The next morning Scott started out early. He went alone, explaining to
Mr. Graham that he wanted to scout the big swamp and see if he could
find any clues. He did not know what they would be but he felt that it
would be impossible to hide anything out in the open pine country, and
that the key to the mystery must be somewhere in that gloomy swamp. He
had studied the map thoroughly the evening before and had made an
outline tracing of the swamp to carry with him. Armed with this map and
a consuming curiosity he set out on foot for a point on the river where
Mr. Graham assured him he would find a small bateau.
It was a bright, sunshiny morning when he started, but even before he
reached the river the wind changed to the south and a dense fog rolled
in off the gulf. In fifteen minutes the water was dripping from the
trees as though from a heavy rain. The effect was almost weird. The
trunks of the trees immediately around him were plain enough; at fifty
feet they looked like ghosts. He walked in that little circle of forest
and felt like a man in a cage. New trees loomed out of the fog ahead,
stood boldly out as he passed them, and were quickly swallowed in the
shroud behind. The trunks seemed to run up into the very sky and the
tops were lost to view. It was Scott’s first experience with a real fog
and he realized how easy it would be to get lost.
By keeping a careful watch he finally succeeded in locating the trail to
the river and had no difficulty in finding the bateau just where Mr.
Graham had told him it would be. It was a peculiar-looking craft twelve
feet long and two and a half feet wide in the middle. It was even
narrower at the ends which were square like a barge. It was
flat-bottomed and fully deserved the description of “tippy” which Mr.
Graham had given it. There was a rough, home-made paddle beside it.
Scott was used to handling a canoe, but he found this new boat far
crankier than anything he had ever seen before. It seemed to lurch
sideways without the slightest provocation. In the first mile up the
river he came within an ace of upsetting a dozen times. Gradually he
learned the balance of it and got along pretty well. It did not seem to
draw any water at all. Mr. Graham had said that it would float free on a
light dew.
Toward the middle of the morning the fog burned off and the skies were
clear once more. The shores were low and fringed with heavy brush, back
of which was a strip of mixed hardwood forest made up mostly of
hickories, oaks, and gums. It reminded Scott of the tropical stage
settings he had seen at the theater. Now and then a little green heron
or a big hooper crane would flop silently off an overhanging limb and
disappear lazily around a bend in the river. Once he thought he saw the
eyes of an alligator sticking out of the sluggish water, but they sank
silently before he could make sure. Gray squirrels were scampering all
through these hardwood trees, but they, too, seemed to be utterly
silent. Scott felt like one of those old Spanish explorers who had made
their way through that same country almost five hundred years before. It
did not seem as though things could have changed much since then.
Three miles up the river the east bank melted away and the big swamp
began. This was the place which Scott had come to explore. He turned the
bateau and paddled out of the river into the swamp. The break in the
bank was only a narrow one and beyond the passage the strip of hardwoods
continued as before, but it was a very narrow strip and back of it as
far as the eye could see the swamp ran parallel to the river. The timber
was almost as heavy here as it was on the dry land, but they were the
great gaunt cypress trees instead of the hardwoods. The cypress is the
largest tree east of the Pacific coast forests, and there in the gloom
of the swamp decked out in the great festoons of Spanish moss, they
seemed giants indeed. Around each one were a number of cypress knees,
peculiar, stake-like growths which come up to the surface of the water
to get air for the roots. Some stuck up high out of the water, others
did not quite reach the surface. These last had a disconcerting way of
poking into the bottom of the boat or interfering with the paddle.
Several times they almost capsized the cranky little bateau. “Ought to
have a pilot for these reefs,” Scott growled, as he threaded his way
slowly through them.
He decided to skirt the east shore first and see how large the thing
really was. It might take days, even weeks to see it all, but he felt
sure that the solution of the mystery was here in this swamp and he did
not know any other way to get at it. The swamp seemed even more silent
than the river. Scott found it even more fascinating. Occasionally
enormous turtles poked heads almost as large as saucers, and about as
flat, above the surface and eyed him curiously. He saw several black,
hairy spiders with a three-inch spread of legs crawling on the tree
trunks, and twice he saw fat, cotton-mouthed moccasins uncoil themselves
sluggishly from the trunks of fallen trees and glide silently into the
water.
Mile after mile he wound his way slowly among the trees and the cypress
knees, always keeping in touch with the ragged shore line, and watching
keenly for any sign of a trail or landing place. He found many of them
but they all turned out to be animal trails which showed no trace of a
human footstep. They were, nevertheless, intensely interesting to Scott.
