Four Months in a Sneak Box

N >> Nathaniel H. Bishop >> Four Months in a Sneak Box

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Having critically examined our oar-locks, and carefully ballasted our
boats, we pulled into the rough water. The light-keeper shouted
encouragingly to us from his high porch, "You'll get across all right,
and will have a good camp to-night!" For a long time we worked
carefully at our oars, our little shells now rising on the high crest
of a combing sea, now sinking deep into the trough, when one of us
could catch only a glimpse of his companion's head. As the wind
increased, and the sea became white with caps, it required the
greatest care to keep our boats from filling. The light-keeper
continued to watch us through his telescope, fearing his counsel had
been ill-advised. At times we glanced over our shoulders at the white
sandbanks and forest-crowned coasts of Shieldsboro and Bay St. Louis,
which were gradually rising to our view, higher and higher above the
tide. The piers of the summer watering-places, some of them one
thousand feet in length, ran out into shoal water. Against these the
waves beat in fury, enveloping the abutments in clouds of white spray.
When within a mile of Shieldsboro the ominous thundering of the surf,
pounding upon the shelving beach of hard sand, warned us of the
difficulty to be experienced in passing through the breakers to the
land.

It was a very shoal coast, and the sea broke in long swashy waves upon
it. If we succeeded in getting through the deeper surf, we would stick
fast in six inches of water on the bottom, and would not be able to
get much nearer than a quarter of a mile to the dry land. Then, if we
grounded only for a moment, the breaking waves would wash completely
over our boats.

Having no idea of being wrecked upon the shoals, I put the duck-boat's
bow, with apron set, towards the combing waves, and let her drift in
shore stern foremost. The instant the heel of the boat touched the
bottom, I pulled rapidly seaward, and in this way felt the approaches
to land in various channels many times without shipping a sea.

Saddles kept in the offing, in readiness to come to my assistance if
needed. It became evident that we could not land without filling our
boats with water, so we hauled off to sea, and took the trough
easterly, until we had passed the villages of Shieldsboro and Bay St.
Louis, when, like a port of refuge, the bay of St. Louis opened its
wide portals, which we entered with alacrity, and were soon snugly
camped in a heavy grove of oaks and yellow pines. Here we found an
ample supply of dry wood and fresh water, with wood ducks feeding
within easy gunshot of our quarters. There were no mosquitoes, and
that fact alone rewarded us for our exertions and anxieties.

It was after five o'clock in the afternoon, and, sitting over our
cheerful camp-fire, we had little thought of the scene being enacted
on the ground we had just gone over. The light-keeper was still at his
post, not anxious now about our little craft; but, peering through the
fast gathering gloom, he turned his telescope in the direction where
he expected to find the boat of his assistant. He soon saw a tiny
speck, which grew more and more distinct each moment as it rose and
fell upon the waves, beating against a head wind, with sails set, and
coming from Bay St. Louis to St. Joseph's Light. It was the boat he
expected; and, adjusting his glass, he awaited her arrival.

The cheery light shot its pellucid rays over the dark water, inviting
the little sail-boat to a safe harbor, while the mariner hopefully
wrestled with the wind and sea, thinking it would soon be over, and
his precious cargo (for his wife, her friend, and his three children
were on board) safely landed upon the island, where they could look
calmly back upon the perils of the deep.

Bravely the boat breasted the sea. It was within three miles of the
light, though hardly visible in the gloom to the watchful eye of the
light-keeper on his gallery, when Butler attempted to go upon another
tack. Twice he tried, twice he failed, when, making a third attempt,
the boom of the sail jibed, and instantly the boat capsized. The
disappearance of the sail from his horizon told the man upon the
gallery of the peril of his friends, and quickly launching a boat, he
proceeded rapidly to the scene of disaster.

He found the two women clinging to the boat, and rescued them; but the
man and his three children were drowned. A week later, the body of the
assistant keeper with that of his oldest child were washed up upon the
beach; the others were doubtless thrown up on some lonely coast and
devoured by wild hogs or buzzards.

Four months later, some fishermen, while hauling their seine, found
the boat imbedded in the sand, in about eight feet of water. Thus the
treacherous sea is ever ready to swallow in its insatiable maw those
who love it and trust to its ever varying moods.

The gale confined us to our camp for three days, during which time we
roamed through the beautiful semi-tropical woods, cooked savory meals,
and, lying idly near our fire, watched the fish leap from the water.
While in our retreat, Dame Nature favored us with one sharp frost, but
it was not sufficiently severe to injure vegetation.

