CRUISE OF THE AURORA
CHAPTER XXIX.
IN WHICH OUR PROWS CUT THE WATERS OF THE
GULF.
ALTHOUGH a strong wind was blowing from the
southeast, we pushed out at eight o'clock the next
morning, determined to overcome by noon the distance
of seven miles that intervened between us and the open
Gulf, but on arriving at the crossing of the NO&M
RR over the Pearl River, the sweep of the wind was so
strong that we took the advice of the bridgetender and
struck into a narrow bayou that led to the east. Said
he:
"Follow the largest stream you can find;
it will double back, and often you will find that
you are coming back toward your starting point; but
if you will follow it for about seven miles you
will come to a live-oak hamak, the only high land
between this and the Gulf. There you will find John
Campbell, who can direct you to a smaller bayou,
which will save you many miles of paddling."
We are now compelled to carry water for drinking
and culinary purposes, as the waters we are
navigating, although not salt, are much too brackish
for use. The tall marsh grasses grew to such a height
that it completely shut off the wind that kept their
slender tops bent over with its force, but so great is
our protection that the water of the bayou is not even
ruffled.
In the Mazes.
After having paddled until I am satisfied
that we have made at least seven miles and must be
near the hamak, I stand up in my canoe to get a view,
if possible, of the surrounding country. From the
directions of the bridgekeeper the hamak ought to be
to the east of us, but as far as the eye can reach in
that direction there is nothing but one unbroken
prairie-like surface. I call to Barnacle that we must
have taken the wrong thoroughfare somewhere, but I
cannot convince him of that, and he gradually pushes
his six feet something up above the floor of the
Comfort and gazes about.
"Well, I don't know where we are; there is
a long line of trees away to the northward, but
that must be the mainland -- it is not a hamak. Oh,
here is the one we are looking for."
And turning so that I can see over the stern of my
canoe, not more than a quarter of a mile distant I see
a small sand hill, on which there is quite an
extensive growth of live oaks and pines, and beneath
their shelter a frame whitewashed house. This is of
course the goal we are looking for, where resides the
only person in this great expanse of prairie and
mystifying watercourses who can give us intelligible
directions as to how we are to reach the open Gulf.
The question that is plainly marked on our
countenances is, Which way shall we go -- ahead or
back?
Remembering the instructions of the bridgekeeper,
we continue on the course we have been traveling, and
in less than twenty minutes we shoot around a sharp
curve and come into view of the house. The Aurora has,
besides the A.C.A. and L.G.C.C. flags at the fore, a
small silk national flag flying on a staff aft. The
voice of a man calling,
"Johnny, Johnny, three cheers for the stars and
stripes," is heard, and on looking over the tall grass
I see a man and a small boy waving their hats as they
give the "three cheers" called for.
"Welcome, gents; welcome to the home of
John Campbell, the Scotch-American."
And catching the Aurora's painter he hauls her up
to the footboard, and I receive a hearty hand shake
from the patriotic Scotchman. In a few words I tell
him the story of the cruise, and ask for the
information as to the route to the Gulf.
"I don't know anything about it down here,
but if you will come up to the house I will try and
find out for you."
Here was a predicament; this man does not know the
way. Can it be possible that we have been misinformed
by the man at the bridge? But no, this is John
Campbell, the man to whom he directed us, and who is
said to be thoroughly familiar with the labyrinth of
watery thoroughfares through this prairie region; and
yet this man says he "don't know down here, but if we
will go up to the house he will try and find out." Is
it possible that we must return over the lonesome
course we have come? While my mind has been filled
with these thoughts we have been walking through the
dry sand toward the house. Seated on the broad veranda
in the warm sunshine, no object is visible save the
white sails of a schooner far off on the blue waters
of the Gulf and the low white lighthouse on St.
Joseph's Island to the southeast.
"The Campbells Are
Coming."
