 
now entirely deserted, where was once 
a thriving saw mill. Only crumbling 
ruins stand as sign posts of the past. 
Union Island, too, is entirely unin- 
habited. A smoke stack and an arte- 
On a causeway across the marsh 
sian well are sole remnants of the time 
when many vessels stood at anchor, 
loading for northern ports. A family 
from the mainland has a good part of 
the island under cultivation. Almost 
forgotten are the days of Union Island’s 
seething activity, though less than 
twenty-five years ago the last mill was 
burned. 
Not far away is an island called “Lit- 
tle Buzzard’s Roost,” which long ago 
was used as a burial place for sailors 
whose voyages were done. A cluster 
of headstones marked the place, but 
year by year the sand washed away 
until pine boxes rose from the earth, 
pushing themselves out of the wet soil, 
then drifting, a ghostly sight in the 
lonely waters. Later a crematory was 
erected for the disposal of the bodies 
of these sailors, most of whom died of 
contagious diseases. So few vessels 
came into port that the crematory has 
never been used, but stands as a grim 
reminder of the past. 
For many years a government quar- 
antine station was maintained on Black- 
beard’s Island, with perfectly equipped 
wards, operating rooms, sun parlors, 
doctor’s quarters, but is now occupied 
only by the watchman’s family. The 
island is now a game preserve belong- 
ing to the State of Georgia. Great 
herds of deer 10 am through the woods 
and immense sea turtles on summer 
moonlight nights crawl out on the beach 
and deposit their eggs in deep holes in 
the sand. 
Legend says that this island was the 
home of the notorious pirate Black- 
beard, who so terrorized the voyagers 
of his time, and that here were buried 
vast treasures. There is a tradition 
that the site of the buried treasure was 
marked by a chain stapled to a tree. 
Many deep holes have been dug around 
a certain tree. It was said that a chest 
was once seen, but receded into the 
quicksand below and could not be re- 
covered. It was rumored that one party 
dug for the treasure and departed in 
the night, leaving no message, so some 
suppose that a treasure was found. 
Other stories relate that search parties 
were frightened away by the clanking 
of chains and a rumbling as of thunder. 
All this is shrouded in mystery. 
Almost a mile away is Sapelo, which 
in ante-bellum days was the home of 
Southern aristocrats with hundreds of 
slaves. The magnificent home of a for- 
mer owner has been restored and is the 
property and winter residence of a mil- 
lionaire automobile designer and manu- 
facturer who owns most of the island. 
The south end is owned by the United 
States Government as a site for a thor- 
oughly equipped lighthouse which effec- 
tively guides an occasional vessel into 
this port to be loaded with Georgia pine. 
Visitors to the light find a marvel of 
cleanliness and brilliancy and the 
keeper and his family surrounded with 
every comfort and many luxuries. Here 
are to be found specimens of seabirds 
and reptiles, including the deadly rattle- 
snake, in which the island abounds. 
These indicate that a former keeper 
was an expert taxidermist. Sapelo 
Sound is one of the finest harbors along 
the coast and has never had a dollar’s 
appropriation from the government for 
its maintenance. So deep and straight is 
its channel that frequently vessels come 
in without a pilot and can load to the 
depth of twenty-three feet, yet few come 
in recent years. 
Just across the sound from Sapelo 
lies St. Catherine’s, where abound many 
exceedingly tame deer. The owners are 
said to have refused a million dollars 
for the property. 
Butler’s, Champney’s and General’s 
islands are abandoned rice plantations. 
Butler’s was (the home of the celebrated 
English family of Butler, the ances- 
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