On Monday, January 31, we left the beautiful bay, and rounding
Henderson's Point, pulled an easterly course on the open Gulf, along
the shores of the village of Pass Christian, which, like the other
summer watering-places of this part of the Gulf coast, was made
conspicuous from the water by the many long light piers, built of
rough pine poles, which extended, in some cases, several hundred feet
into the shoal water. Upon the end of almost every pier was the bath-
house of the owner of some cottage. The bathers descended a ladder
placed under the bath-house to the salt water below. The area beneath
each house was enclosed by slats, or poles, nailed to the piling, to
secure the bathers from the sharks, which are numerous in these
waters.

Two of these ferocious creatures were having a fierce combat, in about
four feet depth of water, as we rowed off Pass Christian. This coast
is destitute of marshes, and has long sandy beaches, with heavy pine
and oak forests in the background. The bathing is excellent, and is
appreciated by the people of Louisiana and Mississippi, who resort
here in large numbers during the summer months. All the hotels and
cottages of these sea-girt villages are, however, closed during the
winter, just the time of the year when the climate is delightful, and
shooting and fishing at their best.

From Lake Pontchartrain to Mobile Bay, a distance of more than one
hundred statute miles in a straight line, there extends a chain of
islands, situated from seven to ten miles south of the main coast, and
known respectively as Cat Island, Sloop Island, Horn Island, Petit
Bois Island, and Dauphine Island. The vast watery area between the
mainland and these islands is known as Mississippi Sound, because the
southern end of the large state of Mississippi forms its principal
northern boundary. The Chandeleur and many other low marshy islands
lie to the south of the above-named chain.

Northern yachtmen can pass a pleasant winter in these waters. The
fishing along the Gulf coast is excellent. Not having had an
opportunity to identify their scientific nomenclature, I can give only
the common names by which many species of these fish are known to the
native fishermen. Among those found are red-fish, Spanish mackerel,
speckled trout, black trout, blue-fish, mullet, sheep's-head,
croakers, flounders, and the aristocratic pompano. Crabs and eels are
taken round the piers in large numbers, while delicious shrimps are
captured in nets by the bushel, and oysters are daily brought in from
their natural beds. The fish are kept alive in floating wells until
the cook is ready to receive them.

Venison is sold in the markets at a very low price, while the
neighboring gardens supply all our summer vegetables during the winter
months. I thought, while we rowed along this attractive coast in the
balmy atmosphere, with everything brightened and beautified by the
early moon, how many were suffering in our northern cities from
various forms of pulmonary troubles induced by the severe winter
weather, while here, in a delightful climate, with everything to make
man comfortable, private houses and hotels were closed, and the life-
giving air blowing upon the sandy coast, from the open Gulf of Mexico,
dying softly away unheeded by those who so much needed its healing
influences. This region, being entirely free from the dampness of the
inland rivers of Florida, and having excellent communication by rail
with the North and New Orleans, offers every advantage as a winter
resort, and will doubtless become popular in that way as its merits
are better known.

About nine o'clock in the evening we passed the Biloxi light-house,
and decided, as the night was serene and the waters of the Gulf
tranquil, to run under one of the bath-houses, and there enjoy our
rest, not caring to enter a strange village at that hour. The piling
of some of the piers was destitute of the usual shark barricade, and
selecting two of these inviting retreats, we pushed in our boats,
moored them to the piles, and were soon fast asleep.

About daybreak the weather changed, and the sea came rolling in,
pitching us about in the narrow enclosure in a fearful manner. The
water had risen so high that we could not get out of our pens; so,
climbing into the bath-rooms above, we held on to the bow and stern
lines of our boats, endeavoring to keep them from being dashed to
pieces against the pilings of the pier. While in this mortifying
predicament, expecting each moment to see our faithful little skiffs
wrecked most ingloriously in a bath-house, sounds were heard and some
men appeared, who, coming to our assistance, proved themselves friends
in need. We fished the boats out of the pen with my watch-tackle, and
hoisted each one at a time into the bath-house that had covered it.

Two gentlemen then approached, one claiming Saddles as his guest,
while the other, Mr. J. P. Montross, conducted me to his attractive
tree-embowered home; and with the soft and winning accent of an
educated gentleman of Yucatan, the country of his birth, placed his
house and belongings at my disposal. "I was in New Orleans when you
went through that city," he said, "and learning that you would pass
through Biloxi, I at once telegraphed to my agent here to detain you
if possible as my guest until I should arrive."