Our host had left us, saying "he would summon
his family," and presently I heard his deep-toned
voice singing "The Campbells are coming, heigho,
heigho," and he appeared heading a procession of four
children, with a tall, buxom woman bringing up the
rear. The latter he introduced as Mrs. Campbell and
the eldest of the children as Johnny, the heir to the
vast estate of John Campbell, Sr., consisting of seven
acres of sand hill, which annually produced sufficient
sweet potatoes to feed the family and two pigs and
keep the one yoke of cattle through the winter.
Verily, it must be a productive seven acres. Seated
before a small stand, we were served with a glass of
fine Scotch whisky, smelling strongly of the bog,
while Johnny passed a tray of very good fruit cake.
In response to my suggestion to Mr. Campbell that
he now tell us what he had learned of the course we
were to steer in order to reach the coast, he
proceeded to draw a series of very crooked lines on
the sand-covered floor:
"Now, here you are: this is a bayou going
to the left; you'll no tak that. Here is another
going to the right; you'll no tak that. Now here is
one so narrow you'll be little like to see it, but
you must; if you don't you'll find yourselves at
dark about twenty miles from the mouth of the
bayou. Push through this little cutoff for a matter
of a mile, and you'll come out into Bayou Campbell
with the current setting to the right as you go
out. Now follow that until you come to a forks
where there is a small pine tree; take the
left-hand bayou and it will lead you to the white
sandy shores of the Gulf."
Good; perfectly clear. We must now be off, as the
sun is sinking low in the west. John Campbell and his
entire family escort us to the landing, and as we push
off give three hearty cheers for the stars and stripes
and the gentlemen from New York. Following his
instructions to the letter, we bring the pine tree
into view and trim off to the left, and in another
half hour shoot out from between the grass lined banks
of the bayou on to the swelling, mirrorlike surface of
the Gulf of Mexico, at sundown of New Year's Day,
1883. Stopping at the mouth of the bayou only long
enough to make a cup of coffee and fry a piece of
bacon, we push on under paddle, making a run of two
miles, when we land on a white sand beach and pitch
the tent beneath some tall pines whose roots are bared
by the waters of the Gulf, while all about there is a
luxuriant growth of palmetto ferns. Although Barnacle
seems to be relishing his supper, he is not in a
communicative mood. My spirits are not depressed by
this, however, as often a whole day and night will
pass with scarcely a word passing his lips. But this
is a night that ought to be celebrated with more than
ordinary cheerfulness. I venture to question my silent
companion as to the cause of his depression.
Barnacle Hears a
Bull.
Looking at me with an expression of
astonishment on his dark features, he says, in an
excited manner:
"Why, where have your ears been since we
came ashore -- don't you hear him? Hark! don't you
hear him bellow?"
"Hear him! bellowing! who's bellowing?"
"Why, where in the name of heaven have your eyes
been since we came ashore? The first thing I saw on
landing were the tracks of a bull in the sand, and
of course he is half wild. If there is any one
thing that I am more afraid of than another it is a
bull. Don't you hear him bellow now? He'll be on us
tonight as sure as we are here, but I'll give him a
noisy reception when he comes."
Now, had there been an alligator crawling about in
the vicinity of the camp I might have been alarmed,
but fear for my safety from the attack of a bull was
far from my mind; and I rolled into my blankets,
prepared for a comfortable night's rest, while the
bright light from St. Joseph's Island, two miles
distant to the south, shone in my face.
"The Campbells are coming, heigho! heigho!" Hello,
I have been dreaming of John Campbell and his clan,
but I am broad awake now; and there is Barnacle, his
blankets thrown aside and he resting on his elbow,
while he grasps in his right hand the heavy navy
revolver that is always his companion by night, and
near him lies the heavy oaken oar.
"What's the matter, Barnacle?"
"Matter! Don't you hear that devil of a bull
roar ?"
"Yes, I do hear him now; but what of it? He
won't molest us if we don't disturb him."
I never knew Barnacle to exhibit fear before
tonight; he has always manifested the utmost courage
hitherto, but the demonstrations of this bull, who is
probably seeking for some other bovine, seems to fill
him with terror. While we are debating whether it
would be safe to go out and attack him, with the hope
of driving him off, his bellowing gradually dies away
in the distance and we are left in peace.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE OUTSIDE GULF PASSAGE.
