In our quest to preserve and make available as many Florida writings as possible, here’s a public domain piece from Scribner’s magazine dated 1894.
The Northern tourist who reaches Jacksonville comfortably, luxuriously, on the Limited, does the St. John’s River, runs up the Oclawaha, enjoys a fort night of gayety at St. Augustine, and then makes a flying trip through the Indian River, spending a few days on the beautiful Lake Worth, thinks he has seen Florida. Or, being a lover of piscatorial sports he may run for the Charlotte Harbor region direct, possibly resting at Tampa for a few days en route, bringing up on the Caloosahatchie River at Myers, where tarpon fishing for a time becomes the most serious business of life. But he has only seen a part of Florida.
Northern Florida does not differ materially in its vegetation, topography, or people from portions of South Caro lina and Georgia. Central Florida is more interesting, particularly on what is known as the Orange belt; but when one crosses the boundary line of subtropical Florida, say on a line of latitude twenty-seven, he is in a new world.
After leaving Titusville, on the east coast, at the head of the Indian River, and Tampa on the west coast, the port of departure for Key West and Havana, the shriek of the locomotive be comes a memory. Perhaps the tourist— nay, call him adventurer—has heard of the beautiful Bay Biscayne, or remembers those old stories of the pirates of the keys—the wreckers of the reef—who were able to ply their nefarious occupation until Uncle Sam’s splendid lighthouses and the inroads of a primitive civilization put a stop to the enterprise. Perhaps in a spirit of adventure he longs to enter this dreamland—to sail amid green isles under a genial winter sun, and imagine himself a latter-day Ponce de Leon, searching for the mythical fountain of youth. I say “sail,” because the steamer, or its apology, is rarely seen in the sinuous Hawk Channel or amid the “Huckleberry shoals ” of fair Bay Biscayne.
In these days of the glorification of the deeds of Columbus, it is interesting to note that the English claim priority of discovery of Florida, basing this claim upon a passage in the narrative of Sebastian Cabot, which fixes the year of discovery 1497, or just five years after the landing of Columbus. Sixteen years after Cabot’s landing, March 27, 1513, Easter Sunday, Juan Ponce de Leon sighted the coast near St. Augustine, which he named in honor of the day, and landing at a more northerly point, a little later, took formal possession in the name of the King of Spain. In the fifty years which followed, such illustrious names as De Cordova, De Quexos, De Soto, Menendez, Jean Ribault and Laudonnicre became associated with the history of early discovery in Florida, and with the darker history of the early struggles between the French and Spanish for occupancy. And, at brief intervals, down to the time of the War of the Rebellion, the history of Florida is a story of sanguinary conquest.
The writer has twice traversed the entire coast of subtropical Florida, once from east to west, and once from west to east, but under different circumstances, the latter experience proving the more delightful. Should the voyage of discovery begin on the west coast, Port Tampa is the objective point in planning that part of the journey to be accomplished by rail. Should there be no temptation to break the journey for a day at that huge caravansary, the Tampa Bay Hotel, in the town of Tampa, there is an “Inn ” nine miles farther, at the port where, with quiet and cool breezes, the idler may await the tri-weekly steamer for Key West and Havana, and, as I was assured, fish out of the hotel windows.
At the time of my first visit to Tampa, the Plant system had in contemplation a new steamer line to Fort Myers, and the initial trip was made with three passengers, the writer being one of the party. Passing over sundry breaks in the schedule, necessitating vexatious waits, and transference to two other steam craft before getting to Myers, the last boat reaching her wharf in almost a sinking condition, the journey proved both profitable and interesting.
At Fort Myers, which is about midlay of $500 for the whole season, for guides, boats, costly tackle, and hotel bills and travelling expenses, though there are lucky ones who find all the sport they desire during a short stay. They tell a story of a young New Yorker, who could spare but two days on the Caloosahatchie. He secured his boats, tackle, and guide in advance, and way between Tampa Bay and Cape Sable, there is but one topic of conversation in the fishing season—the tarpon. The writer, fortunately, did not catch the fever, although a positive interest was soon developed in the hotel bulletin board whereon was recorded from day to day the names of those who had se cured a “silver king,” with the guide’s assistance possibly, accompanied by the weight of the fish, and such other in formation as might be deemed important.
