the flight in the anclote to the swamp land for a glimpse of the famed everglades and a possible sight of the secret city of the seminoles (an excursion which nearly ended with a fatality) began at seven o’clock in the morning. the only clue to the location of the mythical town was a vague reference to it in a little paper bound book, written by an old alligator and egret hunter, entitled “thirty years in the everglades.” in this, the writer did not claim to have seen the fabled town, but he quoted old billy bowlegs—a well known modern seminole—as authority for the statement that such a place existed.
according to the veteran hunter, the city should be due east of present st. petersburgh, a town on the southern tip of tampa peninsula, and north of lake istokpoga; “two days’ travel,” as described by the indian. this, in the swamps, meant about ten miles. mapped on their charts, the two boys laid out a course east-south-east of their camp on the key, and[246] estimated the distance at ninety-five miles.
with gasoline sufficient for a two hundred and fifty-mile flight, the aeroplane was over tarpon springs in fifteen minutes, and then, rising to nearly 1,000 feet, began its cross country flight. for nearly a half hour, fruit orchards and truck farms indicated civilization, and then the rough palmetto scrub and sparse pine lands began to tell of the wilderness. already deer were plentiful. an hour after the start, the airship still high and the engine working perfectly, the myriad small lakes and creeks began to disappear in a lower swamp land.
in this, the dark green of cabbage and fan palmettoes and stunted pines, suddenly changed to a darker expanse of vegetation. out of a prairie of tall swamp grass, rose oaks and taller pines draped with fantastic garlands of waving spanish moss. then this changed to a new and dense wilderness of tangled oaks, palmettoes and pines seemingly bound together with interminable bands of the melancholy moss.
out of this silent chaos, reaching eastward as far as the eye could see, rose the tall, black spars of blasted oaks with eagles’ nests here and there, and always the ghostly moss.
“it’s as bad as flying at sea,” remarked bob.[247] “you might come up out of the water, but a punch from one of those old snags, and it’s all off.”
at times, as the anclote held her course east-south-east, the trees thinned and a glimpse of the morass beneath met the eye. some of these openings revealed ponds and even lakes. but the water was no longer blue or silvery. it lay glistening black like broken coal. sighting one of these buried lakes, bob swept the machine lower to have a closer view. as the whirr of the propellers came echoing back with a hollow, drum-like sound, a flock of snow white herons rose from an island of rotting logs.
“see him?” exclaimed tom.
“’bout fifteen feet long,” answered bob.
the shrill cries of the startled birds had aroused a monster alligator, sunning himself high on the logs. with hardly a sound, he slid backwards into the ebony-colored pool.
the herons, their crane-like legs trailing behind them, flapped their way eastward. some miles ahead, bob slowing up on another spiral mount, the snow white birds disappeared.
“somethin’ theah,” suggested tom. “let’s have a look.”
the aeroplane had been in the air nearly two[248] hours. the retreat of the herons was something—the first sight of it was even startling. here was another lake, but it was much larger—even a mile in diameter, and, by some strange freak of nature, of crystal clearness. a creek emptied into its sparkling waters and another led away southward through the wall of tangled, moss-draped palmettoes, grass and dead pines. about the little lake, there was an open shore of sand, so light in color as to be almost white, apparently packed into a firm grassless beach by the rising and falling lake.
“that’s something,” exclaimed bob, attempting to relax his straining muscles. “we could land on that if it was restin’ time.”
but they had not yet covered their ninety-five miles. tom carefully keeping note of the flying minutes and the anemometer for the speed, had just calculated that they advanced in one hour and fifty-five minutes nearly seventy-six miles, for, part of the time, the more and more confident bob had speeded up to the limit, once reaching a rate of forty-three miles an hour.
“we’ll go ahead twenty miles,” suggested bob. “if nothing turns up, we’ll come back[249] this far, stop for a few hours’ rest and lunch, and then call it quits, and hike home.”
“what we’ve seen already is worth the trip,” added tom enthusiastically.
old billy bowlegs must have had a poor sense of location. twelve minutes later, the anclote, soaring not over three hundred feet above the gray and black swamp, passed, without a sign to indicate it, a deep, clean-cut opening in the trees. it was almost like a well. at the bottom of it, on a treeless island, seven or eight ruined sheds caught the quick eyes of the young aviators. there was only time to note this, to detect human beings here and there, and to see that a wide, black canal surrounded the habited retreat, and the darting aeroplane closed the view.
“there—” began tom, striving to turn for another look.