The morning of the 2nd of January dawned bright and
clear, with a gentle breeze blowing from off the
rippling surface of the Gulf, while the waters washed
musically along the glistening sands. Several small
schooners were heading in toward the mouth of Pearl
River, on their way to New Orleans via Lake
Pontchartrain. Beyond these, almost hull down, I could
see an ocean steamer, evidently heading for the passes
of the Mississippi, en route to the great Southern
port. At the conclusion of our breakfast we find that
our stock of water is getting very low, and for fear
of being overtaken by an offshore gale and blown to
sea, deem it best to lay in a full supply, if it can
be found. I have often heard of the possibility of
procuring fresh water, along the Atlantic coast, by
digging in the sand a few feet back from the shore,
and proceeded to try the experiment here on the Gulf.
After having dug a hole four feet deep, a hundred feet
back from the mark of high water, a stream flows into
my well, but in clearing and tasting it I found it too
brackish for use. This want of water necessitates a
landing at the nearest port. The village of Pass
Christian lies on the high shore twelve miles to the
east in a direct line of our location, and for this we
decide to make as soon as possible. Before the gentle
south wind we spread the sails and speed merrily on
for about two miles, when it died out and left the
surface of the Gulf almost like glass. A delightful
contrast is this balmy atmosphere to that when, a few
short weeks ago, we were battling with the ice and
covered with the flying sand on the Ohio and
Mississippi rivers. As I look in shore I see the
village of Bay St. Louis, lying just inside the deep
bay. So warm is the sun that I strip to my shirt and a
pair of thin trousers, while my feet are without
covering save the sheltering of the hatches which
shade them from the rays of the sun. The heat has an
enervating effect on us who have come from higher
latitudes, and we paddle toward the shore so quietly
that the bows of the canoes scarcely grate in the send
which is ploughed up in little mounds on either side
the stems. Here we made camp, pitching the tent on a
thick carpet of pine needles, while all about us were
the magnificent live oak trees and the rich dark green
magnolias. Insect life was present on all sides; the
frisky grasshopper made his long leaps as he was
disturbed in his nest among the needles, and beautiful
butterflies flitted to and fro. As the morning had
been well advanced before the launch was made and the
distance traveled in rather an indolent manner, the
sun had reached the zenith long before we reached
shore.
The Lullaby of the
Frogs.
Leaving Barnacle to build his fire, I took
the water jugs and went to a house close by, where I
found a little girl most curious to know "where the
little boats came from." My report of the extended
trip was entirely beyond her comprehension, a
knowledge of geography having been denied this child
of fifteen summers. She said:
"I have been to Ship Island and to New
Orleans. Did you come from anywhere near New
Orleans?"
In the well-kept grounds I saw many beautiful roses
in full bloom, and in all parts of the grounds were
orange trees loaded with bright golden fruit. Spending
a portion of the afternoon in letter writing, and
bringing my log up to date, the evening stole upon us
almost unawares. No need of a huge fire now, large
enough to warm all outdoors, but a small one, built
immediately in front of the tent, served to dry the
moist atmosphere that came from off the Gulf, while we
lay in the yielding bed of pine needles, I, at least,
allowing my thoughts to fly to my far distant home, at
the gateway of the snow-clad and ice-bound
Adirondacks, while the chirp of crickets about me and
the musical "peep, peep" of the frogs' swamp back of
the camp served as a soothing lullaby, and I dropped
off to sleep with the light from Cat Island, eight
miles distant to the southward, shining like a bright
white star on the horizon.