The stories told on the piazza, after supper, were oftentimes larger than the fish caught, for a tarpon weighing one hundred and fifty pounds is game to the death. Men have been known to spend an entire season in the Charlotte Harbor region without once seeing their names upon any of the numerous bulletin boards at the fishermen’s hotels, and I was informed upon very good authority that every fish caught in a season represents an average out when, one evening, he made his appearance at the hotel in a dudish outing suit, the veterans on the piazza exchanged knowing glances. The next morning he was up bright and early and off for the fishing grounds. The next evening he saw his name inscribed on the bulletin board, against a high weight record, gave an order to have the beauty stuffed and mounted on a mahogany panel, and on the following morning started on the return journey. But such instances of luck are rare in deed.
I did not catch the enthusiasm, though it is very contagious. Fancy playing for two hours at the end of a slender bass line, over thirty fathoms long, a gamey fish weighing one hundred and fifty pounds, and some idea will be formed of the skill required to keep the fish on the line, or the line from parting, and the excitement attending the final capture.
But let us imagine ourselves at Key West, and look over the dusty old town while the yacht is being made ready for the cruise up the coast. The name Key West is in one sense a misnomer, as the Dry Tortugas group are the more westerly keys, lying fifty-four nautical miles from Cayo Hueso, or “bone island,” as Key West was known in the times of Spanish occupancy, the modern name doubtless being a corruption. There is very little of interest here to hold the tourist. Cigar manufacture is the chief commercial enterprise, the wages paid to the cigar-makers alone amounting to $3,000,000 in a single year. Key West is also the market centre of the sponge industry, which gives employment to hundreds of small boats and sailing craft, and amounting to $1,000,000 annually. The turtle trade is another local industry, though not so important now as when the sea turtles were more plentiful. It is a thoroughly Spanish city, there being less than a thousand English-speaking whites out of twenty-five thousand inhabitants, the population being made up for the most part of Cubans, Spanish speaking negroes, and Bahamians.
On my first evening in Key West, I made inquiry of four persons as to the locality of the post-office before receiving a reply in English.
The Government buildings and the dismantled old Fort Taylor are the only structures on the island that are at all imposing. The tobacco factories are two to four story wooden buildings, while the houses are small and cheap, a marked peculiarity being the absence of chimneys, for fires are only needed for cooking. In the markets are found the finest of fish, and tropical fruits in profusion.
Prime beef is received from the North by the steamers, though the bulk of the supply is native beef, ferried across from Punta Rassa, on the mainland. Between Punta Bassa beef and semi-starvation, should such an alternative be forced upon the average Northern tourist, I fear there would be no doubt whatever about his choice.
Key West belongs to a large group of Keys lying south of the Bay of Florida and extending thirty-five miles eastward to Bahia Honda, which is the widest open water along the entire line of keys. These islands are for the most part uninhabited, and, as they are heavily wooded, abound with game. Eastward of this large group lie the Vaccas Keys, as they are known, numbering a dozen or more islands, covered for the most part with a fine hammock growth. This brings us to an exceedingly interesting group of islands of which Indian Key is the centre, where cultivation has been attempted, and the scene of Dr. Perrine’s attempted sisal hemp culture sixty years ago. From this point onward to Cape Florida there is an almost unbroken line of keys from one mile to thirty miles long, separated only by narrow channels, the more northerly of which are chiefly devoted to the culture of pineapples and tomatoes for Northern markets.
A very common, but erroneous idea prevails among uninformed people, that the waters lying between the keys and the mainland are navigable. In point of fact, it is only a shallow inland sea, the rock in many places coming to the surface, and in hundreds of years, no doubt, the coral insect and the mangrove tree will have reclaimed the entire area, and the map of Florida will have a very different appearance.
The fact that the water is so shoal makes perfectly feasible the project to run a railroad down the east coast and over the keys to Key West, the only bridging requiring any engineering skill being the spanning of the open waters of Bahia Honda. The railroad is destined to be constructed southward to Miami on Biscayne Bay at no remote period, and from that point southward to the final terminus, it is only a matter of one hundred and fifty miles or less of construction.
For my operations along the keys and up the east coast, I was very fortunate in securing the thirteen-ton schooner – yacht Micco, at that time one of the crack boats of the Biscayne Bay Yacht Club, but now flying the Eastern Club’s colors. She was expressly built for the shoal waters of the Florida coast by her designer and former owner, Commodore R. M. Munroe, of the B. B. Y. Club, and has a record of nine hundred and fifty-six miles, from Cape Florida to New York City, in six and a half days, which is creditable.
