The Wind-Jammers

by T. Jenkins Hains

“The inlets and rivers along the coast of Florida abound with all kinds of fish, from the little mullet to the mighty tarpon; and many a day’s sport have I had with them in either canoe or surf along that sandy coast.

“For a guide I often had an old Spaniard called ‘Alvarez.’ This old man lived alone in a coquina house of rather large size, and affected the airs and manners of a grandee. He associated with no one, and no one seemed to know anything about him, except that he came there on a schooner from the West Indies years ago, being then an old man. He had bought this house, and had continued to live there without any visible means of support other than the fish he caught. He always went to the store opposite the plaza, at the end of every month, and paid cash in Spanish or American gold and silver for his frugal supplies.

“I had been out ’gator-shooting, and was returning home after two days’ sport with a few good skins, when, on turning the last bend in South River about twenty miles from St. Augustine, I came suddenly upon an old man in a dugout canoe fishing. He had just hooked a large bass, and I started the sheet of my sharpie to stop its headway, and waited until he landed him. I then sailed up alongside of the canoe, intending to buy the fish and take it home with me, thinking, of course, that the old man would be glad to sell it. What was my surprise when he informed me politely that he did not care to sell it, though he had a score or two in the bottom of his canoe. This from an old long-haired Spaniard who seemed in the depths of poverty excited my curiosity, and I endeavored to start a conversation with him about the different fishing ‘drops’ in the locality. He eyed me suspiciously at first, and finally answered my questions with an ease that puzzled me greatly.

“There was one particular place, or ‘drop,’ for catching drum-fish down the South River of which I had often heard but could never find, so I ventured upon this subject to the stranger. To my great surprise he offered to accompany me to it any time that I should find it convenient, telling me at the same time that he lived in St. Augustine, and that I would probably find him there the next day. I thanked him, and, letting go, squared away before the southeast breeze and soon left him out of sight.

“The next day I was walking along the sea-wall smoking my pipe and thinking of this peculiar old fisherman with his mahogany-colored face and bright eye, wondering if I could get him to pilot me on an expedition to the southward. I had a rambling idea of spending several weeks in fishing down the Indian River, and I wanted some one to pilot me who knew the way through the inland passages. While I was trying to form some plan of this intended trip I saw a canoe come around the bend in the Matanzas, and, on its approaching nearer, I recognized the old man whom I had met the day before. I went up to him as he landed at the break in the sea-wall and asked him what luck he had had fishing. For a reply he showed me as fine a catch of red bass as I had ever seen, at the same time offering me a couple as a present. I took them; and after he had tied his boat to a ring in the wall, he joined me and walked part of the way home with me.

“On our way I asked him if he had ever been through the passages to the Indian River, and he smiled as he answered ‘yes.’ I then asked him if he would guide me through on a trip that I intended to make. He was silent for some moments, and finally said he would, provided there was no party going along with me. I then left him; and after going home with my fish I went around to see my friend the sheriff, to find out more about him. I was told that he was a peaceable old fellow, and as he fished a great deal he probably knew all the best places for miles around, that his name was Alvarez, and that he was a reliable man as far as any one knew.

“About a week after this we started out one fine day bound south. Although Alvarez was an absent-minded old fellow, and in spite of his peculiar manner, so different from the common class of dirty, poverty-stricken Spaniards, we got along together splendidly. I was never a great talker, especially when hunting or fishing, and the dearth of conversation on this trip was one of the most enjoyable features of it. Old Alvarez and I became quite good friends after this expedition, and I often used to question him about himself and his affairs. As long as the conversation related to his life in the town he would talk readily enough, but anything regarding his birth or former life he always avoided, merely saying that he ran away to sea when quite young, and that was all that could be drawn from him.

“My fancy often pictured him a pirate or ‘beach-comber,’ and, in fact, there was a rumor to that effect in the town. People said that he had treasures buried along the shore somewhere on Anastasia Island; and that if he chose to talk, more than one vessel that had cleared Cuban ports and had never been heard from could be accounted for. This was mere idle gossip and amounted to nothing, but once somebody had seen his canoe at midnight hauled up on the sand on a narrow part of the island some ten miles below the town.

“Sailing by, they had seen Alvarez walking up and down the beach with his head bowed forward as if looking for something. It was not the season for turtles’ eggs, so it was hard to imagine what he was looking for in the soft yellow sand. People, however, did not like to inquire too closely into his affairs, for when he was annoyed his face assumed such a sinister expression that it boded no good for those who were inclined to chaff him.

“One night a negro ruffian and a Minorcan forced an entrance into his house with the evident intention of securing his imagined treasure. The next morning Alvarez came out and told the sheriff that there were two dead men in his house that he would like to have removed. The sheriff, who was a Spaniard, came around, and there, sure enough, lay both; one shot through the neck and the other through the head, while two immense old-fashioned pistols lay empty on a table in his room. There were no signs of a struggle except a long smear of blood from his room to the hall where the body of the negro lay. He was easily acquitted, and afterwards became more stoical than ever, but he was never disturbed again.