Once settled in the boat, the scene changed. We seemed to have entered the beginning of an indefinitely long arbor, covered with grapevines. Of course, there were, in reality, no grapevines, but the willows and the short, bushy trees which completely overhung the four-foot wide channel in which our boat rode made the illusion perfect.
“This is beautiful,” said the Spinster, as she watched the sunshine glinting through the pale-green leaves, still dew-covered, and falling in bright reflections on the face of the dark water beneath.
“It’s fine!” I echoed; “but when do we enter the swamp, guide?”
“We’re in the swamp now, ma’am. It’ll be just like this for ten miles, and then we’ll come to the lake.”
“Why—why,” I almost stammered in my amazement, “I thought the swamp was dark and gloomy, with moss hanging from tall, mournful pine trees, and not a sound to be heard in the wilderness. If it’s like this, with bird-calls and sunshine and bright green leaves, why do they call it ‘dismal’?”
Alphonso smiled at my eagerness. “There’s more to it than shows just at first, ma’am,” he answered. “There are more sad stories about this swamp than all the sunshine can make bright. In the first place this channel we’re riding in right now was dug by chain-gangs of slaves. They say the poor creatures died here in heaps from swamp fever. But that didn’t make any difference to their owners. They was made to dig right into the heart of the swamp to get at the juniper trees. You see they are very valuable—the most valuable wood, I guess, that grows; and they are only to be found here in this swamp. I’ll show you some of them when we come to them. They are tall and slim and straight. No, we shan’t get to any until we are a good bit farther along. I told you the swamp was all alike, but I didn’t mean that exactly. There’s a good bit of difference, the deeper in we get, though you might not notice the difference unless I pointed it out. The trees will be larger and taller, and the bird-calls will be different—more wild, like, and there’ll be owls and herons to be seen, and maybe a stork or two. I hope on account o’ you ladies we shan’t meet no bears, but you see I’ve brought my gun along. There’s always a chance.”
I was more interested in his story of the slave gangs than in the bears. “Do you actually mean,” I asked, “that in former times slaves dug this channel ten miles long to Lake Drummond?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s an actual fact; but they got some advantages from it, too, for while they was digging they got to know the swamp pretty well, and they discovered there was islands hidden away in the center of the swamp, though miles distant from this channel. The slaves kept their discovery to themselves, and later on fugitive slaves made use of it. If they could only reach these islands they were safe from their pursuers, and it’s said that children and even grandchildren of the first runaways were born, and lived, and died on these islands.”
“I don’t see what they had to eat,” suggested the prosaic Spinster.
“You don’t understand, ma’am. These islands are just as dry and nice as any land about here, and the swamp soil is mighty rich, so of course they could just grow anything they had a mind to. Of course they were helped also by friendly slaves on the plantations ’round here, and then they had their cattle and honey to help out.”