THE RICH FOLIAGE OF THE RIVER. -- COLUMBUS. -- ROLINS'
BLUFF. OLD TOWN HAMMOCK. -- A HUNTER KILLED BY A
PANTHER, DANGEROUS SERPENTS. -- CLAY LANDING. THE
MARSHES OP THE COAST, -- BRADFORD'S ISLAND. -- MY LAST
CAMP. -- THE VOYAGE ENDED.
Some friends, among whom were Colonel
George W. Nason, Jr., of Massachusetts,
and Major John Purviance, Commissioner of
Suwanee County, offered to escort the paper
canoe down "the river of song" to the Gulf of
Mexico, a distance, according to local authority,
of two hundred and thirty-five miles. While
the members of the party were preparing for the
journey, Colonel Nason accompanied me to the
river, which was less than three miles from
Rixford, the proprietors of which sent the canoe
after us on a wagon drawn by mules. The point
of embarkation was the Lower Mineral Springs,
the property of Judge Bryson.
The Suwanee, which was swollen by some
recent rains in Okefenokee Swamp, was a wild,
dark, turbulent current, which went coursing
through the woods on its tortuous route with
great rapidity. The luxurious foliage of the
river-banks was remarkable. Maples were in
blossom, beech-trees in bloom, while the
buckeye was covered with its heavy festoons of red
flowers. Pines, willows, cotton-wood, two kinds
of hickory, water-oak, live-oak, sweet-gum,
magnolia, the red and white bay-tree, a few
red cedars, and haw-bushes, with many species not
known to me, made up a rich wall of verdure on
either side, as I sped along with a light heart to
Columbus, where my compagnons de voyage
were to meet me. Wood-ducks and egrets, in
small flocks, inhabited the forest. The
limestone banks of the river were not visible, as the
water was eighteen feet above its low summer
level.
I now passed under the railroad bridge which
connects Live Oak with Savannah. After a
steady row of some hours, my progress was
checked by a great boom, stretched across the
river to catch the logs which floated down from
the upper country. I was obliged to disembark
and haul the canoe around this obstacle, when,
after passing a few clearings, the long bridge of
the J. P. & M. Railroad came into view, stretching
across the now wide river from one wilderness
to the other. On the left bank was all that
remained of the once flourishing town of
Columbus, consisting now of a store, kept by Mr.
Allen, and a few buildings. Before the railroad
was built, Columbus possessed a population of
five hundred souls, and it was reached, during
favorable stages of water, by light-draught
steamboats from Cedar Keys, on the Gulf of Mexico.
The building of railroads in the south has
diverted trade from one locality to another, and
many towns, once prosperous, have gone to
decay.
The steam saw-mills and village of Ellaville
were located on the river-bank opposite
Columbus, and this lumber establishment is the only
place of importance between it and Cedar Keys.
This far-famed river, to which the heart of the
minstrel's darky "is turning eber," is, in fact,
almost without the "one little hut among de
bushes," for it is a wild and lonely stream.
Even in the most prosperous times there were
but few plantations upon its shores. Wild
animals roam its great forests, and vile reptiles
infest the dense swamps. It is a country well
fitted for the hunter and lumberman, for the
naturalist or canoeist; but the majority of people
would, I am sure, rather hear of it poured forth
in song from the sweet lips of Christina Nilsson,
than to be themselves "way down upon the
Suwanee Ribber."
On Monday, March 22d, Messrs. Nason,
Purviance, and Henderson joined me. The party
had obtained a northern-built shad-boat, which
had been brought by rail from Savannah. It
was sloop-rigged, and was decked forward, so
that the enthusiastic tourists possessed a
weatherproof covering for their provisions and blankets.
With the strong current of the river, a pair of
long oars, and a sail to be used when favorable
winds blew, the party in the shad-boat could
make easy and rapid progress towards the Gulf,
while my lightly dancing craft needed scarcely
a touch of the oar to send her forward.