Leaving the Government dock, Key West, at about six o’clock, on the morning of February 9th, we were able to make a landing on the historic Indian Key early the next morning. This island, which is one of the smallest of the group of keys, is one of the most interesting, for here occurred the Indian massacre of August 7, 1840, in which the botanist, Dr. Henry Perrine was killed, his family escaping almost miraculously by concealing themselves for nine hours in the water under a wharf, the house being plundered and burned almost over their heads.
Early in the thirties, while Consul at Campeachy, the doctor became interested in the introduction of economic plants into the United States, and through his efforts, among other species, the sisal hemp plant was given a foothold on Indian Key.
Decsendents of these plants now occupying the greater portion of this key, with numbers of cocoa-palms, their feathery leaves silhouetted against the sky—for there is entire absence here of wooded vegetation —gives the island a tropic picturesqueness which does not pertain to many other keys of the group.
Landing upon these keys, the scanty soil, for the most part, is discovered to be combined to the crevices and pockets worn into the white coral rock of which all the keys are composed. A foot path is a natural pavement, though a rough one to shoe-leather, the little soil that exists anywhere being only disintegrated rock, or shells and decayed vegetation. On those keys that are more or less covered with “hammock” growth (hard-wood trees), there is quite a surface layer of decomposed vegetation, but in a comparatively short time after being cleared and “cultivated,” the white, honey-combed rock comes to the surface and predominates.
On some of the keys, like Long Key, twelve miles southwest from Indian Key, the surface is sand to a considerable depth, and such situations are most favorable for growing cocoa-nut trees.
There is a grove of cocoa-nuts, numbering over seventeen thousand trees on Long Key, planted by Mr. Thomas Hine, of Newark, N. J., many of which have already come into bearing. The cocoa-nut flourishes throughout subtropical Florida, however, so much so that its absence would sometimes be a relief to the amateur photographer, who wishes diversity in his tropic landscapes.
Apropos of the camera, this part of the world is the amateur photographer’s paradise, despite the apparent monotony of a topography only a few feet above sea-level, with a vegetation often monotonous to the last degree.
During one of my trips to Long Key, an unexpected opportunity occurred to test the sea-going qualities of the Micco, which proved an experience. Yachting in Florida waters is not always accompanied by sunshine, and the dreamy existence amid balmy breezes while floating over emerald seas sometimes gives place suddenly to discomfort and anxiety, not to say positive danger. A north er, never enjoyable, is frequently to be dreaded.
One drowsy mid-February afternoon found us just inside Long Key in company with the Nethla, well known in these waters. After luncheon we parted company with the white yacht, and set sail for Indian Key, fortunately by the inside course. A sudden darkening of the sky was our only warning. Then the wind began to freshen, and we were forced to take in sail.
But the wind increased in violence, and when blowing a half gale the Commodore was glad to run for a sheltered situation near Jew Fish Bush, and anchor. It blew great guns all night, and when the dawn came was still blowing. Some anxiety was felt for the Nethla, as she was nowhere to be seen even with the ship’s glass.
A sharpie lay near us almost down to her rail, and as the morning wore on we were much interested in the persistency with which the two men aboard of her by turns paced the deck or worked at the pumps. Despite the nasty sea that was running, the Commodore had the tender lowered and we pulled over to them.
They were laden with ice, and out of coffee, and considering the chill, raw wind that was blowing, they were a pair of very uncomfortable sailors.
“Why didn’t you hail us?” demanded the Commodore.
“’fraid to,” was the laconic reply. “Afraid?”
“Ain’t that a Gov’nment boat ‘? ”
“ Perhaps,” the Commodore answered with a smile, “ But come aboard and get some coffee.”
In the afternoon we landed on Jew Fish Bush which is one of the lesser keys of the group. Cutting our way through the dense growth of hammock skirting the shore we found ourselves overlooking an open stretch several hundred yards across, as level as a floor, and almost waist high in a growth of wiry grass. I paused to light a cigar.
“Don’t throw away the match,” said the skipper.
Taking the half-burned fuse in his fingers, in an instant it was touched to a tuft of grass near, and in less time than it takes to write it, the air was hot with seething flames. The strong winds carried the fire across the area in a very few moments, the heat causing us to draw back toward the hammock.
An hour later, when aboard the yacht, we saw little tongues of flame in the grass almost at the water’s edge, and soon a half cord of driftwood that had been thrown together in a pile by some neighboring squatters, burst into a huge bon fire. Late in the afternoon we were joined by the Nethla, which had weathered the gale with the aid of two anchors, and a merry night we made of it.