With the dawn came a strong breeze from the east,
which transformed the silver surface of the Gulf of
the day before to one of a heaving, troubled
appearance, and the waters washed upon the sands at
our feet with a swash so strong that the singing of
the birds and insects was drowned. Out beyond Cat
Island a large square-rigged vessel lay at anchor, her
hull visible only when she was borne on the crest of
some great sea. Barnacle does not care to make a
start, fearing that the wind will increase to such a
degree as to make it dangerous for us to reach the
shore, should we find it necessary; but I am anxious
to push on, and, with a good supply of water on board,
we launch and head to the east. The shallow water is
rolled up into short, choppy seas that send their
spray over our decks, and now and then one a trifle
more savage than the rest reaches far enough aft to
wet the captain, but this is of small account, as the
water is delightfully warm. We battled against the
wind and seas for ten miles, passing Pass Christian,
with its line of long piers running out to the Gulf
through the shallow waters. At the end of each pier
there was a bath-house, and the space beneath, from
the surface of the water to the hard sand bottom, was
inclosed with slats to protect the bathers from attack
by the man-eating sharks that abound in these waters.
Gradually the wind lulls, and the vicious seas that
are rolling through the shallow water subside to mere
rollers, making it possible for us to land and rest
our weary arms. On a bright green sward, beneath a
broad-reaching live oak tree, we make our camp, where
within fifty feet the little breakers chase one
another along the sandy beach. To the southeast can be
made out Ship Island, distant twelve miles, where ride
at anchor several foreign vessels, which are being
loaded with pine timber cut from the semitropical
forests of the Gulf coast and lightered to them in
rafts.
Lost in the Fog.
During the evening the rain comes gently
down, pattering on the canvas roof, and before we have
fallen off to sleep the wind rises from the northeast,
and but for the protection of the forest of trees back
of us we would have had the tent blown from over our
heads. Out on the Gulf we can hear the dashing waves
as they roll over one another, their foam crests
illuminated with phosphorescent bands and star-like
flashes. When we wake up in the morning the rain has
ceased and a heavy, driving fog envelops us, while all
about is dark, dreary and disagreeable. I hear the
deep note of a conch shell far off to the south in the
thick fog. A moment more and it is answered by one
from the shore, a short distance to the west of us.
Nearer the answering horn comes, and we can see the
form of a woman walking along the bank blowing the
shell she has in her hand. Her husband and son are in
that fishing boat from whence comes the deep notes of
the conch. They are lost in the fog and are without a
compass. Stopping to chat with us (blowing the horn at
intervals):
"Oh, the fishermen often get lost in the fog at
this season of the year, but they generally get safe
to the shore, if a wind off the land doesn't rise and
blow them off to sea. Sometimes that happens; and
then, if they haven't got enough water and provisions
on board, they suffer some, but generally manage to
get to the mainland or make one of the islands.
Sometimes they are gone several days before we hear
from them, and several boats have never been heard
from. I have been up all night watching for my man and
boy, and only half an hour ago heard their horn."
Leaving us, she stepped quickly along the beach
some yards to the east, where there is a suitable
landing for a boat. Other people now come, anxiety for
the safety of husbands, brothers or lovers plainly
marked on their countenances. They all know of the
offshore gale last night. Slowly the boat approaches
the shore, and as she emerges from the fog inquiries
are made of her crew for some word of the absent ones.
All they can learn is that the various boats were in
the vicinity of Ship Island, and as they saw nothing
of them afterward, believe they are safely moored and
will come in when the fog lifts.
"We were half way to the land and steering for the
light here when the gale struck us, and managed to
beat about until it went down as suddenly as it came
up, and then the fog shut down," said her skipper.
By ten o'clock, the fog not having lifted, we
packed up and launched. Barnacle, who is to be the
navigator, sets a boat's compass on the floor beneath
his eye, and we lay a course for the end of the long
pier that stretches a mile out into the water in front
of Mississippi City. After having paddled some time, I
begin to have my doubts as to the correctness of the
course we are steering, and this feeling of doubt
increases when I notice that Barnacle seems to be
constantly changing his course. We should be running
parallel with the shore to strike the pier and ought
now to be close to it, as it was but three miles from
our starting point.
Going It Blind.
"Barnacle, do you think that
compass of yours is thoroughly reliable?" I ask.