On Tuesday, the 23d, we left Columbus, while
a crowd of people assembled to see us off; many
of them seeming to consider this simple and
delightful way of travelling too dangerous to be
attempted. The smooth but swift current rolled
on its course like a sea of molten glass, as the
soft sunlight trembled through the foliage and
shimmered over its broad surface.
Our boats glided safely over the rapids, which
for a mile and a half impede the navigation of
the river during the summer months, but which
were now made safe by the great depth of water
caused by the freshet. The weather was
charming, and our little party, fully alive to all the
beautiful surroundings, woke many an echo with
sounds meant to be sweet. Of course the good
old song was not forgotten. Our best voice
sang:
"Way down up-on de Suwanee Rib-ber,
Far, far away,
Dere's whar my heart is turn-ing eb-ber,
Dere's whar de old folks stay.
All up and down de whole creation
Sadly I roam,
Still longing for de old plantation,
And for de old folks at home.
"All round de little farm I wander'd
When I was young;
Den many happy days I squan-der'd -
Many de songs I sung.
When I was playing wid my brud-der,
Hap-py was I.
O! take me to my kind old mud-der,
Dere let me live and die!
"One little hut among de bushes, -
One dat I love, -
Still sadly to my mem'ry rushes,
No matter where I rove.
When will I see de bees a-hum-ming
All round de comb?
When will I hear de ban-jo tum-ming
Down in my good old home?"
We all joined in the chorus at the end of each verse:
"All de world am sad and dreary
Eb-ry-whar I roam.
O, darkies, how my heart grows weary,
Far from do old folks at home."
We soon entered forests primeval which were
quiet, save for the sound of the axe of the log-thief;
for timber-stealing is a profession which
reaches its greatest perfection on the Florida
state lands and United States naval reserves.
Uncle Sam's territory is being constantly
plundered to supply the steam saw-mills of private
individuals in Florida. Several of the party told
interesting stories of the way in which log-thieves
managed to steal from the government legally.
"There," said one, "is X, who runs his mill
on the largest tract of pine timber Uncle Sam
has got. He once bought a few acres' claim
adjacent to a fine naval reserve. He was not,
of course, able to discover the boundary line
which separated his little tract from the rich
government reserve, so he kept a large force
of men cutting down Uncle Sam's immense
pines, and, hauling them to the Suwanee, floated
them to his mill. This thing went on for some
time, till the government agent made his
appearance and demanded a settlement.
"The wholesale timber-thief now showed a
fair face, and very frankly explained that he
supposed he had been cutting logs from his own
territory, but quite recently he had discovered
that he had really been trespassing on the
property of his much-loved country, and as he was
truly a loyal citizen, he desired to make
restitution, and was now ready to settle.
"The government agent was astonished at the
seeming candor of the man, who so worked upon
his sympathy that he promised to be as easy
upon him as the law allowed. The agent
settled upon a valuation of fifty cents an acre for
all the territory that had been cut over. 'And
now,' said he, 'how many acres of land have
you "logged" since you put your lumbermen
into the forest?'
"Mr. X declared himself unable to answer
this question, but generously offered to permit
the agent to put down any number of acres he
thought would represent a fair thing between
a kind government and one of its unfortunate
citizens. Intending to do his duty faithfully, the
officer settled upon two thousand acres as having
been trespassed upon; but to his astonishment the
incomprehensible offender stoutly affirmed that he
had logged fully five thousand acres, and at once
settled the matter in full by paying twenty-five
hundred dollars, taking a receipt for the same.
"When this enterprising business-man visited
Jacksonville, his friends rallied him upon
confessing judgment to government for three
thousand acres of timber more than had been claimed
by the agent. This true patriot winked as he
replied:
"'It is true I hold a receipt from the
government for the timber on five thousand acres at
the very low rate of fifty cents an acre. As I
have not yet cut logs from more than one-fifth
of the tract, I intend to work off the timber on
the other four thousand acres at my leisure, and
no power can stop me now I have the
government receipt to show it's paid for.'"