The next morning dawned clear. As we ran out, the sea was tumbling over the bar in fine style, for the protecting reef is broken for some fifteen miles at this point, and we were exposed to the full force of the swell. The Micco behaved nobly, and in due time the yacht was lying comfortably in the lee of Indian Key, the landsman aboard of her heaving a deep sigh of relief as the anchor dropped. The two or three hours following were occupied in getting on a cargo of two or three tons of sisal hemp leaves, already cut and bundled by the islanders, and again we were under sail.
The sisal hemp plant is one of the most interesting growths of key vegetation. Its bayonet-like leaves will average five feet in length by four inches broad, each being armed at the tip with a stout spine of needle-like sharpness. As a ton of these leaves will contain almost one hundred pounds of strong white cordage fibre, it is a most valuable species in the vegetable economy.
A marked peculiarity is the mode of reproduction. A plant is old at seven years, when it sends up a huge blossom stalk or “mast” to a height of fifteen to twenty feet. Branches appear at the top, and in time these are covered with tulip-shaped blossoms, of a faded yellowish green color. These wither in time, and now starts forth, from the point of contact with the blossom stalk, a bud which soon develops into a tiny sisal hemp plant. One blossom stalk will support two thousand of these little plants, which detach themselves when several inches long, and fall to the ground. Those that strike soil take root and grow, but the others perish. So tenacious of life are they, however, that some plants kept by me for eight months in a pasteboard box, took root upon being placed in soil, and have grown into good plants.
An allied species of plant, known as “False Sisal,” has a similar habit of growth and reproduction, though the two plants are very dissimilar. It was my wish to secure some of the fibre of the false sisal, particularly as our Bahamian neighbors had been carrying off the young plants by shiploads to stock their hemp plantations, not knowing how worthless the fibre is, commercially, and at a later period a special trip was made to Sands Key, to obtain a quantity of the leaves. This key lies almost at the mouth of Bay Biscayne and is uninhabited. Even a photograph does not do justice to the appearance of the vegetation on some of these uninhabited keys, where everything grows in rank luxuriance and the tangles of sisal, Spanish bayonet, prickly-pear, and low shrub growths, are so dense as to be almost impenetrable, save as one cuts his way in with sheath knife and machete.
I have a very vivid recollection of my explorations along this portion of the keys. It was in the latter part of February, and the air as balmy as a spring morning, while the pale green waters glinted and sparkled in the sunlight like a sea of emerald and tourmaline. “Dody” Curry was to be my companion for the day, and the tossing of my hip-boots into the tender was a very strong suggestion of something more interesting than lounging in the stern. The yacht lay a mile from the shore, on the inside of the key, though in the clear morning air the island seemed only a few rods away. For the first half mile the boat glided smoothly over the waters of the bay, showing an average depth of five or six feet, the gleaming white bottom clearly visible, covered with coral, sea-plumes, sponges, and many colored weeds or marine life. At this point there was a sudden shoaling, and the grinding sound made by the rough edges of the coral on the boat’s bottom became audible. The rowing was often impeded, and when yet a quarter of a mile away from the shore it became necessary to don rubber boots and disembark to draw the boat after us.
The walking was not as good as on Broadway, the feet often sinking into treacherous holes filled with an oozy, chalklike mud. It was impossible to find a landing on the bay side owing to the dense tangle of mangrove with its interlacing roots, and for a mile or more we floundered over the shoals, until at length the western end of the key was reached. Here the tide was running swiftly through the natural channel, forming eddies between the jagged masses of outcropping coral. The view of the island at this point was so striking that the camera was set up in two and a half feet of water, and a plate exposed. It was photography under difficulties, and was decidedly a new experience.
We now rounded the point, and turning westward, struck the shoal as soon as the channel was passed, which necessitated veering several hundred yards off-shore. It was now row and wade by turns, the open sea before us, in our progress surprising the fish that were sunning themselves in the deeper pockets, frightening the gulls or clumsy pelicans, and once coming suddenly upon a half -grown shark stranded by the outflowing tide. Dody was thoroughly tired of it, as the harder part of the work had fallen to him, and so, with the camera under my arm, I left him to reflect on the uncertainty of navigation in Florida waters, and waded ashore.
