Tilghman ~ Bay Hundred

Tilghman’s Island

“Great Choptank Island” was granted to Seth Foster in 1659. Thereafter it was known as Foster’s Island, and remained so through a succession of owners until Matthew Tilghman of Claiborne inherited it in 1741. He and his heirs owned the island for over a century and it has been Tilghman’s Island ever since, though the northern village and the island’s postal designation are simply “Tilghman.”

For its first 175 years, the island was a family farm, supplying grains, vegetables, fruit, cattle, pigs and timber. Although the owners rarely were in residence, many slaves were: an 1817 inventory listed 104. The last Tilghman owner, General Tench Tilghman (not Washington’s aide-de-camp), removed the slaves in the 1830s and began selling off lots. In 1849, he sold his remaining interests to James Seth, who continued the development.

The island’s central location in the middle Bay is ideally suited for watermen harvesting the Bay in all seasons. The years before the Civil War saw the influx of the first families we know today. A second wave arrived after the War, attracted by the advent of oyster dredging in the 1870s. Hundreds of dredgers and tongers operated out of Tilghman’s Island, their catches sent to the cities by schooners. Boat building, too, was an important industry.

The boom continued into the 1890s, spurred by the arrival of steamboat service, which opened vast new markets for Bay seafood. Islanders quickly capitalized on the opportunity as several seafood buyers set up shucking and canning operations on pilings at the edge of the shoal of Dogwood Cove. The discarded oyster shells eventually became an island with seafood packing houses, hundreds of workers, a store, and even a post office.

The steamboats also brought visitors who came to hunt, fish, relax and escape the summer heat of the cities. Some families stayed all summer in one of the guest houses that sprang up in the villages of Tilghman, Avalon, Fairbank and Bar Neck. Although known for their independence, Tilghman’s Islanders enjoy showing visitors how to pick a crab, shuck an oyster or find a good fishing spot.

In the twentieth century, Islanders pursued these vocations in farming, on the water, and in the thriving seafood processing industry. The “Tilghman Brand” was known throughout the eastern United States, but as the Bay’s bounty diminished, so did the number of water-related jobs. Still, three of the few remaining Bay skipjacks (sailing dredgeboats) can be seen here, as well as two working harbors with scores of power workboats.

the deck, steps led down to floating docks. There were lifts for two boats.

“Did you say all the other places Sam’s duck boat was on one. Becky out here are closed up?” threw on the power and flipped the

“Yes. I know because. . .” switch on the other lift that began

“Expecting anyone?” Andy lowering Sam’s classic 1950s Chrispulled the powerful little scope Craft runabout. Andy grabbed the from his pocket. “Car down by the box, then pulled himself up on the Gatehouse.” boat and began removing the cover,

“They’ll need a code to get in.” tearing at the cold snaps and zip-

“Not these guys.” Andy whirled pers. The boat lowered down at a around. “We’re outta here!” snail’s pace, the wire cables grind-

“Boathouse!” Becky said, step- ing on the rollers. It was maddenping into her boots, grabbing a jack- ing. Andy didn’t think they’d make et. She stuffed the letters and photo it. He’d heard the dull thunk of car into the box, slammed it shut and doors shutting. It wouldn’t take the picked it up. visitors long to search the cabin and

Pulling on his jacket, Andy took pick up the foot tracks to the boatone more look to- house. ward the Gatehouse. He went down hard on He jumped down The car was mov- the wet deck and slid into onto the floating ing fast along the the freezing water dock and looked for a causeway. Behind it, weapon. He grabbed the broken gate was open. “Come a long wooden boathook hanging on on,” Becky said. Gus led the way the wall, then took the three steps out the back door. Snow was fall- up as one. He slammed the boating again, and it was slippery un- house door, grabbed the hunk of derfoot. Becky went down but was small line hanging from the handle quickly on her feet again. The path and quickly secured it around a was narrowed by bushes sagging large nail protruding from the door down, heavy from ice and snow. jam. He grabbed a bucket with a They needed several minutes to line hitched to it, lowered it into get to the boathouse. It took all of the water and pulled up a load he Andy’s strength to wrench open the sloshed on the deck. He positioned door that was swollen shut. himself beside the door.

It was a small boathouse, old, sol- Becky was in the runabout beid, but, like the cabin, without frills. fore it touched the water, pumping Inside the door was a narrow deck the choke, advancing the throttle, about three feet off the water that turning the key. The motor caught, ran the width of the building. From sputtered, quit. She tried again with 150

the same result. Becky turned the key and the motor cranked again as someone began pulling on the door. On the third heave, the line broke and the door flew open just as the runabout’s engine roared to life, belching a thick cloud of black smoke into the boathouse. A man dashed into the boathouse. Andy drove the boathook between his legs. He went down hard on the wet deck and slid into the freezing water.