He had always prided himself on his woodcraft, and these medleys of
coon, fox, wildcat and deer tracks were offering him new fields to
conquer. He became so interested in them that he traveled on and on from
one trail to another, wholly forgetful of time. He found dozens of
smaller tracks in the black, plastic mud, tracks which he did not know,
and it piqued both his pride and his curiosity. He almost forgot his
object in coming there.
He had pottered along this way for several miles, following the crooked
shore line of the swamp and stopping to examine every trail when a
sudden pang of hunger caused him to glance at his watch. It was three
o’clock. He laid his paddle across the bateau in front of him and sat
there idly watching the shore while he ate his lunch. He had not thought
to bring any water and the black waters of the swamp looked uninviting.
However, he was well accustomed to eating dry lunches in the Southwest
and made out very well. He decided that he would continue his search
till four o’clock and then start for home; but he became so interested
that he overstayed his time a little. It was half-past four before he
realized it.
Scott knew that he could never reach the landing, probably not even find
the passage out of the swamp, before dark, if he retraced his course
around the jagged shore line. It would be much shorter and quicker to go
directly across the swamp to the hardwood bottom and then follow that
down to the opening. Unfortunately, the sun disappeared behind a bunch
of leaden clouds before he had gone very far and left him without a
guide. The sameness of the swamp and the utter lack of landmarks made it
hard to hold the course, but he felt pretty sure of his directions and
paddled on confidently as fast as the cypress knees and partially
submerged roots would let him. Fallen trees and clumps of brush forced
him to make many short detours which were very confusing. He had come
much farther that morning than he had realized.
He had not seen any trace of the hardwoods along the river when darkness
came with the swiftness so characteristic of the southern nightfall.
Darkness seemed literally to fall on him. There was not a star in the
sky and it was impossible to penetrate the black veil for even a few
feet. He almost bumped into the trees before he could make them out, and
the cypress knees which he could not see at all seemed to be everywhere.
And yet he groped his way along in the hope of reaching the river.
About nine o’clock the skies cleared. The light helped him to make a
little faster progress, but he could not see any stars that he knew, and
could not make sure of his direction. He had almost come to the
conclusion that there was no limit to this swamp, when a bank of black
shadow loomed ahead of him. It was a shore line of some kind. Through
the screen of brush he caught the shape of a pine tree outlined against
the sky. It was not the hardwood strip along the river.
There was no use in going any farther now. He was about as completely
lost as he could very well be. The moon would be up about eleven and he
might as well wait for it right there. He sat motionless in the boat and
listened to the small noises of the night, an occasional splashing along
the edge of the swamp, the cry of a night heron, or the rustling of
restless, small birds in the branches overhead. A gentle breeze was
blowing from the direction of the forest.
Once a faint crackling in the brush, the faintest snapping of a tiny
twig sounded loud there on the water, told him something was coming
toward him. His eyes had become pretty well accustomed to the uncertain
light, and as he watched he recognized the form of a large raccoon
making his way out on to a log which extended quite a way into the
water. It was not over twenty feet from the boat. Wholly unconscious of
the silent observer the coon deliberately began to prepare his evening
meal which he had evidently brought with him. He tore it into pieces,
just what it was Scott could not see, and carefully dipped a piece in
the water. Then he solemnly proceeded to wash it. He rubbed it between
his front paws and scrubbed it as thoroughly as any laundress, and in
much the same way. When he was finally satisfied of its cleanliness he
repeated the process with another piece. His meal ended, he washed his
hands and waddled ashore. Scott had often heard that the coon would eat
nothing without first dipping it in water, but he had never imagined any
such thorough scouring as this. He no longer regretted getting lost.
Such a chance as that repaid him several times over.
He was almost sure once that he heard the creaking of a chain, but it
was very faint and was not repeated. Shortly the moon came up almost
directly in front of him. He was headed straight away from the river.
With the shadows to guide him he turned to the west once more. A couple
of hours’ paddling brought him to the hardwood bottom land and he soon
found a passage through to the river. It was not the same passage where
he had come in, but one considerably farther up the river.
From there on he had no trouble in finding his way. The tide was running
out and the bateau traveled freely. He had marked the landing well and
soon had the boat hidden in the accustomed place. When he sneaked
quietly into the cabin it was half-past three, but he stopped to have a
look at the pantry before he turned in.
Mr. Graham raised his head and had a squint at him, but he did not ask
any questions, he did not have to—he knew what had happened to a man in
a strange swamp on a cloudy day.