"Well, it ought to be; I know of no reason why
it should not. But the canoe moves so much quicker
than the card does that I find it hard work to keep
on the course. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I am quite satisfied that we are not on
the right course, or we would have been up with the
pier before now. Hark! there goes a train on the
railroad;"
and I turned my canoe bow to the sound of the
locomotive's whistle. We had been steering away from
the land, and in a short time would have been within
the strength of the current, which might have drifted
us so far to the southward of the chain of islands
that with an offshore gale it would have been next to
impossible to make the mainland or one of the
islands.
"Well, I guess we had better make our way
in toward the land and feel our way by the bottom,
and not trust to this compass," said Barnacle.
Having paddled about half an hour, we found the
water shoaling fast, and as there are no bars
hereabouts, we knew it must be near the land. All at
once a dark object looms up out of the fog, and I make
out what appears to be a man on stilts walking on the
water, but on nearer approach it proves to be a man
standing on the deck of a small catboat while he works
a pair of long-handled oyster-tongs. Silently we dip
the paddles, making no noise that would attract
attention until we are within a boat's length of the
oysterman, when he looks up and wants to know if we
"have come across the Western Ocean in these cockle
shells."
"Have some oysters?" and another man emerges from
the bottom of the boat and opens for us some of those
great fat bivalves for which this portion of the coast
is celebrated.
"You'd better keep within soundings," said
he, "for the wind is likely to come off the land
and blow hard, and if you were far out you might
have a hard pull of it to get back."
With the after deck of each canoe piled high with
oysters, we are off into the gloom, cautiously
watching the bottom that we may not again lose our
course and go seaward. Edging a little closer in shore
with each dip of the paddle, we come in sight of the
skeleton-like piers of Mississippi City. A mile beyond
the town the fog lifts for a moment and we make out a
grove of trees.
There we pitch the tent and determine to wait until
the fog lifts. Night shuts down at an early hour, and
shortly after we turn in, while the frogs in the low
lands keep up a serenade and a train of cars goes
thundering along in close proximity to our camp. For
three days we remained fogbound. On the afternoon of
January 6 the fog cleared up, and we launched and
pushed for Biloxi, one of the prominent seaside
resorts of the South. With but a few short stretches,
the entire coast between Pass Christian and Biloxi is
built up with the neat summer residences of New
Orleans and Mobile business men, each having in front
of it a long pier, with boat and bath houses.
A Flurry of Snow.
Having paddled about four miles, the wind
suddenly shifted and came out from the south, while
the sun in the splendor of its setting gilded the
edges of a bank of dark, ominous looking clouds that
seemed at once to hang over the horizon and to roll up
rapidly with the increase of the wind, foretelling the
advent of a storm. But a harbor of refuge was at hand,
and as the light shone brilliantly from the tall white
tower of the lighthouse at the western end of Biloxi
the bows of the canoes ploughed into the white sands
of the beach beneath its rays. In the comfortable
quarters of the lightkeeper we found hospitality, but
the duration of the storm was short, and as we pitched
the tent on the pure sands, the myriads of stars shot
their rays from the vault above and were reflected
from the now tranquil waters of the Gulf. At Biloxi we
remained three days, very pleasantly entertained by
Mr. P.J. Montross and Major W.T. Walthall. Mr. R.B.
Clemmens showed us much kind attention and cared for
the canoes.
During the night of the 8th of January the wind
shifted and brought a "norther" down to us, which
howled and moaned dismally about the many gables of
the hotel. With the daylight came the sight of the
first snow that many of the inhabitants had seen for
years. It was amusing to watch the young darkies as
they capered about it in their bare feet, now and then
rubbing them and exclaiming, "It burns." A bright sun,
although accompanied by a cold wind, soon melted the
fleecy coat, and ere our breakfast was over it had
entirely disappeared. At noon of the 10th of January
we made sail and sped merrily eastward before a fresh
westerly breeze which carried us eighteen miles to
Graviline Bayou before four o'clock. It had been our
intention to run two or three miles up this bayou in
order to enjoy the shooting and fishing, to say
nothing of the delicious oysters that the bayou is
celebrated for; but owing to the low water, we found
it so difficult to follow the channel that the attempt
was abandoned and we squared away for a tree-covered
point about two miles distant.