We remained a week in Biloxi, where I became daily more and more
impressed with the great natural advantages of these Gulf towns as
winter watering-places for northern invalids or sportsmen. During one
of my rambles about Biloxi, I stumbled upon a curious little
plantation, the lessee of which was entirely absorbed in the
occupation of raising water-cresses. In Mr. Scheffer's garden, which
was about half an acre in extent, I found fifteen little springs
flowing out of a substratum of chalk. The water was very warm and
clear, while the springs varied in character. There was a chalk-
spring, a sulphur-spring, and an iron-spring, all within a few feet of
each other. The main spring flowed out of the ground near the head, or
highest part of the garden, while ditches of about two feet in width,
with boarded sides to prevent their caving in, carried the water of
the various springs to where it was needed.

The depth of water in these ditches was not over eighteen inches.
Their preparation is very simple, sand to the depth of an inch or two
being placed at the bottom, and the roots, cuttings, &c., of the
cresses dropped into them. This prolific plant begins at once to
multiply, sending up thousands of hair-like shoots, with green leaves
floating upon the surface of the running water. Mr. Scheffer informed
me that he marketed his stock three times a week, cutting above water
the matured plants, and putting them into bundles, or bunches, of
about six inches in diameter, and then packing them with the tops
downward in barrels and baskets. These bunches of cresses sell for
fifteen cents apiece on the ground where they are grown. New Orleans
consumes most of the stock; but invalids in various places are fast
becoming customers, as the virtues of this plant are better
understood. It is of great benefit in all diseases of the liver, in
pulmonary complaints, and in dyspepsia with its thousand ills.

The ditches in this little half-acre garden, if placed in a continuous
line, would reach six hundred feet, and the crop increases so fast
that one hundred bunches a week can be cut throughout the year. The
hot suns of summer injure the tender cresses; hence butter-beans are
planted along the ditches to shade them. The bean soon covers the
light trellis which is built for it to run upon, and forms an airy
screen for the tender plants. During the autumn and winter months the
light frame-work is removed, and sunlight freely admitted.

Cresses can be grown with little trouble in pure water of the proper
temperature; and as each bed is replanted but once a year, in the
month of October, the yield is large and profitable.

The intelligent cultivator of this water-cress garden frequently has
boarders from a distance, who reside with him that they may receive
the full benefit of a diet of tender cresses fresh from the running
water. Few, indeed, know the benefit to be derived from such a diet,
or the water-cress garden would not be such a novelty to Americans.
We, as a nation, take fewer salads with our meals than the people of
any of the older sister-lands, perhaps, because in the rush of every-
day life we have not time to eat them. We are, at the same time,
adding largely each year to the list of confirmed dyspeptics, many of
whom might be saved from this worst of all ills by a persistent use of
the fresh water-cress, crisp lettuce, and other green and wholesome
articles of food. Such advice is, however, of little use, since many
would say, like a gentleman I once met, "Why, I would rather die than
diet!" Three hundred feet from the garden the water of its springs
flows into the Gulf of Mexico, the waves of which beat against the
clean sandy shore.

Among other things in this interesting town, I discovered in the boat-
house belonging to the summer residence of Mr. C. T. Howard, of New
Orleans, John C. Cloud's little boat, the "Jennie." Strange emotions
filled my mind as I gazed upon the light Delaware River skiff which
had been the home for so many days of that unfortunate actor, whose
disastrous end I have already related to my reader.

The boat had been brought from Plaquemine Plantation on the
Mississippi River to this distant point. It was about fifteen feet in
length, and four feet wide amidships. She was sharp at both bow and
stern, and was almost destitute of sheer. There was a little deck at
each end, and the usual galvanized-iron oar-locks, without out-
riggers, while upon her quarters were painted very small national
flags. She was built of white pine, and was very light.

Each summer, when guests are at Bi1oxi, sympathizing groups crowd
round this little skiff; and listen to the oft-repeated story of the
poor northerner who sacrificed his own life while engaged in the
attempt to win a bet to support his large and destitute family.

Here by the restless sea, which seems ever to be moaning a requiem for
the dead, I left the little "Jennie," a monument of American pluck,
but, at the same time, a mortifying instance of the fruitlessness of
our national spirit of adventure when there is no principle to back
it.

[Arrival at the Gulf of Mexico--Camp Mosquito.]

CHAPTER X.

