The Ghost Town That Only Existed on Paper
How two swindlers and a 'Nebraska Cyclone' preacher conned a community with a townsite located entirely in a duck-filled salt marsh.
The story, cleaned up
A cleaned-up reading of the newspaper page: spelling and layout repaired, one story lifted off a crowded page. It follows the original closely but it is not a transcription. The original page is below; read it if a detail matters.
Six months since, in October 1891, two men came to Lopez Island from Anacortes. One was Mallory, who announced himself to be a Methodist minister. He was an imposing man of good appearance and insinuating speech, and was heartily welcomed by the guileless farmers of Lopez. He spoke of his vast influence in Iowa and Nebraska, where he was known as the 'Nebraska cyclone' for his oratorical powers. He promised to bring settlers from the Midwest to transform the island. Meanwhile, his partner Gustin—nicknamed 'Old Whiskers' by the locals—began pushing a scheme to bond land, build factories, and establish townsites. Despite the incongruity of his grand plans with the island's small size, he eventually coerced two farmers at Swift’s Bay into selling their land for a dubious stock company. Thus, the Port Stanley Townsite and Development Company was born. A surveyor was imported from Anacortes, and a town was laid out—on paper. The waterfront lots were plotted 100 feet from the high-tide line, and the rest of the 'town' consisted of a salt-water slough, occupied solely by ducks and an abandoned government scow. While the promoters scattered glossy prospectuses claiming a booming future, the reality was a collection of empty stakes and empty promises, leaving the community with nothing but a black eye for its gullibility.
“The rest of Port Stanley lies mostly in a salt water slough, at present occupied wholly and solely by the ducks and a large government scow.”
Speculative real estate schemes, often marketed to outsiders with promises of 'growth' and 'high-yield tracts,' are as much a part of Puget Sound’s DNA today as they were in 1892. This story of a townsite existing only in the imagination of predatory developers echoes the modern anxieties over housing affordability and the commodification of land in the Pacific Northwest.
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