The water is very shallow for a quarter of a mile
from the shore, and the sand is kept in solution so
that it is impossible to see the bottom, and we were
constantly grounding, and many times were forced to
jump overboard to lighter into deeper water. After
much hard work we came abreast of the point, but found
that the low beach ran out for a quarter of a mile.
Nevertheless here we must make our camp, as night is
settling down upon us. Hauling the craft well up on
the sand and securely anchoring them, we carry to the
shore such articles as are necessary for our comfort.
Not wishing to unjoint the spars and stow them under
the decks, they, too, are toted ashore, together with
the paddles. The site chosen for our camp is on a
heavily-wooded low bank thickly grown with tall grass
and bunches of the fan palm. The temperature is so
mild, and there is such an abundance of wood at hand
we do not pitch the tent, but making a bed in the soft
sand, lie with our feet to the fire.
CHAPTER XXXI.
IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT THE GREATEST PERIL OF
CANOEING IS FIRE ON DRY LAND.
IN the night a crackling sound disturbs me, and my
eyes are greeted with a sight that for an instant is
appalling. All about me is one mass of crackling,
roaring, hissing flames, leaping from one bunch of dry
grass and palmetto to another, while they dart high
into the air from the broad branches of the old tree
against which our paddles and sails are leaning. Now
thoroughly enveloped by fire, I spring from my
blankets, crying,
"Fire! fire! Barnacle, wake up, the camp is on
fire!" and dashing into the flames, seize the sails
and paddles and throw them, a mass of flames, on to
the sand, and then spring for the mess chests, which
follow the sails and paddles. Barnacle is now on hand,
and we heap the wet sand on the flames, and soon there
is left only a smoking heap of pine sticks and cotton
duck. We next direct our attention to preventing the
spread of the fire further into the timber, and what
with beating with sticks and throwing wet sand, we
have it under control in a few minutes.
"Well, Barnacle, this is the result of
your propensity for building big campfires. You
burned up an island on the Ohio River, and now what
do you think of this?"
"Think of it? Why, I think the camp has been on
fire, but it wasn't my fault; it is all owing to a
shift of the wind that blew the flames from the
fire into the dry grass and fan palms, and they
communicated it to that old tree. I tell you,
Doctor, it was a lucky thing those blessed canoes
were not at the foot of that old tree, or we would
have been compelled to abandon the cruise here near
the mouth of the Pascagoula River."
It is two o'clock and the night pitch dark. No time
now to make an inventory of the damages. So, filling
the pipes and renewing the campfire, we sit about it
and have a soothing smoke, and then turn in for a nap
preparatory to the fatigues of a day in which we must
repair damages. A bright morning greets us after a
night of excitement, and we examine into the results
of our fiery experience. With a sad heart I take up
the remnants of the Aurora's snow-white,
beautifully-setting sail, and unfurling it, find that
only a half of it remains, and at least one-half of
that will need to be cut away in order that it may be
properly patched. The spars are not so badly damaged
as to be beyond use, the sail having been wrapped so
closely about them that they have been protected until
the layers of cloth first burned through. There lay
the paddles, one-half of each burned so thin that on
lifting them they drop to pieces.
An Inventory of
Losses.
That trusty paddle that had been my main
dependence for so many weeks, over so many hundreds of
weary miles, half of it lay before me a little heap of
charred coals, while the remaining portion is useless
without the other.
"Doctor," says Barnacle, "I would rather
have had all my clothes, together with my entire
outfit, destroyed, than to have lost that sail and
paddle. I am worse off than you, as my spars are
burned past use. I may be able to splice them, but
it will be a difficult job, even if I can find
material to do it with."
