In the Florida Everglades
By William A. Stimpson
“Good-by, fellows; don’t expect me back before supper time.” Waving his hand to his friends, Alfred Whyte pushed the bateau into the water, took his seat in the centre, and with a few strong, even strokes of the paddle sent the frail craft out of sight around a bend in the stream.
It was on the edge of the Florida Everglades, those low, marshy tracts of swamp land that cover the whole of the lower end of the peninsula. Two New York boys, Willard King and Marvin Stebbins, had homesteaded a claim in the heart of the morass and were engaged in growing tomatoes for the northern markets. Alfred, a former schoolmate, was spending a few weeks with them in their southern home.
The piece of land upon which the two northerners had settled was about fifty acres in extent. It rose, island-like, from out the midst of the network of little creeks and streams that crisscrossed in every direction and made a veritable land-and-water spider’s web of that part of the State.
The tomato plants were set out in February and now, the first of April, the tomatoes had begun to turn red and were large enough to be picked. They had to be handled very carefully, wrapped in tissue paper, and packed in light wooden crates, so as to permit the process of ripening to be completed on the trip north. Picking and packing them was tedious and took considerable time. Both the young truck farmers had their hands full, and when a flock of wild ducks flew overhead on their way to the feeding grounds half a mile further inland, they merely directed a passing glance upward and then, stifling their sportsmen’s instinct, turned to their work again.
All the morning the wild fowl could be heard thrashing about in the tall grass at the lagoon, and both King and Stebbins were sorely tempted several times to slip up stream in the hope of bagging a couple. But the steamer on which they intended shipping their produce sailed from Lincoln, fifteen miles east, the next afternoon, and by working persistently until dark they could hardly get their crop ready for an early start on the following morning for the river town.
“If neither of you fellows can spare the time to go duck shooting, why can’t I paddle up there and try a shot or two?” asked Alfred, late in the afternoon.
“All the reason in the world, Al,” replied King. “No one except a native, or a person who has lived here as long as we have, can traverse this swamp in safety. Why, before you reach the lake where the ducks are you will pass eight or ten little streams, any one of which you are just as likely to enter as to keep on up the main channel. We’re afraid you’ll get lost, Al. Don’t you think so?” he asked, turning to Stebbins.
“But I’ve been all around there with you fellows,” explained Alfred, trying in vain to conceal his disappointment. “I’ve been up to the lake, too, and I know the main stream perfectly well. I’m going to try it, for I must have some roast duck.”
Both the boys tried to dissuade him from the undertaking, but he was insistent, and finally they gave a reluctant consent. Realizing fully his lack of acquaintance with the swamp, Whyte paid particular attention to his surroundings as he paddled on, fearing that he might turn into one of those little side streams of which King had warned him.
Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw the ducks. Paddling noiselessly, scarcely rippling the water as he passed through, hegot within range of the flock without alarming them. Bang! bang! went both barrels of his twelve-bore, and at the reports the ducks rose from the water with a loud whirr. One bird was wounded and lagged behind the others. It fluttered along a hundred yards or so, then sank in a clump of marsh grass, took wing again, but went less than ten yards, when it turned a somersault in the air and dropped.
A few strokes of the paddle carried the bateau close to where the bird had fallen, but when he reached the spot Whyte found that a stretch of marsh lay between the edge of the water and his prize. He tried to reach the duck with the paddle but could not do so. It was a fine, fat bird, as he could plainly see, but it lay beyond his reach.
“Just my luck,” he muttered, after several unsuccessful attempts to reach the bird. “I wonder if those hummocks will hold me,” noticing the tufts of thick, coarse grass that dotted the morass in every direction.
The hummocks looked firm enough to bear his weight, so pushing the prow of the boat as far into the edge of the bank as he could, he stepped out and tried the first one. It was solid and unyielding. Certain, then, that his plan was a feasible one, he sprang to the next hummock and on until he had the bird in his hand. In returning, he rested too much weight upon one of the tufts of thick grass. The treacherous mud gave way, his foot slipped, and down he went into the black ooze up to his thighs.
With an exclamation of impatience, he endeavored to withdraw his feet and legs. They stuck fast. He tried a second time, but the mud held him as in a vise. Putting forth all his strength and seizing several blades of the long, coarse grass within his reach, he tried his best to extricate himself, but to his dismay he found the sticky mud to be as unyielding as quicksand. What was worse, when he ceased his efforts he discovered that he had sunk deeper in the mire and was now embedded nearly up to his breast.
Thoroughly frightened, he remained perfectly passive and began to think. He realized that he was in a serious predicament, held a prisoner, as he was, in the black, slimy mud of the swamp, and it was cold there, too. His gun lay within reach, and, resting the arm lengthwise, he made another attempt to release himself, but his efforts were unavailing. The gun sank in the ooze, and in extracting it he found that his exertions had caused him to sink several inches deeper. The top of the mud now reached to his armpits.
He glanced at the sun, and, seeing it low in the west, was comforted. King and Stebbins, becoming alarmed at his non-appearance, would soon be setting out to look for him, he thought, if they were not already doing so. His eyes wandered towards the opposite bank, and he was struck with its unfamiliar appearance. Instead of the low, flat marsh that lined that side of the stream, as he well knew, he was looking upon a patch of higher land similar to the one upon which King and Stebbins had their home. It dawned upon him then for the first time that he had left the main channel.
