WILD WINGS 
84 
of their pilgrimage. The only other human inhabitants are 
the family who tend the light upon Loggerhead Key, our 
last outpost toward Cuba and Panama. Other islets are 
untenanted, save when the great sea-turtles “crawl” to deposit 
their numerous eggs in the sand, on moonlight nights of 
June ; one alone is preempted by the birds. 
On the eighteenth of May, breaking camp and beating 
back the angry swarm of Cape Sable “sheets,” I started out 
across Florida Bay in the little mail schooner, sailed by a 
daring “ Conch,” or Bahama Islander. With a driving north¬ 
east wind, directly aft, we scoured along over the white- 
capped expanse. In surprisingly short time we had passed 
Sandy Key, of Audubonian fame, and sunk the Capes of 
Florida. From time to time inky clouds closed in around us 
with their dark pall, amid furious bursts of rain and angry 
squalls which threatened to take the sticks out of the schooner 
and sent waves a-chasing us in a manner that made me fear 
for my hard-earned camera trophies of the wilderness. By 
late afternoon we had crossed Florida Bay and were making 
a splendid run through the mazes of the outer keys, man¬ 
grove-clad, that rose like dark forts on all sides of us. Then 
it became pitch dark, and I was amazed at the way in which 
the genial old “ Conch ” rammed his craft through all sorts 
of intricate channels, hitting bottom now and then, yet some¬ 
how getting through, until, when within five miles of Kev 
est, at nine o’clock, we plunged on to a shoal between two 
keys, and stuck hard and fast. I passed a rather chilly night, 
in mackintosh and rubber boots — head under the cuddy and 
legs out in the wet. Early in the morning the rising tide 
cleared us, and by six A. M. we were at the wharf in Key 
West, just in time to meet one of my former guides, Mr. 
Burton, and secure passage upon the government tug which 
was about to start for the station at the Dry Tortugas. The 