The sloop and the canoe had left Columbus a
little before noon, and at six P. M. we passed
Charles' Ferry, where the old St. Augustine
and Tallahassee forest road crosses the river.
At this lonely place an old man, now dead,
owned a subterranean spring, which he called
"Mediterranean passage." This spring is
powerful enough to run a rickety, "up-and-down"
saw-mill. The great height of the water
allowed me to paddle into the mill with my canoe.
At half past seven o'clock a deserted log
cabin at Barrington's Ferry offered us shelter for
the night. The whole of the next day we rowed
through the same immense forests, finding no
more cultivated land than during our first day's
voyage. We landed at a log cabin in a small
clearing to purchase eggs of a poor woman,
whose husband had shot her brother a few days
before. As the wife's brother had visited the
cabin with the intention of killing the husband,
the woman seemed to think the murdered man
had "got his desarts," and, as a coroner's jury
had returned a verdict of "justifiable homicide,"
the affair was considered settled.
Below this cabin we came to Island No. 1,
where rapids trouble boatmen in the summer
months. Now we glided gently but swiftly over
the deep current. The few inhabitants we met
along the banks of the Suwanee seemed to carry
with them an air of repose while awake. To
rouse them from mid-day slumbers we would
call loudly as we passed a cabin in the woods,
and after considerable delay a man would appear
at the door, rubbing his eyes as though the genial
sunlight was oppressive to his vision. It was
indeed a quiet, restful region, this great
wilderness of the Suwanee.
We passed Mrs. Goodman's farm and log
buildings on the left bank, just below Island
No. 8, before noon, and about this time Major
Purviance shot at a large wild turkey (Meleagris
gallopavo), knocking it off a bank into the
water. The gobbler got back to land, and led
us a fruitless chase into the thicket of saw-palmetto.
He knew his ground better than we, for,
though wounded, he made good his escape.
We stopped a few moments at Troy, which,
though dignified in name, consists only of a
store and some half dozen buildings.
A few miles below this place, on the left
bank of the river, is an uninhabited elevation
called Rolins' Bluff, from which a line running
north 220 east, twenty-three miles and a half in
length, will strike Live Oak. A charter to
connect Live Oak with this region of the Suwanee
by means of a railroad had just passed the
Florida legislature, but had been killed by the veto
of the governor. After sunset the boats were
secured in safe positions in front of a deserted
cabin, round which a luxuriant growth of
bitter-orange trees showed what nature could do for
this neglected grove. The night air was balmy,
and tremulous with insect life, while the
alligators in the swamps kept up their bellowings till
morning.
After breakfast we descended to the mouth of
the Santa Fe River, which was on the left bank
of the Suwanee. The piny-woods people called
it the Santaffy. The wilderness below the Santa
Fe is rich in associations of the Seminole Indian
war. Many relics have been found, and, among
others, on the site of an old Indian town,
entombed in a hollow tree, the skeletons of an
Indian adult and child, decked with beads, were
discovered. Fort Fanning is on the left bank,
and Old Town Hammock on the right bank of
the Suwanee.
During the Seminole war, the hammock and
the neighboring fastnesses became the
hiding-places of the persecuted Indians, and so wild
and undisturbed is this region, even at this time,
that the bear, lynx, and panther take refuge from
man in its jungles.
Colonel J. L. F. Cottrell left his native
Virginia in 1854, and commenced the cultivation of
the virgin soil of Old Town Hammock. Each
state has its peculiar mode of dividing its land,
and here in Florida this old plantation was in
township 10, section 24, range 13. The estate
included about two thousand acres of land, of
which nearly eleven hundred were under
cultivation. The slaves whom the colonel brought
from Virginia were now his tenants, and he
leased them portions of his arable acres. He
considered this locality as healthy as any in the
Suwanee country. The old planter's home, with
its hospitable doors ever open to the stranger,
was embowered in live-oaks and other trees,
from the branches of which the graceful festoons
of Spanish moss waved in the soft air, telling of
a warm, moist atmosphere.