“here—” exclaimed bob, in turn.
within a half mile of the tree encircled swamp island, rose a treeless mound. bob intuitively slowed down the airship with a circling swing. as the peculiar elevation swept under the machine, it could be seen that the top of it was green with corn and beds of vegetables.
“that’s their garden,” shouted tom.[250] “there must be a way to get to it. there is—see the canal?”
both boys instantly made out two indians just landing from a canoe or pirogue in the swamp at the foot of the hill. behind them, a dark colored creek or canal disappeared within the mossy oaks. the tilted aeroplane had come about in her course and was circling over the flat-topped hill like a lazy bird.
“we can’t land there,” announced bob. “the ground is too soft to give us a starting run.”
“we’ve got to,” replied tom, with determination. “it’s no good just seen’ it. i want to know. i’ve got to know,” he added, “if i’m goin’ to write about it.”
bob knit his brows. “we can’t stop,” he repeated. then he hesitated. “are you afraid to meet those people alone?”
“i don’t know why i should be,” answered tom. “they look like farmahs. scalpin’ days are ovah, anyway, i reckon.”
“then,” added bob quickly, “take the camera—you’ve got the revolver—and i’ll make a sweep down near the ground. drop off. in an hour, i’ll come back and pick you up—the same way.”
“it’ll be all right, will it?” exclaimed tom. “i mean, it won’t hurt the machine?”
“i’ll have something to help you when i come back,” answered bob. “just use your nerve. it’ll be all right. it’s your ‘secret city,’ or i’d do it. we can’t both do it.”
“come back?” exclaimed tom. “where are you goin’?”
“back to sand beach lake,” announced bob. “it’ll give me a rest, and give you time to investigate. but be ready—in an hour.”
“drop her down,” said tom curtly looking at his watch. “it’s twenty-six minutes after nine o’clock.”
in another moment, tom allen, his camera still oscillating from his drop from the aeroplane as it darted low over the indian cornfield, was watching the anclote’s swift rise and flight over the trees to the northwest.
bob reached the lake, selected the widest and best beach and made an easy landing. for a few minutes, he exercised his benumbed limbs with a stroll on the hard sand, then refilled his supply tank, looked over the engine, oiled it, and at last, began work on the “something to help” tom, the marooned aviator.
this was nothing less than a single rung[252] swinging ladder, the advantage of which, in picking up his companion, was apparent. it required but a few minutes’ work. the cords were extra strength, flexible, rewound bracing wire from the supply kit and the rung was a strong, round piece of pine from a live tree, which was laboriously hacked out with his pocket knife, thoroughly tested and then scraped smooth.
timing himself carefully, bob was in the air again twelve minutes before the hour expired. with eyes alert, he fixed his gaze on the big clearing of the garden mound and made ready for the ordeal of recovering his companion. with his thoughts on the crucial experiment, bob gave little heed to anything else. he was just about to swerve on a long curve to pick up the waiting tom on a return slant when a distant explosion startled him. it was from the vicinity of the concealed settlement. one glance threw the already nervous bob almost into chill. clinging to the broken forks of a dead oak, just on the edge of the “well,” was some one waving his arms. at the same moment, the startled bob heard a desperate yell. it could be no one but his companion. but why had he failed to return to the open field?
in a flash, bob understood. the shot, the waving arm, the call meant only one thing—danger and the need of rescue. perched on the blackened forks stood the yelling figure. with the wild possibility of a mid-air rescue gripping his brain, the cool-headed aviator pulled his levers and, cold with apprehension, curved the aeroplane toward the towering tree. he could do no more. there was but one way he could help the boy perched on the dead branches.
to bring the swinging ladder squarely within reach was bob’s task. tom must do the rest. if he missed the ladder, it would undoubtedly mean death in the pathless swamp, from which not even his body might be recovered. with his eyes on the now unmoving figure, the boy on the tree became to the tense bob no more than the bull’s eye of a target. just over it, he aimed his craft, his lips set and his grip fixed like steel upon the levers.
larger and larger grew the figure—one glance only, and the unmoving operator saw tom, white of face and poised, his body rising upright as if ready to hurl itself far from its support. then bob’s every thought flew to his levers and his steadying grip. he could not look. had he missed his human target? his[254] head hit his chest with a sudden shock. as if in ruinous collision, the framework of the aeroplane groaned, creaked and shook. the car, lunging downward, careened and then righted.
bob felt a second shock and the explosive groan of supreme effort. a swinging leg swept into view in front of the car—another panting groan and then, venturing his first glance, the desperate operator made out the white-faced tom, with one leg over the rung of the hanging ladder, just pulling himself up to safety on the rung.
