As we exchange parting civilities with our travelling companions on leaving the Ocklawaha boat, they lean over the rails, waving their handkerchiefs, and wishing us “Good night,” and “Bon voyage.” They puff on their way, illuminating the widening waters as they go. We watch the dear little “Okeehumkee” puff itself out of sight; then enter the large luxurious saloon, which is empty now and dimly lighted. Everybody has retired to rest, not a sound is stirring any where, and the thick carpet smothers our footsteps as we follow our dusky guide to our cabins, which are really charming little rooms with large, comfortable beds. Worn out with the excitements of our long, delightful day, we are soon wrapped in a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER XV.
Picturesque scenery on St. John’s river.—“Sickening for the fever, ma’am?”—The inland lakes.—A pair of elderly turtle doves.—Sport on the Indian river.
In the morning we wake early, and find ourselves on the vast expanse of the St. John’s river, which curves and circles round and about the level land, stretching away before and behind us till it sheathes itself like a silver lance in the horizon. It is a glorious day, with the bluest of blue skies, and the sun pouring down a flood of silver light. No other craft is in sight, we have the river all to ourselves; but a score or two of beautiful, long-billed, white herons rise up from the marshy land, and majestically wheel in slow graceful curves in the air above our heads, and then take their flight southward.
We have not long enjoyed our stroll upon the empty deck when the bell rings and we are summoned to breakfast; there are scarcely a dozen passengers aboard this boat, where there is comfortable accommodation for several hundreds, but our numbers increase as the day goes on.
A capital breakfast is prepared for us—broiled chickens, mushrooms, and fresh fish just taken from the river; these boats pride themselves on the good living they afford their passengers. Our captain, a big, burly man, sits at the head of the table and motions for us to take our seats beside him. He glances at us from under his brows, and bestows on us a beaming smile and brief “Good morning;” then applies himself vigorously to the knife and fork business, and eats and smiles persistently throughout the meal. But he does not talk; conversation evidently is not his strong point, but navigation is. He once opens his mouth professionally. A much bewhiskered young fellow, who speaks without thinking, ventures to suggest that on this smooth river the vessel might be commanded by a “sleeping partner.” The captain wheels round and answers sternly,
“Sir, I have passed my life on the St. John’s river, and I assure you the navigation of the high seas is child’s play compared to the navigation of the St. John’s river.” Silence follows this stern rebuke.
It is evident that sociability will form no part of our day’s diversion. Although humankind is so sparsely represented, we carry a few score of pigs below, and they keep up a grunting chorus among themselves. Among the passengers grouped round the breakfast table is one fierce-looking individual with ginger-coloured hair, and fat, clean-shaven face, who evidently likes to hear himself talk; he invades the general silence, and speaks like an oracle, flings down his opinion as though it were a challenging gauntlet, and defies any one to take it up. We have most of us some friend with similar characteristics, with whom conversation is simply impossible, though they are always armed and ready for a game of contradiction. Advance an argument, or venture on a ripple of pleasant small talk, as modestly as you may, your arguments are knocked down one after the other, like ninepins, as fast as you set them up, and your rippling talk is swamped in a wave of fine phrases. I ventured on three observations, mere commonplaces, which were politely waived aside. I was a woman and a stranger, and so escaped flat contradiction. As one after the other we drifted from the table somebody said, in a grumbling undertone,
“That fellow ought to be flung overboard; he’s no fit company for travelling Christians.”
“Before the day’s over he’ll get a lick the rough side of my tongue, you bet,” said somebody else.