As I stepped upon the beach-sands the picture that met my gaze was one to live long in the memory, and for the moment even the camera and its use were forgotten. The silence, the solitude, the wild grandeur of this bit of sea-girt wilderness was most impressive, and the sparkling water, the glistening sands filled with shell fragments, the beach-drift, and the harmonious blending of color in the rich, rank vegetation, I recall, even now, with pleasure. I tried to imprison it all upon a 6 1/2 X 8 1/2 plate. The negative made is a superb one, but the sentiment of the picture was too subtle, too evanescent, to catch and hold.
We made the entire round of the island, bringing away many trophies of our explorations, and late in the afternoon ran alongside the yacht, a pair of tired mortals.
During the afternoon the Commodore and Dick had not been idle, for the spoils of a different kind of an expedition lay around over the deck. It was hard to believe that several black objects, disgusting in appearance, and as large as cabbage-heads, were sponges in the natural state, but such was the fact. Two kinds of sponges abound in these waters, that known as the “Loggerhead,” a coarse form, being avoided by the spongers. A long pole with a claw or fork at the end is the implement usually employed to detach the sponge from the rock bottom. The mass of polyps covering its surface soon die, and must be removed, and the semi-fibrous mass cleaned and bleached, before the sponge takes on the appearance with which everyone is familiar. There were other interesting “spoils,” including branch coral, sea-plumes, and cup-sponges, but the object of real interest was a lot of crawfish which had been speared on the shoals. Fancy a very rough shelled lobster without claws, and a vague idea can be formed of a Florida crawfish. We had a royal supper that night, the chief dish being a kind of crawfish stew, done with tomatoes and ship biscuit, and I regret to say that nothing was left for “manners.”
How some of the “Conchs,” or Bahamians, who inhabit these keys make a living does not appear. On Indian Key, for example, there is a slight attempt at truck farming; the natives do a little “sponging”——-I should hardly dare say in a facetious sense— gather a few sea-plumes and corals, or shells, and the story is told. Higher up, toward Bay Biscayne, however, on Elliott’s and adjacent keys, pineapples, bananas, tomatoes and similar vegetable products are grown with profit. One of the largest of these pineapple planters is Mr. Edgar Higgs, who ships to Baltimore, from his own wharf, schooner loads of pines in the season, for which he secures good prices. No doubt a quick means of transportation to the North would rapidly develop this industry, for it would enable the shippers to reach the tables of the consumers not only with fresher fruit but with that more naturally ripened. To properly appreciate a Florida pine it should be eaten fully ripe from the parent stalk.
Elliott’s Key lies southeast from Sands Key, with only a narrow channel between. It is about eight miles long, by only half a mile wide, and is largely under cultivation. Landing one morning at the Higgs plantation several hours were very pleasantly spent with the manager and owner. From Mr. Higgs I learned much that was interesting regarding the rude agriculture of the keys, though it is too long a story for these pages. I have previously described the “soil” of these cultivated keys. The first operation in starting a pineapple plantation is to cut off the hammock growth and clear the area, though the stumps of the larger trees are left standing. The “slips,” which are simply growths from the old plants, are usually put in with a pointed stick at the rate of twelve thousand to the acre. The first crop matures in about eighteen months, and when three crops are secured, in as many years, the fields are abandoned for this culture, the surface again cleared, and planted in tomatoes. Sweet potatoes also grow to perfection, and, as I was assured by a gentleman of experience, are frequently quarried from these fields of coral rock with a crowbar.
I was much interested in the pineapple industry, as the leaves of the pineapple contain a beautiful soft white fibre, which I have no doubt might be utilized. The leaves soon die after the fruit is gathered, to give place to the new plant, so their utilization for fibre, if practicable, would give to Florida a new industry.
A little to the eastward of Sands Key, and near the Ragged Keys, which are shoals scarcely showing above the surface, is the principal southern entrance to Bay Biscayne. Soldier Key is an isolated island lying a few miles beyond, and due south from Cape Florida; upon this key are still to be seen the Government buildings used when the Fowey Rocks Light Tower was constructed in 1878. This is the most northerly of the reef keys, and though limited in area is one of the most interesting visited. Here the “coral-insect” covers great areas of the shoals, the masses of the polyp forming a velvet like covering to the irregular rock bottom over which we waded.
