The Santa Rosa Island shore was so desolate and unattractive that we left it, and crossed the narrow sound to the north shore of the mainland, where nature had been more prodigal in her drapery of foliage.  Before noon a sail appeared on the horizon, and we gradually approached it.  Close to the shore we saw a raft of sawed timbers being to wed by a yacht.  The captain hailed us, and we were soon alongside his vessel.  The refined features of a gentleman beamed upon us from under an old straw hat, as its owner trod, barefooted, the deck of his craft.  He had started, with the raft in tow, from his mill at the head of Choctawhatchee Bay, bound for the great lumber port of Pensacola, but being several times becalmed, was now out of provisions.  We gave him and his men all we could spare from our store, and then inquired whether it would be possible for us to find a team and driver to haul our boats from the end of the watercourse we were then traversing, across the woods to the tributary waters of St. Andrew’s Bay.  The captain kindly urged us to go to his home, and report ourselves to his wife, remaining as his guests until he should return from Pensacola,—­ “when,” he said, “I myself will take you across.”

This plan would, however, have caused a delay of several days, so we could not take advantage of the kind offer of the ex-confederate general.

Having considered a moment, our new friend proposed another arrangement.

“There is,” he said, “only one person living at the end of Choctawhatchee Bay, besides myself, who owns a yoke of oxen.  He can serve you if he wishes, but remember he is a dangerous man.  He came here from the state of Mississippi, after the war, and by exaction, brutality, and even worse means, has got hold of most of the cattle, and everything else of value, in his neighborhood.  He can haul your boats to West Bay Creek in less than a day’s time.  The job is worth three or four dollars, but he will get all he can out of you.”

Thanking the captain for the information, and the warning he had given us, we waved a farewell, and rowed along the almost uninhabited coast until dusk, when we crossed the sound to camp upon Santa Rosa Island, as an old fisherman at Warrington had advised us; “for,” said he, “the woods on the mainland are filled with varmints,—­cats and painters,—­ which may bother you at night.”

On the morning of the 21st we rowed to the end of the sound, which narrowed as we approached the entrance to the next sheet of water, Choctawhatchee Bay.  There were a few shanties along the narrow outlet on the main shore, where some settlers, beguiled to this desolate region by the sentimental idea of pioneer life in a fine climate, known as “Florida fever,” were starving on a fish diet, which, in the cracker dialect, was “powerful handy,” and bravely resisting the attacks of insects, the bane of life in Florida.

Seven miles from the end of Santa Rosa Island the boats emerged from the passage between the sounds, and entered Choctawhatchee Bay.  As the wind arose we struggled in rough water, shaping our course down to the inlet called East Pass, through which the tide ebbed and flowed into the bay.