A large screw cotton-press and corn-cribs,
with smoke-house and other plantation buildings,
were conveniently grouped under the spreading
branches of the protecting oaks. The estate
produced cotton, corn, sweet potatoes, cattle,
hogs, and poultry. Deer sometimes approached
the enclosed fields, while the early morning call
of the wild turkey came from the thickets of the
hammock. In this retired part of Florida,
cheered by the society of a devoted wife and
four lovely daughters, lived the kind-hearted
gentleman who not only pressed on us the
comforts of his well-ordered house, but also
insisted upon accompanying the paper canoe from
his forest home to the sea.
When gathered around the firesides of the
backwoods people, the conversation generally
runs into hunting stories, Indian reminiscences,
and wild tales of what the pioneers suffered
while establishing themselves in their forest
homes. One event of startling interest had
occurred in the Suwanee country a few weeks
before the paper canoe entered its confines.
Two hunters went by night to the woods to
shoot deer by firelight. As they stalked about,
with light-wood torches held above their heads,
they came upon a herd of deer, which, being
bewildered by the glare of the lights, made no
attempt to escape. Sticking their torches in the
ground, the hunters stretched themselves flat
upon the grass, to hide their forms from the
animals they hoped to kill at their leisure. One
of the men was stationed beneath the branches
of a large tree; the other was a few yards distant.
The Panther's Leap (106K)
Before the preconcerted signal for discharging
their rifles could be given, the sound of a heavy
body falling to the ground, and an accompanying
smothered shriek, startled the hunter who was
farthest from the tree. Starting up in alarm, he
flew to the assistance of his friend, whose
prostrate form was covered by a large panther, which
had pounced upon him from the overhanging
limb of the great oak. It had been but the
work of an instant for the powerful cougar to
break with his strong jaws the neck of the poor
backwoodsman.
In this rare case of a panther (Felis concolor)
voluntarily attacking man, it will be noted by
the student of natural history that the victim was
lying upon the ground. Probably the animal
would not have left his perch among the
branches of the oak, where he was evidently
waiting for the approach of the deer, if the
upright form of the man had been seen. Go to a
southern bayou, which is rarely, if ever, visited
by man, and where its saurian inhabitants have
never been annoyed by him, -- place your body
in a recumbent position on the margin of the
lagoon, and wait until some large alligator slowly
rises to the surface of the water. He will eye
you for a moment with evident curiosity, and
will in some cases steadily approach you.
When the monster reptile is within two or three
rods of your position, rise slowly upon your feet
to your full height, and the alligator of the
southern states -- the A. Mississippiensis - will, in
nine cases out of ten, retire with precipitation.
There are but few wild animals that will
attack man willingly when face to face with him;
they quail before his erect form. In every case
of the animals of North America showing fight
to man, which has been investigated by me, the
beasts have had no opportunity to escape, or
have had their young to defend, or have been
wounded by the hunter.
It was nearly ten o'clock A. M. on Friday,
March 26th, when our merry party left Old
Town hammock. This day was to see the end
of the voyage of the paper canoe, for my tiny
craft was to arrive at the waters of the great
southern sea before midnight. The wife and
daughters of our host, like true women of the
forest, offered no forebodings at the departure of
the head of their household, but wished him, with
cheerful looks, a pleasant voyage to the Gulf.
The gulf port of Cedar Keys is but a few miles
from the mouth of the Suwanee River. The
railroad which terminates at Cedar Keys would,
with its connection with other routes, carry the
members of our party to their several homes.