When the coral structure reaches low-water sea-level the life of the coral insect ends, and the winds and tides, and the mangrove finish the work. The mangroves live just at the edge of the shore, throwing outward into the salt water their straight, forked roots thus forming an interlocking net-work into which the drift is carried and finds lodgement. The storms bring in solid material, and the sea is slowly but surely encroached upon, and the naked reef in time covered with vegetation. By means of the seed-vessels of the mangrove, which are in the form of smooth, round sticks, known as “cigars,” the work is hastened in an interesting manner. The cigars seem to be weighted at one end, and after becoming detached and floating for a time, the heavier end catches in some hole or crevice while the tide is falling, and immediately fixing itself it begins its life as a young mangrove.
There is no more trying or exhausting ordeal, in exploring these keys, than that of attempting to force a way through a growth of mangrove, for sometimes there is no other course to be followed. An old mangrove swamp, such as I visited at Cocoaplum on the mainland, is less trying, for the growth is not so dense, and it is possible to climb or jump from root to root, with only an occasional ugly fall.
Before the Fowey Rocks Light was established, the lighthouse was on the southern extremity of Key Biscayne, or Cape Florida The old tower is now abandoned, and the Government property about it has been leased to the Biscayne Bay Yacht Club, for a nominal consideration. We anchored and spent a night on the bay-side of Key Biscayne, where the shore goes off into deep water very abruptly. The key abounds with wild-cats, bears, and other “ varmints,” though we were only attacked by mosquitoes—which are formidable. Were it not for the hordes of insects which over run southern Florida, and which flourish at all seasons, save in a few favored localities, it would be an earthly paradise, for the temperature on Bay Biscayne averages about eighty-five degrees the year round, and the nights are always cool.
The sand-flies are particularly annoying where they abound, being so infinitesimal that their presence is not known until the victim has been bitten. The Indian name “No-see-’em” is apropos. During the summer months the keys are almost uninhabitable, save to pachydermatous natives, and even they are forced at times to close the wooden shutters of their houses and live in an atmosphere of smoke. These insects will attack a yacht in clouds, though I was informed, as a singular fact, that such attack is usually made when the wind is blowing from the water to the shore, rather than off shore, the theory being advanced that the winds enable the pests to distinguish the whereabouts of their victims. I cannot vouch for the correctness of this theory.
Kingfishing off Cape Florida is royal sport. A stanch yacht, a few twenty five-fathom trolling lines, and a stiff breeze are the essentials. A line is made fast to the yacht shaft the wheel, and the fisherman takes his position. A slight jerk tells when the cord has all run out, and in an instant the polished spoon sinker is seen merrily cutting the tops of the waves, away astern. The yacht is rippling through the water like a thing of life, the excitement of anticipation becomes intense, but it is only momentary—Zip! The line is suddenly taut, a beauty between three and four feet long is thrown high out of the water, the scales glistening like burnished silver in the sunlight; it is tough work starting the fish yachtward, but in a moment the hand over hand work comes easier, the line is almost in, and then begins the struggle. My first kingfish would have pulled me over board at this stage of the game, but for the strong arm of the ever-watchful Dody. I landed the prize unaided, stunned it with a club, and as it fell into the cockpit, I felt that I owned a continent. This is kingfishing in Florida waters, and with two or three pairs of hands at the sport, a catch of two hundred and fifty fish in a day is possible. After a few hours of such exciting sport, capturing in this manner the near cousin of the kingfish, the Spanish mackerel, which also abounds in these waters, is tame indeed in comparison. We saw tarpon on this part of the coast, but they are never caught with the line as on the west coast. There are other kinds of fish, however, which it is good sport to catch, and a joy to eat, the pompano being especially esteemed as a table fish. The kingfish, also, is food for the epicure when cooked shortly after capture.
Biscayne Bay is about forty miles long by five to six miles wide, and lies along the southeastern curve of the Florida peninsula, on the very edge of the Gulf Stream. The mainland between the bay and the Everglades is hardly as wide as the bay itself, and upon this strip are located the few settlements of this portion of Florida. The bay is only navigable for boats of light draught, a yacht drawing five feet of water being sure to go aground on many of its sand-bars and shoals ; even the native yachtsmen often find navigation difficult, the sudden chalky appearance of the water in the wake of the vessel showing too close proximity to land in a vertical direction. The eastern boundaries of the bay are the narrow spur of the mainland which ends at Narres’s Cut, and Virginia Key, and Key Biscayne lying just below in the same line, these keys separated by a broad inlet known as Bear Cut, the main easterly outlet to the ocean.
Were it not for its inaccessibility, the Biscayne Bay region would have long ago been one of the most popular tourist resorts in Florida, on account of its equitable climate, for which its proximity to the Gulf Stream is largely responsible, and from the easterly breezes which blow almost incessantly.
