BATH, GA
Summer retreat for Augustans
By Leslie Nelson

Malaria was the summertime curse of the South just a short
time back - say 60 years ago.  Since the average man couldn't afford
a fast train north to escape the mosquito that sent him to bed with chills
and fever, he had to roll with the punches - even if they got
the best of him.  But Augustans were luckier than most when
it came to malaria.  The first sign of summer sent them scurrying
south away from the threat of the "three-day chill and fever.  They
didn't have to go far.  In fact, they didn't have to leave the county.
In their high hats and swishing skirts they hightailed it 15 miles
down the road, took a right at the sign and they were safe in the
village of Bath.  A short walk down a dusty road took them to the bathhouse
built around a pool fed by pure spring water, reputed to be a cure-all.
There the women, decked out in bloomer bathing suits, perfected their
dog paddle, and the men - separately, of course - swam "au naturel."
Years before - no one knows exactly when - Bath was a refuge
for William Whitehead's descendants who left Burke County to
escape the scourge of the malarial mosquito.  They set up
housekeeping on the sandy hills of Bath and harnessed the pure water.
Soon other wealthy planters were lured to the village where they
built elegant summer homes - 18 in all - in the colonial style.  Entertaining
for days on end, these "agricultural aristocrats" transformed Bath
into a social center where houseguest sometimes numbered in the
thirties.  When the need arose for a church, they hired Pennsylvania
craftsmen to erect a simply frame building.  Bath Presbyterian
Church, at the bend in the road.  Behind the church they buried
their dead, often marking the graves with ornate headstones,
By the turn of the century, shrewd businessmen, enticed by the
prospect of making a dollar, set their sights on Bath.  An ad in
the Augusta Herald in the summer of 1812 announced that
"A convenient four wheel carriage will start from the City
Hotel at 3 p.m. every Friday and Saturday for Richmond Bath,
and return every Monday and Friday, the fare being $1.25 each way."
When the promoters of the Georgia Railroad to Atlanta suggested
a route running by Bath, old-time residents put up a fight and
the track ran elsewhere.  Members of the peaceful community
wanted no part of the smoke and snort of the iron horse.
    Talk about Bath today and only the old-timers remember the
high-class swimming hole.  The grand plantations have long
since yielded to fire, and the curious must look closely for rows
of trees and open fields where the houses once stood.
    Freshly painted and still standing like a sentinel at the bend in
the road is the Presbyterian Church, boasting a sign that the
building was constructed in 1784, an indication that the settlers
of Bath arrived some years before.  Inside, a slave gallery looks
down on the original pews now painted white and sporting fancy
red cushions.  There is an old story that one of the early
ministers of the church officiated at a lavish wedding ceremony
uniting two slaves - Maria and Henry - in matrimony.  Although not
held in the church, the event caused a flurry of excitement when
Maria's mistress ordered a costly wedding supper, brought numerous
gifts and invited all the servants in the neighborhood.  And then
there was the Rev. Frank B. Goulding who delivered sermons
from the church's pulpit for eight years.  With the strange combination
of literary and mechanical talents, the Rev. Goulding just missed
making Bath an historical shrine - just barley.  Story has it that the
minister, in addition to having written several books, also invented the
sewing machine.  But, alas, fate stood in his way, and Elias Howe
beat him to the patent office.  On his way to Washington in
the 1840s with his newfangled machine, the Rev. Goulding ran into bad
weather.  Washed-out roads and floods were too much for his gig
which broke down halfway.  Finally making it to Washington, the
minister was unable to negotiate the patent because he'd spent nearly
all his funds repairing the waterlogged gig.  A persistent man,
the Rev. Goulding returned during fairer weather, only to learn that
Howe had beaten him to the patent office by only three days.
    Heartbroken, the pastor returned to Bath and wrote "The Young
Marooners," an adventure story that became his best known
book.  But even from the beginning, residents of Bath, especially the
women, were suspicious of the minister's invention.  To end their
unkind snickers, the Rev. Goulding generously volunteered to make a dress
for any woman in the community who would put up the
material.  Besides being a scandalous offer, satin and taffeta were
expensive and the womenfolk, afraid to take a chance, politely declined.
    No one, not even his wife, wanted to risk precious material to prove
that the Rev. Goulding's machine was not just the contrivance
of a dreamer - even if he was the minister. In desperation, the Rev.
Goulding whipped up a homespun garment for one of his servants.
The dress, of course, was a success, but the minister died in obscurity
in Roswell in 1881.  The Presbyterian Church, however, is not the
only existing remnant of bygone days.  Not far from the entrance to
Bath off U. S. 1 is the summer home of Alonzo Boardman, who
remembers that as a boy his parents often packed him off to Bath in
the summer to escape the wrath of the malarial mosquito.
    Boardman, an Augustan now retired, brought the house and surrounding
land 10 years ago and restored the little cottage, probably slave quarters
before the nearby plantation burned years age.  He painted the house a
sunny yellow and planted the rolling hills with dogwood, juniper and azaleas.
    Recalling the cool spring he swam in as a youth, Boardman channeled
the precarious waters into pools and added a lodge in the valley for
guest.  A few steps down the road is the one-time residence of Miss
Rosa Green, who managed a tearoom at the turn of the century.
"Miss Rosa" was often hostess to such drop-in guest as John D.
Rockerfeller and President Taft, who wintered at the old Bon - Air
Hotel in Augusta.  Now the residence of Maj. (Ret.) Robert E. Galloway
and his family, the two story house with it's winding staircase and eight
fireplaces is said to have been built in the 18th century.  But Bath has seen
it's heyday.  The malarial mosquito is practically extinct,
sunbathers have discovered Florida and the bathhouse is tumbling
down.  Nowadays only a few daffodils leftover from grander times
return year after year.