There is a house near by, and while Barnacle is
preparing breakfast I take the water-jugs and go to
it, with the hope of finding a piece of timber from
which we might whittle substitutes for the burned
paddles and spars. We can cut up the tent and convert
that into sails. On leaving Biloxi, Maj. Walthall had
handed me a note of introduction to an old friend of
his, saying:
"I don't know just where Mr. Lewis lives,
but it is about two miles to the eastward of Bayou
Graviline. Should you be in his neighborhood, he
would be pleased to receive a call from you."
Two miles east of Bayou Graviline is just about
where we are now. It was with some hesitation that I
approached the great, substantial homelike plantation
house before me, as in my present costume I looked
more like a tramp than the skipper of the natty little
Aurora. On reaching the gate at the end of the broad
walk to the front of the house I saw over the door in
a semicircle of large letters of evergreen the one
word "Welcome." Passing to the rear of the house I met
a tall gentleman with long, white hair and snowy
beard, who was none other than Mr. Lewis himself. He
kindly listened to my tale of woe, and promised to
assist me in any way in his power.
On returning to the camp, after having vainly
searched for material with which to make repairs, I
found that Barnacle had breakfast ready. The "Colonel"
had told me of a sawmill, distant about three miles,
on the banks of the Pascagoula River. He thought we
might be able to find what we wanted there. So I
started Barnacle off with the unburned half of my
paddle as a sample of what we needed in the way of
timber. On looking through my dunnage I came across a
piece of cotton cloth, which, by piecing, I could get
enough out of to patch my sail, and a cotton cloth
awning that was stowed away in the bow of the Aurora
would answer for repairs to the Comfort's sail; so on
the score of sails we were all right. I spent most of
the day cutting and fitting the new pieces for the
sail. As I sat beneath the wide-spreading branches of
an oak, with my sewing on my knee, I received a visit
from an old colored aunty, who was much amused at
seeing me stitching, and made the remark that "de
Yankees can do mos' anything when de time comes
'long." After asking various questions, she finally
came to the subject of her errand:
"Massa, duz ye got a little bacca for dis
chile? I dun use de lass I had. My ole man dun gone
to de stoah to fetch some, but he dun stay so long.
I libs jess ober heah in de little cabin, and I'll
pay ye back when d'ole man fetch some."
That Leaf Tobacco.
'Tis true I have some tobacco, but the supply
is so very limited I do not care to part with even a
small portion of it. It is of a fine brand, and I may
not be able to replenish my stock this side of
Pensacola. Oh, a happy thought strikes me; and going
to the canoe, I search out the paper containing the
roll of knock-down drag-out leaf that our Kentucky
friend had given us, and handing the roll to the aged
crone, I save my choice brand and get rid of two
nuisances in one act. It is now so near midday that I
begin to feel the want of dinner, and scraping away
the bed of coals, I dig a hole in the hot sand and
fill it with fine, large sweet potatoes, and then
cover them with the sand. I then open a couple of
dozen fine oysters, and rolling them in crushed
cracker, drop them into the frying-pan, which contains
just enough butter. In a few moments I have before me
a dinner fit for a king. While the birds sweetly carol
in the branches above me, I recline against a tree and
enjoy my pipe and coffee. The day passes quickly, so
busy am I on my sail repairs, and night is on me
before I am prepared for it. Barnacle puts in an
appearance with a piece of timber for the paddles,
which has been riven out of a cypress log. Three days
of sunshine, alternating with thunderstorms, are spent
in getting ready for sea, but when all is finished a
heavy fog sets in and precludes the possibility of
making a safe run to the East Pascagoula lighthouse,
distant about four miles. Our whereabouts has now
become known to the few negroes living in the
vicinity, and we frequently receive visits from them.
On Sunday evening a party of four girls and two boys
called and spent most of the delightfully warm
evening, entertaining us with their quaint speeches
and plantation melodies. The following morning I
caught a glimpse of my tobacco-begging visitor of a
few days ago as she made her way toward the camp, and
surmising that she might be on the same errand as
before, I was prepared, and met her with,
"Good morning, aunty; have you got any
tobacco?"
"Why, bress yer soul, honey, I was jes gwine ter
ask yer that same question."
© 2000 Craig O'Donnell
May not be reproduced without my
permission.
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