FROM BILOXI TO CAPE SAN BLAS

POINTS ON THE GULF COAST.-- MOBILE BAY.-- THE HERMIT OF DAUPHINE
ISLAND.-- BON SECOURS BAY.-- A CRACKER'S DAUGHTER.-- THE PORTAGE TO
THE PERDIDO.-- THE PORTAGE FROM THE PERDIDO TO BIG LAGOON.-- PENSACOLA
BAY.-- SANTA ROSA ISLAND.-- A NEW LONDON FISHERMAN.-- CATCHING THE
POMPANO.-- A NEGRO PREACHER AND WHITE SINNERS.-- A DAY AND A NIGHT
WITH A MURDERER.-- ST. ANDREW'S SOUND.-- ARRIVAL AT CAPE SAN BLAS.

ON the morning of February 8 we left Biloxi, and launching our boats,
proceeded on our voyage to the eastward, skirting shores which were at
times marshy, and again firm and sandy. At Oak Point, and Belle
Fontaine Point, green magnolia trees, magnificent oaks, and large
pines grew nearly to the water's edge. Beyond Belle Fontaine the
waters of Graveline Bayou flow through a marshy flat to the sea, and
offer an attractive territory to sportsmen in search of wild-fowl.
Beyond the bayou, between West and East Pascagoula, we found a delta
of marshy islands, and an area of mud flats, upon which had been
erected enclosures of brush, within the cover of which the sportsman
could secrete himself and boat while he watched for the wild ducks
constantly attracted to his neighborhood by the submarine grasses upon
which they fed.

At sunset we ran into the mouth of a creek near the village of East
Pascagoula, and there slept in our boats, which were securely tied to
stakes driven into the salt marsh. At eight o'clock the next morning,
the tide being low, we waded out of the stream, towing our boats with
lines into deeper water, and rowed past East Pascagoula, which, like
the other watering-places of the Gulf, seemed deserted in the winter.
The coast was now a wilderness, with few habitations in the dense
forests, which formed a massive dark green background to the wide and
inhospitable marshes. As we proceeded upon our voyage wildfowl and
fish became more and more abundant, but few fishermen's boats or
coasting vessels were seen upon the smooth waters of the Gulf. About
dusk we ascended a creek, marked upon our chart as Bayou Caden, and
passing through marshes, over which swarmed myriads of mosquitoes, we
landed upon the pebbly beach of a little hammock, and there pitched
our tent.

This portable shelter, which we had made at Biloxi, proved indeed a
luxury. It was only six feet square at its base, weighing but a few
pounds, and when compactly folded occupying little space; but after
the first night's peaceful sleep under its sheltering care it occupied
a large place in our hearts; for, having driven out the mosquitoes and
closely fastened the entrance, we bade defiance to our tormentors, and
realized by comparison, as we never did before, the misery of voyaging
without a tent.

Moving out of the Bayou Caden the next day, a lot of fine oysters was
collected in shoal water, and by a lucky shot, a fat duck was added to
the menu.

We were now on the coast of Alabama, so named by an aboriginal chief
when he arrived at the river, from which he thought no white man would
ever drive him, and turning to his followers, exclaimed, Alabama!--
"Here we rest." Alas for chief and followers, who to-day have no spot
of ground where they can stand and cry, "Alabama!"

There were several bays to be crossed before we reached a point in the
marshes which extended several miles to the south, and was called
Berrin Point. To the east of this was a wide bay, bounded by Cedar
Point, which formed one side of the entrance to Mobile Bay. Miles
across the water to the south lay Dauphine Island, which it was
necessary to reach before we could cross the inlet to Mobile Bay. The
wind rose from the south, giving us a head sea, but we pulled across
the shallow bay, through which ran a channel called "Grant's Pass," it
having been dredged out to enable vessels to pass from Mississippi
Sound to Mobile Bay. This tedious pull ended by our safe arrival at
Dauphine Island, upon the eastern point of which we found, close to
the beach, a group of wooden government buildings, once occupied by
some of the members of the United States Army Engineer Corps.

Here lived, as keeper of the property, a genial recluse, Mr. Robinson
Cruse, who for eight years had led an almost solitary life, his
nearest neighbor on the island being the sergeant in charge of Fort
Gaines, which officer, I was informed, was seldom seen outside of his
dismal enclosure. Solitude, however, did not seem to have had the
usual effect upon Mr. Cruse, for he welcomed us most cordially, and
cooked us a truly maritime supper of many things he had taken from the
sea. When darkness came, and the winds were howling about us, he piled
in his open fireplace pieces of the wrecks of unfortunate vessels
which had foundered on the coast, and had cast up their frames and
plankings on the beach near his door. Grouping ourselves round the
crackling fire, our host opened his budget of adventures by sea and by
land, entertaining us most delightfully until midnight, when we spread
our blankets on the hard floor in front of the fire, and were soon
travelling in the realms of dreamland.

