FAUX History of the Outer Banks: THE DAY OLD GEORGE CAME TO TOWN

THE DAY OLD GEORGE CAME TO TOWN

There is an old bromide that there is ‘nothing new under the sun.’ When it comes to the Outer Banks, there is no truer statement for, unlike the rest of the United States, just about everything that could have been tried has been. Most have failed, of course, but this has not stopped the residents and migrants alike from trying again and again. The Outer Banks have seen a dazzling array of fledgling industries come and go including such oddities as dandelion green farming, date or chards, fields of yaupon and eel grass, shrimp hatcheries, roadway brigandage and alligator farming. Only the last of these was economically successful and only ceased as an industry with the demise of Skyco as a viable community.

The actual origin of the alligator enterprise was not unusual. Farming — or using the preferred verb “ranching” — is as old as mankind. It started on the banks of the Nile during the Old Empire when there was ongoing competition between the local residents and the crocodile population. Both populations were growing, both at the expense of the other, and eventually some clever Egyptian realized that there was ‘gold in them thar hides.” Not to mention the meat which was, in essence, free if you could move faster than the reptile.

We know that the Egyptians revered the crocodile as there are monuments to the antediluvian beast as well as temples dedicated to its worship. It is assumed that the temples not only honored the scaled denizens of the Nile but were also designed to reduce its hunger for human flesh as well. The ongoing Darwinian struggle between man and beast has been recorded on quite a few temple walls. One particularly gruesome portrayal is of the little-known Pharaoh Sestumus being devoured by the crocodile after he, the Pharaoh, fell into the Nile from the Royal barge. Sestumus has been largely and appropriately historically ignored as he was a young boy at the time of his death. His death only extended the life of the regency which had been installed on the passing of his father less than a year earlier. As Sestumus was of a morganatic relationship and sired no sons — or daughters for that matter — his existence rarely rates a footnote.

Crocodile farming in the Middle East has apparently been of long standing. There are numerous tomb paintings to the enterprise. One of the most elaborate of these was the tomb of what was undoubtedly a rich crocodile farmer — or rancher — as his tomb shows him being pulled in a chariot-like carriage by six crocodiles, three rows of two animals with a wagon tongue between them. Egyptologists do not believe that any such vehicle actually existed but that it was symbolic of the man’s fortune being ‘pulled’ by crocodile. Other illustrations on the wall of this particular tomb indicate that the wealth of the rancher probably came from the secretions from the internal organs of the animal rather than its meat or skin. It is postulated that these secretions were poured into small glassware bottles and stoppered with palm frond plugs. Artifacts matching the bottles on the tomb wall have been found throughout Egypt. Because of the association of the bottles with certain anatomical accentuations it is assumed that the crocodile bile was believed to be a breast enhancement medicinal. It is also presumed to have been a female breast enhancement.

Leaping forward across time, geography and biology, alligator farming became quite popular in the United States in the 1920s. The primary reason, historians believe, was because of the Florida Land Boom — later to be called a Bubble — which drew well-heeled East Coast tourists down the Atlantic Coast. Florida was a Mecca for Eastern retirement dollars — and to some extent, still is — as it offered the three things New Yorkers wanted in large supplies: sun, sand and more of both. There were also three reasons New Yorkers didn’t live there year-round: insects, hurricanes and too many New Yorkers.

But there was one thing that Florida had that no one else in the United States did: alligators. Lots of them. While these ‘gators were not nearly the size of their Egyptian counterparts, there were still large enough to inspire awe in the tourist. They did not grow to the leviathan 20 feet that their Nile relatives did, but a 15-foot gator was toothy enough to bring down an old lady if she ventured too close to the water.

The fact that Floridians was making money on their alligators while North Carolinians were not was distressing. Not only was North Carolina — and specifically the Outer Banks — closer to the snow-belt — the term used to describe New York, New Jersey and the New England states from where tourists came by the droves — but North Carolina gators were of superior stock. Florida gators came from the everglades where fish were small and rodents not much larger. In North Carolina, the fish were much larger and the mammals three times the size of muskrats. The Outer Banks specifically had nutria, known as “Russian rats,” which would reach 20 pounds in size. Because the food supply was larger, then too so were the alligators.

