Here we encountered an original character known as “Captain Len Destin.”  He was a fisherman, from New London, Connecticut, and had a comfortable house on the high bank of the inlet, surrounded by cultivated fields, where he had lived since 1852.  Having married a native of the country, he settled down to the occupation of his fathers; and being a prince among fishermen, he was able to send good supplies of the best fish to the Pensacola markets.  His modus operandi was rather peculiar.  Having rowed along the beach on the open Gulf, a boat-load of fishermen, with their nets ready to cast, rested quietly upon their oars in the offing, while a sharp-eyed man walked along the coast, peering into the transparent water, searching for the schools of fish which feed near the strand.  The fishermen cautiously follow him, until, suddenly catching sight of a lot of pompanos, sheep’s-heads, and other fish, he signals to his companions, and they, quietly approaching the unsuspicious fish, drop their long net into the water, and enclose the whole school.  Drawing the net upon the beach, the fish were taken out and carried to Captain Len’s landing, inside of the inlet, where they were packed in the refrigerator of a fleet-sailing boat, which, upon receiving its cargo, started immediately for Pensacola.  In this way the pompano, the most delicious of southern fishes, being repacked at Pensacola in hogsheads of ice, found its way quickly by rail to New York city, where they were justly appreciated.

Captain Len generously supplied our camp with fish; so making a good fire, we broiled them before it, baking bread in our Dutch oven; and finishing our sumptuous repast with some hot coffee, we turned a deaf ear to the whistling wind that blew steadily from the north-east.  A little schooner of four tons was riding out the gale near the landing.  She was bound for Apalachicola and St. Marks, Florida.  Her passengers were crowded into a cabin, the confined limits of which would have attracted the attention of any society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, had it contained a freight of quadrupeds instead of human beings.  The heads of white and black men and women could be seen above the hatchway at times, as though seeking for a breath of pure air.

The Reverend Mr. B., a colored preacher, crawled out of the hold, and visited my camp.  Finding that I sympathized strongly with his unfortunate race, he opened his heart to me, telling of his labors among them.  He also gave me an account of his efforts to encourage some observance of the first day of the week among the white inhabitants of Key West; he and other colored Christians having petitioned the mayor of that city to enforce the laws which require a decent respect for the Lord’s day.  He grieved over the sinful condition of the inhabitants of that ungodly city, and gave me a sketch of his plans for improving the morality of his white brethren.  He had been travelling, like St. Paul, upon the sea, to visit and encourage the weak negro churches in Florida.  His address was that of a gentleman, and his heart beat with generous impulses.