The second man followed quickly, pistol in hand. Andy heard Becky’s low double whistle. In a flash, Gus leapt and sank his teeth into the second man’s wrist just as he fired. The round missed Becky, taking out the runabout’s windshield. The man’s weapon clattered onto the deck and bounced into the water. Struggling to release Gus’s hold on him, the man howled in pain. Andy ran to the boat. Another whistle, and Gus leapt aboard. The boat was barely afloat, but it was enough. Becky threw it in gear, hit the throttle and the boat slipped off the lift just as the man in the water was pulling himself up on the transom. His face contorted in agony and he screamed as the propeller cut heavily into his foot, turning the boat’s wake a bad color.

Becky threw the engine into neutral after blasting out of the shed. She dug in her parka, pulled out a small camera and grabbed a

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“No big rush. They’ll have to regroup.” shot of the boathouse and the two “That’s lucky.” men, one in the water, the other “Nice work.” collapsed on the deck. She put the “This boat’s always been a tough boat in gear and idled ahead. Becky start.” knew the way. She’d been running Andy wanted these guys. He was these channels with her father right that it would take them a while since childhood. Dead slow was the to get moving. One of them had to only way to stay afloat and weave be fished out of the water by a man through the narrow, barely visible with one good arm. Both of them channels overgrown with bushes. would need the bleeding stopped

“You okay?” before they could travel. If he hadn’t

“Look at that windscreen,” Becky drowned, the guy in the water had said, her voice a little shaky. “Sam is to be in shock. gonna be very upset.” Becky steered the boat slowly

“Some dog.” Andy scratched through the channels. Andy was Gus’s head. baffled by how anyone could com-

“I shot a K9 story. mit all the twists and Gus had broken his Andy swung the turns to memory. leg. They were going boathook, catching him There didn’t seem to put him down. I across the forehead to be any marktook him. One of the ers. It all looked the trainers told me his commands. He same to him. But in less than five wasn’t supposed to. First action he’s minutes they had come out of the seen.” Becky gave a shiver. “Me, marsh bushes into a slightly wider too.” creek that ran under the old wood-

“Can you get to the Gatehouse?” en causeway bridge. No car was in

“There’s a little duck-in before we sight. Becky reversed the Chrisget there.” Craft into a natural indention in the

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creek hardly bigger than the boat, and passed a stern line around the trunk of a bush. She cut the engine.

The Gatehouse was about 20 yards away. Andy grabbed the boathook and a ball of heavy twist cotton string he’d found in a dashboard compartment. Becky tucked the box under one arm. They hurried to the cover of the Gatehouse. Andy dragged the bent gate back just enough so it blocked the road. They waited.

It was a good twenty minutes before the car appeared, moving fast down the hill from the cabin. It skidded to a stop in front of the gate. The driver got out. He was in obvious discomfort. Becky recognized one of Sam’s scarves he’d rigged as a sling for his right arm. As the man struggled to move the gate, Andy stepped out of his cover and swung the boat hook, catching him across the forehead. By the time the man regained consciousness, his hands had been tied and he was propped up in the backseat with his sopping wet friend, who was unconscious.

“He needs help,” the man muttered as he came around.

“I think I can arrange that,” Andy said. “But first, you have to do something for me. You have to call Mr. Mitchell Thomas and tell him what he wants to hear.”

“I don’t know any Mitchell Thomas,”

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Becky made a quick, low sound in her throat. Gus, who was sitting beside the car’s open door, focused his attention on the man and began growling in a way that made Andy’s skin crawl. The man’s eyes bulged with fear.

“Okay, okay. . .”

“You blow it, pull any tricks, and I will toss you to this dog like a bone.”

Hearing the anger in Andy’s voice caused Gus to growl a little louder. Gus lifted his lip, showing fangs. Andy couldn’t remember when he’d seen a better performance from a dog. He was full of admiration. He darted a look at Becky. Their eyes met and held like those of two singers harmonizing.

Andy produced the fl ip phone he’d taken from the man while he was unconscious. “How is he listed?”

“Boss Moss,” he mumbled.

Andy dialed, held the phone to the man’s mouth. Gus growled again. Becky gave him a signal and he was silent.

“Job done,” the man said into the phone. Andy fl ipped it shut.

“Okay, now maybe we can fi nd a police station on the way to the hospital. Hope you don’t mind if my friend rides with you.”

Gus jumped into the back seat between the two men and sat upright, looking serious.

Roger Vaughan has lived, worked and sailed in Oxford since 1980.

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