The Skyco area was perfect for alligator ranching. There was expansive salt water on both sides of the peninsula with a river and date orchard to the north. The river and date orchard served as a buffer between the alligator ranch and the community of Skyco because alligators could not swim through the irrigation channel gratings and when one actually made it over the levee into the orchard, it usually starved as there was nothing to eat save dates which gators did not find tasty.

The only geomorphologic problem the ranch had lay to the south. There was no natural obstacle, just swamp and more swamp. Once the gators could make it through the cyclone fence and into the murky waters beyond they were, to a certain extent, home free. The ranch staff would not come looking for them, there was plenty to eat and the only real danger was the bands of Allah’s Gators. Also known as the Gator Raiders, these were men who were members of a fraternal organization that culled the swamp for escaped alligators which they returned to the Skyco farm. The captured gators were butchered with the profits from the sale of the meat and skin going to a collection of local charities. Allah’s Gators was an old name and eliminated in the early 1920s because their logo had been a bearded alligator in a turban. The logo had appeared in a local paper and the story was reprinted in a New York journal where a band of ascetic Moslems living on the Lower East Side took exception to the depiction of the prophet Mohammed as a bearded alligator with a turban. This was odd because no one knew what Mohammed looked like and even if they did, it would have been hard to confuse a bearded alligator with a prophet of any faith. However, since the gourmet restaurants of New York were the primary buyers of alligator meat and the East Coast leather shops bought almost all of the alligator pelts, Allah’s Gators agreed to change their name to the Gator Raiders. While this offended more than a handful of descendants of Confederate blockade runners, since they were not buyers or consumers of either alligator meat or pelts, they were ignored.

At this point it is important to note that the Skyco alligator industry was actually four different companies. Historically they are cataloged by their company names but, from an entrepreneurial standpoint, they were all part of the same financial corpus. The origins of this move were purely of a fiduciary nature. The entire operation had been founded by The Evil John Pendergast. “The Evil” was actually his first name, or first two names. His parents had been fans of Robin Hood but favored the sheriff. He was a shyster and they considered themselves his peer. Since both hated taxes, refused to pay tolls and disdained assessments, they were kin in spirit though not in flesh. No one dared to tell The Evil John’s parents that they had their historical as well as literary facts jumbled because they controlled passage of the only bridge over a wide, alligator-infested tributary — the alligators specifically planted in that waterway to discourage boat passage.

The Evil John himself was a fan of Al Capone. Though it was illegal to produce, transport or sell intoxicating liquor anywhere in the United States, this did not stop a booming trade from springing up everywhere in the Unites States. But it was not the liquor distributorship that entranced The Evil John. It was the financial bookkeeping. Like many other businesses on the Outer Banks — and to a certain extent to this day — making money was a matter of either cash and paperwork — and most businesses have too little of the first and too much of the second. Cash was taxable so it was better to have none on hand. Paperwork was what the IRS followed so more was better and convoluted best. Though The Evil John owned all four businesses, it was not on paper. When cash came in, he leached it in circles through the four companies stripping administrative expenses at each turn until all the cash was an expense. Company A bought from Company B which sold to Company C which borrowed money from Company D that charged Company A for rent and services rendered while Company B charged Company C for goods and services and Company A charged Company D for construction and structure upgrades used, leased and rented by companies A, B and C ad nausea. The IRS showed up once and never again, a testament to the obfuscatory genius of The Evil John.

Eventually the marketplace did what the IRS could not. It put The Evil John out of business. But it was not the alligator market that was the kiss of death. It was the automobile industry. In the heyday of the alligator market, the rail line that ran from Manteo to Hatteras Village had provided reasonable and economic egress for the alligator meat and hides. It had also provided ingress for the swarms of tourists who made the Outer Banks their vacation destination of choice. But with the increasing popularity of the automobile in the 1920s, the number of tourists who ventured south on the trains declined. This forced the trains to raise cargo rates. As cargo rates went up, the tonnage went down. The trains then cut their service which forced many businesses to shift to trucking rather than rail. While the alligator industry had no trouble passing along the bad economic news to the ultimate consumer, the railroads could not compete with the automobile. As the Roaring Twenties came to an end, so did the railroad. By early 1929 the railroad abandoned the Hatteras Island line. Without railway access, Skyco came to an end as well. This, in turn, ended the days of the alligator industry.