The bright day animated our spirits, as we
swept swiftly down the river. The party in the
shad-boat, now called "Adventurer," rowed
merrily on with song and laughter, while I made an
attempt to examine more closely the character
of the water-moccasin -- the Trigono
cephaluspiscivorus of Lacepede, -- which I had more
cause to fear than the alligators of the river.
The water-moccasin is about two feet in length,
and has a circumference of five or six inches.
The tail possesses a horny point about half an
inch in length, which is harmless, though the
Crackers and negroes stoutly affirm that when
it strikes a tree the tree withers and dies, and
when it enters the flesh of a man he is poisoned
unto death. The color of the reptile is a dirty
brown. Never found far from water, it is
common in the swamps, and is the terror of the
rice-field negroes. The bite of the water-moccasin
is exceedingly venomous, and it is considered
more poisonous than that of the rattlesnake, which
warns man of his approach by sounding his
rattle.
The moccasin does not, like the rattlesnake,
wait to be attacked, but assumes the offensive
whenever opportunity offers, striking with its
fangs at every animated object in its vicinity.
All other species of snakes flee from its presence.
It is found as far north as the Peedee River of
South Carolina, and is abundant in all low
districts of the southern states. As the Suwanee
had overflowed its banks below Old Town
Hammock, the snakes had taken to the low limbs
of the trees and to the tops of bushes, where
they seemed to be sleeping in the warmth of the
bright sunlight; but as I glided along the shore
a few feet from their aerial beds, they discovered
my presence, and dropped sluggishly into the
water. It would not be an exaggeration to say
that we passed thousands of these dangerous
reptiles while descending the Suwanee.
Raftsmen told me that when traversing lagoons in
their log canoes, if a moccasin is met some
distance from land he will frequently enter the canoe
for refuge or for rest, and instances have been
known where the occupant has been so alarmed
as to jump overboard and swim ashore in order
to escape from this malignant reptile.
The only place worthy of notice between Old
Town Hammock and the gulf marshes is Clay
Landing, on the left bank of the river, where
Mrs. Tresper formerly lived in a very
comfortable house. Clay Landing was used during the
Confederate war as a place of deposit for
blockade goods. Archer, a railroad station, is but
twenty miles distant, and to it over rough roads
the contraband imports were hauled by mule
teams, after having been landed from the fleet
blockade-runner.
As the sun was sinking to rest, and the
tree shadows grew long on the wide river's bosom,
we tasted the saltness in the air as the briny
breezes were wafted to us over the forests
from the Gulf of Mexico. After darkness had
cast its sombre mantle upon us, we left the
"East Pass" entrance to the left, and our boats
hurried on the rapidly ebbing tide down the broad
"West Pass" into the great marshes of the coast.
An hour later we emerged from the dark forest
into the smooth savannas. The freshness of the
sea-air was exhilarating The stars were shining
softly, and the ripple of the tide, the call of the
heron, or the whirr of the frightened duck, and
the leaping of fishes from the water, were the
only sounds nature offered us. It was like
entering another world. In these lowlands, near the
mouth of the river, there seemed to be but one
place above the high-tide level. It was a little
hammock, covered by a few trees, called
Bradford's Island, and rose like an oasis in the desert.
The swift tide hurried along its shores, and a
little farther on mingled the waters of the great
wilderness with that of the sea.
Our tired party landed on a shelly beach, and
burned a grassy area to destroy sand-fleas. This
done, some built a large camp-fire, while others
spread blankets upon the ground. I drew the
faithful sharer of my long voyage near a thicket
of prickly-pears, and slept beside it for the last
time, never thinking or dreaming that one year
later I should approach the mouth of the
Suwanee from the west, after a long voyage of
twenty-five hundred miles from the bead of the Ohio
River, and would again seek shelter on its banks.
It was a night of sweet repose. The camp-fire
dissipated the damps, and the long row made
rest welcome.
