Every newspaper attaché who happens to get into Middle Florida feels in duty bound to "write up" this smoky phenomenon, but always at a distance, and mostly from hearsay evidence. He gets upon some high, windy hill near Tallahassee, and, looking south-east, sees, or, what is quite the same, imagines he sees, the lifting jet trembling against the sky, and he writes. He goes and sees Judge White, and writes more. He sees Col. Brevard, or Mayor Lewis, or Capt. Dyke, and adds some interesting particulars. He interviews an aged darky, who remembers "when de fus' house wus built in Tallahassee," and prolongs the account. For the rest he draws upon his ready imagination, or, if his imagination should chance to be slow to move, he whets it with a bottle of scuppernong.
The older inhabitants of Tallahassee may, if you are an intimate friend, tell you that once "The New York Herald" sent a man to explore the swamp, and explain the smoke of Wakulla. You will hear that this man got lost in the jungle, and came near dying, and saw wonderful things, and went away a wiser and silenter correspondent than was ever in that region before or since. You may get from Judge White—a genial and genuinely interesting gentleman—some account of his own effort to reach the foot of that tall smoke-column; how he floundered for miles through mud-slush, water, saw-grass, swamp-weeds, and bay-thickets, millions of mosquitoes, and legions of snakes, till, at last, he reached a tall pine on a tussock; how he nailed cleats and climbed, and nailed cleats and climbed, up this tree, for a hundred feet or more, and, with a field-glass, looked at the smoke, still six miles distant; and how his assistants all gave up and deserted him, and how the wild jungle was utterly impassable any farther, and how he came down from his tree, and floundered and splashed and swam and dragged and fought his way back to terra firma, sick, discouraged, but more than ever impressed with the strangeness of the smoke rising from that awful quagmire.
And it is no hoax, no illusion, no creation of a vivid Southern imagination. The smoke is there. It has been noted and commented on for nearly fifty years. It has been seen, almost constantly, from the north, the east, the south, and the west. Its location has been accurately determined by intelligent observations. It is a permanent and persistent mystery. It is the greatest physical phenomenon in Florida. It is a standing temptation to inquisitive and adventuresome folk,—a constant taunt and banter which Nature flaunts in the faces of scientific explorers, and it offers the reward of fame for high achievement to whomsoever will solve its riddle.
It was, as has been said, first noticed by sailors on the Gulf coast, and by sponge-fishers; afterwards it came to be a source of considerable speculation by the early inhabitants of Leon and Wakulla counties. For a time it was believed that it was a sort of beacon or signal made by a band of smugglers or pirates, who had a rendezvous there. Some would explain it by supposing that runaway negroes had a camp in the swamp. During the war it was held to be a colony of deserters from the Confederate army. Since the war it has been dubbed a volcano. Such, in short, is the history of the Wakulla smoke.
Cauthorne, with a native colored guide, a pack-mule, a canvas boat, and, indeed, an outfit exactly suited to his purpose, went forth upon his preliminary survey. It is not a part of this story to follow him step by step on his most extraordinary journey, nor could it be done if it were desired. He has maintained a reticence regarding his adventures, which nothing has induced him to cast aside. What is known is here given, gained mostly from the statements drawn from a family of negroes living on a tussock deep in the swamp of Wakulla, in whose cabin he lay for nine days sick of malarial fever. It seems that Cauthorne got lost, and that his guide, discovering the fact, stole the mule and deserted, making his way to Tampa, where he sold the animal for thirty-eight dollars, and embarked on a vessel bound for New Orleans. Thus abandoned, Cauthorne wandered about for days without food, and was at last seized with a fever which prostrated him. He was found in a state of delirium, by a negro girl who was hunting a lost cow. She ran for her father; and together they dragged, carried, and rolled Cauthorne to their cabin. He was very sick. They applied such simple remedies as they possessed, and nursed him with that kindliness and tender care so characteristic of their race. For several days he was unable to answer their questions, or indeed to speak intelligibly. He lay in the stupor of delirium, muttering disconnectedly and giving no heed to any thing they said to him. His bed was a heap of dried long-moss, his pillow was a roll of the same; sheet he had not; his cover was a nondescript patchwork of many bright-colored rags, very clean and very gay.