By the mid-1930s, there was nothing left of the once vibrant ranches. Most of the structures had been cannibalized into homes in Buxton, Frisco and Manteo. The heavier timbers went into dock works and the fencing was cut into smaller stretches suitable for keeping rabbits out of truck gardens. With no alligators being bred, the few remaining members of the species scattered into the swamps where, one by one, they were hunted and eaten.

The last alligator, which lived until 1939, was known as Old George. It had been the personal pet of The Evil John because he had been struck by a car and the length of one side of its body had been so badly damaged it was no good for purses, wallets or boots. It was kept as a pet for decades, docile because it was given too much to eat and free to roam anywhere its two good legs could drag it. While the dwindling population of Skyco was familiar with Old George, they did not want to be that familiar. It was, after all, still an alligator and a very large one at that. A good ten feet in length, if not 12, it weighed as much as a car and many suspected that its ambulatory gate could be substantially increased despite its crippled legs if hunger were a factor. Knowing that an alligator’s favorite meal is more, townspeople gave Old George the respect and distance he deserved.

Old George came to sad end in the summer of 1935 when he wandered into the rapidly ghosting Skyco. With departing residents outnumbering the incoming by a factor of ten, it was clear that the community was on its last legs. Also on its last legs was Old George. Why he had come to town, so to speak, is unknown. But there he was, suddenly, on the main street, looking at the dilapidating structures that had once been a proud city. Why he chose the DARBY ROSE as his destination can only be guessed. Most likely it was because that was the only active business open and humans could be seen entering and leaving its premises. The DARBY ROSE, owned by a husband and wife team, Darby O’Bannon and Rose McClure, not married to each other but to two other spouses who were, as it happened, living in sin as well, was the best tavern in Skyco. That was because it was the last and therefore only tavern in Skyco.

It is supposed that Old George was hungry, not an unusual state for an alligator, and since he had always been fed by humans it seems natural he would go to where humans were to be fed. Unfortunately for Old George, he was off by a factor of an “s.” He had not been feed by humans in the plural but by a human, The Evil John. No one else, kith, kin or neighbor, would venture close to Old George. Though The Evil John treated Old George like a pet, rubbing its belly and the like, he was the only one wont to do such. Thus it is conceivable that when Old George came to Skyco, he was intent on finding The Evil John and a meal, the two usually found together in Old George’s experience.

For whatever reason, it came to pass that Old George made his way into the DARBY ROSE which caused a rapid and general exit of all patrons therein. None, it should be added, chose the front door from which direction Old George was coming. Preference was given primarily to the back door but both windows and the loading bay door were used as well.

Darby, concerned that Old George might ravage his supply of salvaged whiskey began jumbling what furniture he could reach from the top of the tavern counter into the gap in the bar that allowed access to the tap room. Rose, not to be humbled by man or beast whether she was married to the same or not, had a more reasonable solution. It came in the form of a double-barreled, eight-gauge shot gun loaded with slugs which was kept under the counter for protection against insurance adjusters who had the audacity to suggest that the DARBY ROSE was selling purloined, looted, salvaged or otherwise illegally acquired liquor stock. Rose had fed her first family with her first rifle and no gator was superior to eight-slugs-to-a-pound at ten feet. The slugs clustered between the gator’s eyes and it took ten minutes for Rose to regain her breath and senses after having been blasted backwards and slamming into the tap room door.

It took three men and a chain attached to a pickup to drag Old George out of the DARBY ROSE. Then and there was Old George dismembered and cooked like half a side of beef on a rotating rack. It was a grand festival for those who were left in town, except for The Evil John who lamented the loss of his pet.

But he was the only one.

While there have been sighting of alligators, if there are any left in the swamps they have become adept at staying hidden. Occasionally a dog will disappear into the swamp never to be heard from again or a cat may come home missing a tail, but other than that, tales of alligators on the Outer Banks have become more myth than reality. As far as the historical record is concerned, the last alligator of consequence of Old George who met his demise at the DARBY ROSE in the summer of 1935.

[This is a short story from Steven Levi’s faux history of the Outer Banks, THE VENOM MERCHANTS OF BIRD ISLAND. It is available on Kindle.]