As the realization of his true position came home to him, hope died. Thinking that he was somewhere along the stream, he had felt sure of rescue, but his discovery altered the situation completely. How far out of his true course he was he had no way of knowing, and the thought of the awful days and nights that would pass while he stood there dying, if the mud did not eventually bury him and make his death even a more horrible one, was far from pleasant.
Frantically he struggled to free himself, but he was held fast as though he had been shackled in irons, and his struggles only left him exhausted. Great beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. His mouth was dry and parched and his head began to swim. He felt that he was losing his reason, but he pulled himself together with a herculean effort. His legs and feet were cold and numb, and the keen night wind nipped his ears and nose cruelly. The mud under his arms had begun to freeze, and unless he kept breaking it continuallywith his hands, a stiff crust would form at the top.
He racked his brain to devise some plan of escape from his terrible position, but could think of nothing except to shout. That, he supposed, would only be a waste of energy, but he must do something. Gathering himself together, he essayed to call, but his mouth was so parched that his voice did not penetrate further than ten yards. He tried again, and this time found himself shouting louder. Again and again he shouted until his voice echoed and re-echoed through the everglades.
As the sounds died away his ear caught a faint call that seemed like an answer to his own. Flushed with hope, he shouted again and then strained his ears to listen. But silence, broken only by the twittering of the night birds, reigned about him.
Once more he shouted, and again he thought he heard a reply, or was it an echo of his own voice? The ordeal was too much for him, and with a groan his head drooped and he lost consciousness.
With King and Stebbins the time passed until sundown before they realized how late it was, and then they dropped their work and looked along the stream in the direction taken by their guest.
“It is nearly seven o’clock, Marvin,” remarked King, consulting his watch. “Al said he would be back by supper time, and here it is an hour after. I believe he’s lost.”
“If that’s the case, we must find him before dark, or he’ll have to stay in the swamp all night,” said Stebbins.
Both young men were hurrying towards the boat landing as they spoke. “Maybe he’ll row around there a week before he finds his way out,” declared King.
Stepping into the remaining boat, they both seized a paddle and sent the light skiff whirling along towards the lake, keeping a sharp lookout for any signs of the missing boat. “He promised not to go further than the lake,” said Stebbins, as they reached a point where the stream began to widen. “Let’s course over some of those creeks back there,” indicating a part of the swamp in the rear of their island home.
The boat’s prow was accordingly turned in that direction, and they had proceeded but a few yards when King’s ear detected a faint call somewhere in the distance. It was so low and indistinct that he was unable to tell from what direction it came, but shouted loudly in answer.
“Did you hear anything?” asked Stebbins, whose hearing was not so keen.
“I thought I did,” answered King, “and shouted in the hope that it might be Alfred. He’s certainly out of the channel and is calling us. Halloo! halloo! we’re coming! Where are you?” he shouted.
The boys rested a moment or two and listened for a reply. None came. “We don’t know which way to go,” said King. “Let’s go south on a venture.”
“Call again,” said Stebbins, after they had been paddling for a few minutes. King did so, and in answer came a faint shout that both boys heard. “We’re right, keep on straight ahead,” said King, excitedly. “Where are you?” he called, but they did not receive any further answer.
They paddled an eighth of a mile along this course, calling constantly without seeing anything of the person for whom they were looking. “Strange he doesn’t answer us,” remarked Stebbins, thoughtfully. “I’m afraid something’s happened to him.”
King said nothing, but kept peering ahead into the gathering gloom. Darkness had fallen by this time and objects were hardly distinguishable. Rounding a bend in the stream, they suddenly saw a boat—the one in which Alfred had rowed away—drawn up on the bank. With a shout the boys pushed ahead with rapid strokes. “Alfred, where are you?” they called. As there was no response, they backed water, and bringing their bateau to a stop, looked with blanched faces into the empty boat.
“Where can he be?” muttered Stebbins.
“Look there! look there!” exclaimed King, rising in the skiff and nearly upsetting it.
Stebbins followed the direction indicated, and saw what appeared to be a man’s head upright on the ground.
“It’s Alfred, and he’s fast in the mud,” exclaimed Stebbins, grasping the situation. “He’s dead!” he groaned.
Without further words, the boat was driven to the bank, and, stepping on the very hummocks that had supported Whyte, they reached his side. “Quick, Stebbins, get your paddle under his left arm; I will do the same on my side,” said King, and, working together, they succeeded in raising the apparently lifeless form from its position. In another moment they had placed the unfortunate youth in the boat beside them, and while one sent the skiff skimming towards home, the other rubbed and chafed the cold hands and feet. At last they were rewarded by seeing the eyes open and feeling the heart beat faintly.
By the time the party reached the house, Whyte was himself again, but so weak and sick that he had to be carried from the landing and put to bed. A doctor was brought from Lincoln the next day and left some medicine and a few directions, but Alfred’s robust health and good constitution did more for him than all the pills and powders, and in a few days he had recovered from all traces of his terrible experience, except the memory of it. That will stay with him always.