The owner of the cabin was a tall, strong man, black as Erebus, with a kindly face, and a great heap of grizzled wool on the top of his head. His household consisted of himself, his wife (very fat), and his daughter, three dogs and a mule; and his house was home, stable, and kennel all in one. His wife's name was Sooky, his daughter's Lucy. So it seemed very strange to these simple folks when Cauthorne would call out, "Lucie, Lucie!" in the midst of his moanings. Lucy would go to his bedside, and say,—
"Here I is, boss. What yo' want of me, boss?"
Then the sick man would thrash about with his arms, and mutter and murmur all sorts of strange things, using words whose meaning was beyond the horizon of the poor colored girl's field of knowledge. Once he said (it was immediately after he had drank some cold, delicious spring water), as he turned his face to the wall, —
"Ah, good, sweet, beautiful Lucie!"
The negro maiden laughed, and showed her fine white teeth.
"Now jes' listen at de boss," she exclaimed. "He dunno what he sayin'."
She sat by him for hours, and fanned him, and bathed his throbbing temples with cool water. She fetched gay flowers from the swamps, where the vines, the weeds, and the curious air-plants were all a-bloom, and festooned the little square window above his bed. She even put a necklace of these around her throat above the low-cut cotton slip which served her for a dress.
When Cauthorne at length came back to consciousness, he looked askance at every thing around him.
"Where am I?" he exclaimed in a voice made feeble by his long suffering.
"Here yo' is, boss, at Mr. Jumas's house," said Lucy, using the prefix "Mr." with true African pomposity.
"Mr. Jumas's house," muttered Cauthorne, and fell asleep.
By degrees, as the fever went away, he picked up in his waking intervals a knowledge of his condition and whereabouts. He began to eat the corn-cakes and the broiled birds prepared for him by Mrs. Sooky Jumas, and fed to him by Miss Lucy Jumas. Mr. Jordon Jumas sat by, and watched the proceedings. The two yellowish brindle dogs lay in a corner, and snapped their teeth at the flies.
The cabin was on a hummock island or tussock, in the midst of an awful swamp; but in one direction the view was fine. Through a slender rift in the wood, caused by a marshy swale, the eye caught a widening stretch of meadow or grass-swamp, beyond which, some five miles away, rolled the greenish-blue waters of the Gulf. The wind, sharp and sweet, blew in along this natural avenue, and poured through the little window upon Cauthorne. It acted as a stimulus and tonic. It was better than wine or quinine. He convalesced rapidly.
It was a source of pleasure to him to watch the manœuvres of his black host and the women who nursed him. They were a revelation to him. The girl, especially, was an odd genius. All three of them were kind, extremely respectful, and very anxious to see him get well. Certain points of negro etiquette were scrupulously observed by them. One was, that their guest must eat first; another was, that they would not take a morsel of food in his presence, to avoid doing which they set their table out in the open air under a natural bower of spreading water-oaks. He often could hear them talking about him, and speculating as to where he came from, and who he was, and where he was going; but they never asked him a question, or appeared curious about him when they thought he was aware of their doings.
"He f'om de Norf," said Mr. Jumas, one night when he appeared to be asleep. "His lang'age don't soun' like Suddern gentlem's; an' den he say Mister Jumas to me, an' you know de white folks down yar don't nebber say Mister to no cullud pusson."
"He's outdacious pooty," said Lucy; "an' his ban's is ez little ez mine, do' he's a powerful big man, too."
"He sho'ly mus' be powerful rich," said Mrs. Sooky Jumas. "Dat gole watch an' dem fine cigars, dey don't 'long to no po' man, I tell yo' now dey don't."
