Our Fellows; Or, Skirmishes with the Swamp Dragoons

by Harry Castlemon

Mark ran up to headquarters, and presently reappeared in his big boots and shooting-jacket, his powder-flask and shot-bag slung over his shoulder, and his trusty double-barrel under his arm.

He ran into the kitchen to ask Aunt Martha to put up a lunch for him, and in half an hour more he had embarked in the canoe which we kept moored in the bayou, and was paddling for dear life toward the place where he had seen the geese alight in the water.

If you have never seen a freshet I can not convey to you even a slight idea of the appearance the swamp presented to Mark’s gaze that morning.

In summer it was perfectly dry, and the bayou which ran through it was not more than ten feet wide, and so shallow that the little trading boats, which are said to be able to run after a heavy dew, could not possibly ascend it.

Now the swamp was covered to the depth of fifteen feet, and the bayou was booming along at the rate of ten miles an hour, carrying with it huge trees and logs, which were whirled about in every direction, threatening instant destruction to any thing that came within their reach.

Of course navigation was dangerous in the extreme; but Mark never thought of that. His mind was wholly occupied with the wild geese.

The canoe, propelled by the current and the rapid strokes of the paddle, quickly reached the bend in which the geese had alighted, and as Mark rounded the point above it, he saw the flock before him, and within easy range.

I need not stop to relate to you the incidents of the hunt, which continued nearly all day; for, although interesting in themselves, they have no bearing upon the adventure which followed. It will be enough to say that the geese took wing as often as Mark approached them; that they always left two, and sometimes four and five, of their number dead or wounded behind them; that at last they became alarmed at the havoc made in their ranks, and rising high in the air, flew over the tops of the trees, toward the river; and that when they disappeared, Mark, with some difficulty, landed on a little island in the bayou to rest after his long-continued exertions, and to eat the lunch which Aunt Martha had put up for him.

As soon as his excitement had somewhat abated, he proceeded to make an examination of his spoils, and found that he had been successful beyond his most sanguine expectations—thirty-two fine, fat geese bearing evidence to the skill with which he had handled his double-barrel.

He also became conscious of another fact after he had looked about him, and that was that he had not the least idea how far he was from home, or in what part of the swamp he had brought up. He could not discover a single familiar landmark. With the exception of the island on which he was standing, and which was not more than twenty feet square, there was not a spot of dry land within the range of his vision—nothing but a wilderness of giant trees, standing half submerged in the dark, muddy water, which rushed by the island with the speed of a mill-sluice.