At Cocoa-nut Grove, the largest settlement on the bay, we are in a new atmosphere. Here is the headquarters of the Biscayne Bay Yacht Club, and consequently a port of entry for all Northern yachtsmen who find themselves in these waters. The Secretary of the Club, the genial Kirk Munroe, well known to these pages, met the writer, on his first appearance, as a friend of former days and gave him a warm welcome.
There is a very fair hostelry at this place, and in the winter months the society of the settlement is delightful, for with the cultivated people who are now identified with the locality, there are always a few strangers from the North, who come down here to lead a dolce-far-niente existence in this dreamland, all unmindful of the blizzards that are sweeping over the wintry North. One soon becomes accustomed to the absence of fresh beef and ice, though fresh venison and sea-turtle more than make up for the lack of the former, and the necessity for the latter is soon overlooked.
The roads here are mere trails through the bush, the waterways being the usual highways for travel or transportation. Madame took a trip “into the country” one afternoon, and though she had the best team in town, the experience was not altogether enjoyable.
This portion of Florida has been filling up very rapidly in the past three or four years, and now there are few, if any, homestead lands on the four-mile strip not occupied. On the bay-shore land has risen rapidly in value, and I would not dare say at how many hundred dollars an acre choice situations are held.
Three or four miles above Cocoa-nut Grove is Miami, the oldest “town” on the bay, numbering not more than half a dozen houses. As Miami is located at the mouth of the river of the same name, which flows directly from the Everglades, it is the chief Indian trading-post on the bay, the store being located on the south bank, at Brickell’s landing. Just across the river is all that remains of the old Fort Dallas, which holds a conspicuous place in the history of the Seminole wars. It is now the residence of Mrs. Tuttle, a Northern lady of culture and indomitasble energy, who is doing a great deal for this section of Florida. I was a guest for several days at Fort Dallas, which, under her touch has been transformed into a little tropic paradise. What with the growing of all kinds of vegetables, the planting of fruit-trees, and the advent of a herd of valuable Jersey cattle, Fort Dallas is an object lesson to many a plodding homesteader as to the future possibilities of this region. Good transportation facilities are sorely needed, however, but the skilful manipulation of sundry wires will doubtless erelong find response in the shrill scream of the locomotive, at Miami, where now is seen only the sail-boat and the Indian canoe.
Only last season, the representative of a powerful Florida railway system penetrated and crossed the Everglades, from west to east, a bit of exploration beset with many dangers, which I think was never before undertaken by white men. The expedition was crowned with success, when the half-famished party, stepped ashore at the Fort Dallas landing.
To Mrs. Tuttle I was indebted for boat and guide for my trip into that wonderland, the Everglades. The Miami River is one of the principal outlets from the glades on the east coast, and though a sluggish stream at its mouth, it tumbles over the coral rock near its source in splendid rapids against which a boat is dragged, not rowed, with difficulty. We entered the glades by the north fork of the Miami, as beautiful a stream as ever flowed through an unbroken wilderness, the trees in places almost arching the water, its banks clothed with strange vegetation and stranger flowers, the bottom presenting a kaleidoscopic picture of many-colored grasses and aquatic vegetation.
The guide told of festoons of moccasin-snakes sunning themselves amid the branches of these trees in former times, and of prowling beasts in the bush, but we saw nothing to make us afraid. When the boat had been dragged over the point where the water makes its first plunge, at the head of the rapids, and we were rowing again in smooth water, what a surprise was in store for us! I had always associated with the term “ Everglades,” on the map of Florida, the picture of a low-lying, dank, dark, malarial swamp, the abode of venomous creeping things; a morass where the rank vegetation luxuriating in decay formed shadowy dells, on entering which one might well leave hope behind.
But instead I found an inland lake, of drinkable water, lying high up in the sunshine, while stretching away toward sunset as far as eye could reach was only a vision of blue waters, green isles, and vast areas of sedge-grass or reeds, moving in the balmy breeze like ocean billows. This is the picture of the Everglades in winter; in summer it might be something very different.