"Well, it's none o' our business nothin' about him," added Mr. Jumas. "Jis' so we kin help 'im git well, an' sen' 'im 'long 'bout his natural business, same like udder folks, we's done our duty ez Christians. We don't need to know whedder he rich or po'; for 'tain't none ob our 'fairs 'bout dat."
"He's berry dark skinned," said Lucy Jumas; "but den I s'pose he's all white, do' I's seed whiter cullud pussons dan he is."
"Jes' lissen at de gal! " exclaimed Mr. Jumas. "Don't you see de ha'r? No cullud pusson ebber had sich ha'r ez dat."
"I seed a cullud young lady oncet," said Miss Lucy, "what could comb her ha'r jes' like a white pusson, an' it was long an' pooty nigh red too. She lived over at Monticello. I seed her last camp-meetin'. She had a high red comb an' a yaller dress an' long gloves what had buttons on 'em, an' de bigges' gole breas'-pin. She wus quality gal, I tell you."
"De mos' 'spectablest cullud folks is dem what hab no white blood in 'em. I nebber see no yaller folks what didn't fink dey's too smart to be hones'," said Mr. Jumas. "Da'r was Gus' Bradley, he was pow'ful yaller, an' he got hung fo' stealin' an' sich. If yo's goin' to be cullud folks, w'y be cullud folks, an' ef yo's goin' to be white folks, w'y be white folks, dat's what I say. It allus seemed like a yaller nigger had got all de bad ob de white blood an' all de mean ob de nigger blood in 'im, an' no good f'om anywhar: dat's de way it looks to me."
Cauthorne was soon well enough to go. Mr. Jumas agreed to take him in his mule-cart to Oil Station on the Tallahassee and St. Marks Railway. Early one morning they set out, leaving the little cabin behind them just as the gray light of dawn began to flicker through the trees. The woman and the girl stood in the low, wide doorway, and watched them out of sight.
Cauthorne felt a strange regret, or something akin to regret, in going away from these poor, kindly people. Their humanity and hospitality had been of the highest order, and their sense of politeness perfect. They had not even asked his name or place of residence.
When they reached the station, Cauthorne asked Jumas if there was any thing he needed about his little farm.
"Yah, sah," said the negro, taking off his hat, and rubbing his head: " ef I had a mule to match ole Ben dar, and a two-boss wagon, den I could make my plantation jes' roll."
"How much would they cost, Mr. Jumas?"
"De mule cos' ninety dollar. De wagon cos' sixty dollar; dat make"—Jumas scratched his head again, and struggled with the addition; but it was too much for him. Cauthorne took out a blank-book, and wrote, —
"B. C. Lewis & Sons, Bankers, Tallahassee.
"Pay to Mr. Jordon Jumas or order, the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars.
"Lawrence Cauthorne."
"When you go to Tallahassee, give that to the gentlemen at Lewis's Bank, and you'll get the money to buy your mule and wagon," said Cauthorne, handing the check to the astounded negro. The poor fellow would hardly take it; but Cauthorne explained and insisted, and finally had his way. Then Jumas was overjoyed. He did not say much, but his face worked, and his eyes shone with excitement.
This was all that could be found out about Cauthorne's trip to Wakulla.
The presentation of the check at Lewis's Bank was the cause of the inquiry and the explanation.
The only statements Cauthorne ever made were given to a detective whom he sent after his guide.
A long, unauthorized, and wholly fictitious account of the exploration was sent by some anonymous correspondent to a Western newspaper of wide circulation; but it created no sensation, and was never contradicted.
The smoke of Wakulla still lifts its slender column against the sky, and still defies all comers. The sailors see it, and say, "The Old Man of the Swamp is smoking his pipe to-day." The negroes call it "De Debil's tar-kiln." The Crackers, "'low that mebbe hit's a passel of ole light'ud logs afire, or else a patch of this 'ere swamp mud what gits dry and burns." Its principal use seems to be, that it serves as a point towards which all visitors to Tallahassee may turn their eyes in wonderment, as towards a comet or a meteor, with the assurance that they know all that any one else knows about the mysterious phenomenon.