A glorious morning broke upon our party as
we breakfasted under the shady palms of the
island. Behind us rose the compact wall of
dark green of the heavy forests, and along the
coast, from east to west, as far as the eye could
reach, were the brownish-green savanna-like
lowlands, against which beat, in soft murmurs,
the waves of that sea I had so longed to reach.
From out the broad marshes arose low
hammocks, green with pines and feathery with
palmetto-trees. Clouds of mist were rising, and
while I watched them melt away in the warm
beams of the morning sun, I thought they were
like the dark doubts which curled themselves
about me so long ago in the cold St. Lawrence,
now all melted by the joy of success. The
snowclad north was now behind me. The Maria
Theresa danced in the shimmering waters of
the great southern sea, and my heart was light,
for my voyage was over.
[ Etext Editor: The book includes an advertisement for Bishop's previous book:
A Thousand Miles' Walk Across South America, N. H. Bishop ]
THE PAMPAS AND ANDES: A THOUSAND MILES' WALK ACROSS SOUTH AMERICA.
BY NATHANIEL H. BISHOP.
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price, $1.50
----
Notices of the Work.
His Excellency Don Domingo F. Sarmiento, President of the Argentine
Confederation, South America, in a letter written to the author during 1877. says: "Your book of
travels possesses the merit of reality in the faithful descriptions of scenes and customs as
they existed at that time.
"It has delighted me to follow you, step by step by the side of the ancient and
picturesque carts that cross the vast plains which stretch between the Parana River and the
base of the Andes. As I have written about the same region, your book of travels
becomes a valuable reminder of those scenes; and I shall have to consult your work in the
future when I again write about those countries."
--
"Nathaniel H. Bishop, a mere lad of seventeen; who, prompted by a love of nature,
starts off from his New England home, reaches the La Plata River and coolly walks to
Valparaiso, across Pampa and Cordillera, a distance of more than a thousand miles! It
is not the mere fact of pedestrianism that will gain for Master Nathaniel Bishop a high
place among travellers; nor yet the fact of its having been done in the face of dangers
and difficulties, -- but that, throughout the walk, he has gone with his eyes open, and
gives us a book, written at seventeen, that will make him renowned at seventy. It is
teeming with information, both on social and natural subjects, end will take rank among
books of scientific travel -- the only ones worth inquiring for. One chapter from the
book of an educated traveller (we don't mean the education of Oxford and Cambridge) is
worth volumes of the stuff usually forming the staple of books of travels. And in this
unpretending book of the Yankee boy -- for its preface is signally of this sort - we have
scores of such chapters. The title is not altogether appropriate. It is called 'A
Thousand Miles' Walk across South America.' It is more than a mere walk. It is an
exploration into the kingdom of Nature.
"Sir Francis Head has gone over the same ground on horseback, end given us a good
account of it. But this quiet 'walk' of the American boy is worth infinitely more than
the 'Rough Rides' of the British baronet. The one is common talk and superficial
observation. The other is a study that extends beneath the surface." - Captain Mayne
Reid.
--
"Regarded simply as a piece of adventure, this were interesting, especially when told
of in a tone of delightful modesty. But the book has other recommendations. This
boy has an admirable eye for manners, customs, costumes, &c., to say nothing of his
attention to natural history. The reader seems to travel by his side, and concludes the
book with a sense of having himself trodden the Pampas, and mingled with their
barbarous inhabitants. So far as writing goes, this is the supreme merit of a book of
travels. Let those explore who not only see for themselves, but have the rare ability to lend
their eyes to others. Mr. Bishop is one of the few who can do this; the graphic
simplicity of his narrative is above praise. Meanwhile, his personal impression is very
charming. The quiet patience with which he accepted all the hardships of his position
without the slightest parade of patience, however -- is beyond measure attractive. But
the brave youth goes on quietly enduring what was to be borne, and not ever allowing his
observation to be dulled by the infelicities of his situation." -- Boston Commonwealth
--
BOSTON: LEE & SHEPARD.
NEW YORK: CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.