“They be brim, mister, and they wuz caught by me early this mawnin’ in the lake.”
“But where is the lake?” I inquired, “and why is it called Death Lake?”
“Wal,” he answered, “it lies about six miles from here, in the middle of a big swamp, and it is called Death Lake, I reckon, because no one can’t git there without losing his life.”
“Yet you have been there, and you are alive,” I replied.
“Yes, but I’ve most lost my life as much as a dozen times, and I’m only forty years old.”
He looked fully seventy, and he was much bowed and broken. His eyes were deep sunk, and had a watery opaqueness; his cheeks were sallow, and there were only a few straggling white hairs on his head. His answer surprised me, and I pressed him to tell me his story, which, after a while, he did, although he was much averse to it. After a time I prevailed upon the old man to take me to the lake next day. “But it is at your own risk, young man,” he said; “remember, if you dies, I told you all about it, and you can’t blame me.”
“Not if I die,” I replied; “but I am strong and healthy, and willing to take the risk.”
I easily obtained the necessary permission to leave the camp, as I was not going near the settlements, or where the fever existed, and I moreover promised to bring back a good string of fish for the commanding officer. The next morning I met the old man at daybreak, just outside the lines, and off we started together. He carried his large basket and a couple of fish-poles made of reeds he had cut in the swamps. I carried our lunch and a coffee-pot.
We tramped for about two hours through the woods, till we came to a small river called “Perdido,” from the Spanish word for “lost.” “Lost River” was a very good name for it, as it had its origin in Death Lake, and lost itself completely in the swamps after many turnings. Close to the bank, the old man had a flat-bottomed skiff moored, in which we paddled up the stream for a half-mile, when we reached the confines of the large swamp in which Death Lake is situated. The scenery here is of the typical Florida nature. On either side the stream was bounded by the swamp. Huge cypress trees lifted their weird limbs upward, and long streamers of trailing moss floated from them, and even at times formed a swinging arch across the entire width of the stream. The water was dark and sullen, and on the banks, wherever a little sunshine happened to strike, half a dozen alligators might be seen basking, which, on our approach, would flop into the water with a tremendous splash. After paddling up the sides of the swamp for a couple of miles we came to an archway, which appeared to have been cut by man through the foliage of trees and vines. It was not over four feet high and about eight wide, and from it the water flowed with a scarcely perceptible current.