The following day the wind stirred up the wide expanse of water about
the island to such a degree of boisterousness that we could not launch
our boats. Our position was somewhat peculiar. Between Dauphine Island
and the beach of the mainland opposite was an open ocean inlet of
three and a half miles in width, through which the tide flowed. Fort
Gaines commanded the western side of this inlet, while Fort Morgan
menaced the intruder on the opposite shore. North of this Gulf portal
was the wide area of water of Mobile Bay, extending thirty miles to
Mobile City, while to the south of it spread the Gulf of Mexico,
bounded only by the dim horizon of the heavens. To the east, and
inside the narrow beach territory of the eastern side of the inlet,
was Bon Secours Bay, a sort of estuary of Mobile Bay, of sixteen miles
in length. The passage of the exposed inlet could be made in a small
boat only during calm weather, otherwise the voyager might be blown
out to sea, or be forced, at random, into the great sound inside the
inlet. In either case the rough waves would be likely to fill the
craft and drown its occupant. In case of accident the best swimmer
would have little chance of escape in these semi-tropical waters, as
the man-eating shark is always cruising about, waiting, Micawber-like,
for something "to turn up."

The windy weather kept us prisoners on Dauphine Island for two days,
but early on the morning of February. 13 a calm prevailed, taking
advantage of which, we hurried across the open expanse of water, not
daring to linger until our kind host could prepare breakfast. The
shoal water of the approaches to the enterprising cotton port of
Mobile make it necessary for large vessels to anchor thirty miles
below the city, in a most exposed position. We passed through this
fleet, which was discharging its cargo by lighters, and gained in
safety the beach in Bon Secours Bay, near Fort Morgan.

While preparing our breakfast on the glittering white strand, we
received a visit from Mr. B. F. Midyett, the light-keeper of Mobile
Point. He was a North Carolinian, but told us that Indian blood flowed
in his veins. He was from the neighborhood of the lost colony of Sir
Walter Raleigh, a history of which I gave in my "Voyage of the Paper
Canoe." Midyett (also spelled Midget) may have been a descendant of
that feeble colony of white men which so mysteriously disappeared from
history after it had abandoned Roanoke Island, North Carolina, being
forced by starvation to take refuge among friendly Indians, when its
members, through intermarriage with their protectors, lost their
individuality as white men, and founded a race of blue-eyed savages
afterwards seen by European explorers in the forests of Albemarle and
Pamplico sounds.

The light-keeper begged us to make him a visit; but it was necessary
to hurry to the end of Bon Secours Bay before night, as a north wind
would give us a heavy beam sea. Passing "Pilot Town," where the little
cottages of oystermen, fishermen, and pilots were clustered along the
beach, we pulled past a forest-clad strand until dusk, when we reached
the end of Bon Secours Bay, where it was necessary to make a portage
across the woods to the next inland watercourse.

The eastern end of Bon Secours Bay terminated at the mouth of Bon
Secours River, which we ascended, finding on the low shores a well-
stocked country store, and several small houses occupied by oystermen.
We slept in our boats by the river's bank, and the next morning turned
into a narrow creek, on our right hand, which led to a small tidal
pond, called Bayou John, the bottom of which was covered in places
with large and delicious oysters. Crossing the lagoon, we landed in a
heavy forest of yellow pines. This desolate region was the home of
John Childeers, a farmer; and we were informed that he alone, in the
entire neighborhood, was the possessor of oxen, and was in fact the
only man who could be hired to draw our boats seven miles to Portage
Creek, which is a tributary of Perdido River.

[Map Mobile Bay to Cape San Blas.]

Leaving Saddles to watch our boats, I entered the tall pine forest,
and after walking a mile came upon the clearing of the backwoodsman.
His two daughters, young women, were working in the field; but the
sight of a stranger was so unusual to them, that, heedless of my
remonstrances and gentle assurances of goodwill, they took to their
heels and ran so fast that it was impossible to overtake them until
they arrived at the log cabin of their father. The dogs then made a
most unceremonious assault upon me, when the maidens, forgetting their
fears, made a sally upon the fierce curs, and clubbed them with such
hearty good-will that the discomfited canines hastily took refuge in
the woods.

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