“stay where you are,” whispered bob hoarsely. “don’t try to get up here. i’ll land at the lake.”
the anclote was already on her way to the landing beach. for several minutes no sound came from below except the labored breathing of the rescued boy. bob looked again. tom, seated on the ladder cross bar, with his hands gripped on the light wires, had his eyes closed. his face was blue-white and he was trembling in all his limbs. his cap, coat, camera, revolver and shoes were gone.
“a few minutes more, old boy,” called out bob, “and we’ll be on the ground.”
“i’m—all right—” came back slowly.
“sure you are!” exclaimed bob. “we’re nearly there. hold on.”
tom may have been all right, but how he held on, neither he nor bob could ever tell. the moment, the aeroplane lit on the white border of crystal lake, the boy on the ladder toppled from his nerve racking perch and for a quarter of an hour, knew nothing.
but, about eleven o’clock, the hatless, shoeless tom began to be himself again. by noon, luncheon disposed of, his spirits were nearly normal. what had happened to him he told in these words:
“in the first place, the two indians we saw gettin’ out of the boat jumped in it right away and disappeared in the trees—up the canal. i was stumped. but when i got down to the bottom of the mound, i found anothah boat—cut out of a log and half full of watah. i pulled her out, baled her, and with a pole that was lyin’ in her started up the creek or canal.
“it was as dismal a lane as you evah traveled. nothin’ but tangled marsh and walls o’ moss on both sides, and so chuck full o’ little ’gatahs an’ cotton mouth snakes i was sort afraid they’d push a hole in the bottom o’ the boat. but it[256] wasn’t far, not ovah a half a mile, an’ i came to light again—the island an’ the shacks.
“the canal, which is theah road, ran ’round the whole place an’ then ran away on the othah side into the swamp again. i was tired o’ lookin’ at them glassy-eyed cotton mouth reptiles, and, pushin’ the canoe up to a sort of a landin’ where i saw the boat the two indians had used, i jumped out.
“i was sort o’ scared, too, but i just had a hunch to go ahead. for a minute, i saw people rushin’ ’round among the shacks on the high ground, and then, when i got to the top, they’d all disappeared. there was a noise on the othah side o’ the slope. when i got so i could look down theah, three canoe loads of indians were just disappearin’ in the canal that ran off in that direction into the swamp.
“that seemed pretty good. at least, it saved me the trouble o’ fussin’ with ’em if they didn’t like me. an’ i felt like laughin’. i sta’ted back to the sheds and then, all of a sudden, i had an idea. i turned around and had anothah look. i guessed right. they hadn’t left a single boat. ‘that’s all right,’ i said to myself, ‘i’ll go back the way i came.’ and then, with no one to disturb[257] me, i set about seein’ what a ‘secret city o’ the seminoles’ was like.
“it won’t take long to tell. it wasn’t much. the shacks were of pine trees, split, and you can bet i didn’t bother the insides o’ them. they were the filthiest holes i evah looked into. some of ’em had grass hammocks an’ that was about all except piles o’ deer skins, gourds, a few tools o’ bone and wood, some old bows and long wicked lookin’ arrows. the cookin’ places were outside the houses, but theah weren’t any iron pots or pans. theah was one oven made out of a kind of ground shell an’ a big wooden trough, an’ a club to mash co’n.
“but it’s a cinch they didn’t come theah yesterday. the top o’ that island was packed as ha’d as a street. an’ all ’round the edge o’ the ha’d paht there were places wheah othah shacks had stood. between these and the canal—talk about your dirty alleys! down neah the watah, you could walk on bones—mostly they seemed alligatah bones. ain’t no doubt,” continued tom in a pitying voice, “that tribe or paht of a tribe, lives on alligatahs.”
“maybe snakes,” suggested bob.
“don’t you believe they eat snakes,” exclaimed tom. “wait till i tell you. anyway,[258] it was the dirtiest, creepiest, darkest, lonesomest place, i was evah in. what began to give me the real shivahs was what i saw mongst those ’gatah skeletons. if i saw one, i saw a hundred great big, fat rattlahs, and every one a diamond back. well, they wasn’t botherin’ me, so i began takin’ pictahs. i took ’em in all directions. then i went back up into the ‘city.’ theah i come on what started old ‘billy bowlegs’ story—the ‘sacred alligatah.’”