The water in many places is so shallow that if it could be drawn off for a depth of two feet, I fancy the Everglades would resemble a vast prairie filled with little lakes and winding streams. Some of these watercourses were too deep for the bottom to be seen; others were only a few feet in depth, the vegetation below the surface clearly visible, and with banks sharply defined, while in many places the levels varied in depth from only a few inches to a couple of feet. In one place when I wished to take a picture I stepped out of the boat, with camera under my arm, and waded to the point of view through not over eight inches of water. The bottom is old coral rock, covered with a shallow substratum of soft mud. It is not safe to enter the glades with out a guide, on account of danger of bewilderment, in pushing through the winding channels and tall grass and reeds. The Indians will rarely act as guides, and intrusion upon their “preserves ” is liable to be resented.
The keys or islands, which always form the distance to a picture taken in almost any part of the glades, vary in size from a mere mound a few feet across, to areas of many acres. Many of them are cultivated by the Seminoles, who are no mean farmers, though their agricultural practice extends little further than the raising of corn and pumpkins. Many of the keys are heavily wooded, and all are interesting. What gives them a particular interest is the fact that they form the abiding-places of these Seminoles, who are supposed to number somewhere between five hundred and seven hundred souls. Unquestionably the Seminole is a very decent Indian—save when he has been drinking “cider with a little Jamaica ginger in it”—(a trader told me that was the formula) and their squaws are models of womanly virtue and industry. That the race remains pure, notwithstanding the inroads of “civilization,” is due to the severity of the punishment of those of either sex who are guilty of a breach of the law, for chastity is prescribed by their religion, and the penalty is death.
In late years they are pushing deeper into the glades, as the footsteps of the white man encroach upon their domain. They live upon game, fruits, and the products of their agriculture, though many wants must be supplied at the trading-posts or stores in the settlements, with money or through barter. For many years the trade in alligator skins and the plumage of birds has been a great source of revenue to them, but the alligators are almost exterminated, and the bird laws are now so strictly enforced that the trader no longer dares to buy their plumes and wings, at least in paying quantity. They still bring in game, and turtles, and a few alligator skins, or moccasins and other rude manufactures, but every year it grows harder and harder for them to get money; and as if to add insult to injury, some of their most fertile keys have recently been homesteaded by white men, after the Indians had tilled the soil for years.
The women are dressed neatly—I was told that many own sewing-machines—and they show a degree of taste in the fashioning of their garments. Although a Seminole of either sex has little love for a camera, Mrs. Dodge was able to secure nearly a dozen fine negatives, chiefly of Indian women. The native costume of the younger men and boys is comfortable, if not picturesque—this is but one garment, and it resembles a shirt more than anything else. They do not wear their fine toggery at the lodges, but when approaching the settlements in their canoes, push into some sheltered nook, and in due time appear in gay turban, gaudy calico shirt, and leggins, and sometimes moccasins, although some of them wear a loose outer garment belted at the waist. They are not quarrelsome, save when under the influence of liquor, and then only in a degree, for they usually become limp in a very short time, and are unceremoniously tumbled into the bottoms of their canoes by the squaws, and taken home to sleep it off.
I had a pleasant “talk” with old Matlo, or, as he pronounced the name for me, at least half a dozen times, O-pi-o-ma-tah. He is over eighty years old, and is still a vigorous specimen of aboriginal manhood. The Seminoles do not think much of white women. They say, “White squaw pretty too much—no good.” At the same time I was informed that their own women are not forced to perform all the work, with a hint that many New England farmers’ wives are more in slavery, though doubtless the case might be stated less offensively.
Arch Creek, almost at the head of Bay Biscayne, is a romantically beautiful stream that must be seen to be fully appreciated. Like the Miami River it forks two or three miles from its mouth, the banks of the north fork in places rising to a height of twenty feet in wonderful cliffs. The vegetation is tropic to the last degree, and even more strange than that of the Miami. The creek takes its name from a natural bridge or arch not far from its mouth.
But one cannot linger forever amid such scenes. We had planned our homeward journey by way of Lake Worth, which meant a cruise of eighty miles up the Atlantic coast in a twenty-four-foot sharpie, the Egret, for only boats of lightest draught can enter the dangerous inlets in safety. As it was, we waited five days for the right kind of a sea, and at five o’clock one after noon made a sudden departure, all things being propitious. It was dark when we sailed out through Bear Cut, with Dody at the helm, leaving behind us many delightful friends and many pleasant memories. Silently we sped on our way, the roar of the surf that was piling up on the bar a half mile ahead of us becoming each moment more audible, and seeming almost ominous. In a very few minutes we could discern vaguely the long line of white, just over our bow—a sudden plunge, a cloud of blinding spray, a sensation of settling in the water, and our little cockle-shell was on the broad Atlantic.
