162 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” 
was hidden and he heard the provost marshal say, ‘‘If 
I could only cotch them two Foutches, I’d put both 
on ’em in the front line of battle with General Lee. 
They’re danged fine shots.’’ This was the old boy’s 
brag story, it tickled him down to the ground. 
Before starting next morning I noticed the tree we 
used as a target the night before. The crafty natives 
had dug out every bit of lead. They molded their own 
bullets and lead was scarce. This was why they kept 
urging me to keep on shooting. The guileless country- 
men had played me ‘‘good and plenty” for a lead mine. 
We went home with the old boy and shot a week with 
him, securing several black bears and half a dozen deer. 
His principal manner of shooting deer was by shining 
their eyes in the dark. Pitch-pine knots in a fry pan 
made the blaze, the pan fastened to a pole and carried 
over the left shoulder. It was a new but barbarous 
experience in shooting deer and after two evenings of 
it, we made him give it up and go “‘still hunting”’ in 
the daytime. The latter style of shooting was much 
pleasanter. The country was perfectly wild, with no 
neighbor within twenty miles. There were a great 
many wild turkeys and we shot three of them, but quail 
were scarce. They told us the wildcats killed off the 
quail. 
New Smyrna, recently an active port for small block- 
ade runners, was now a tiny silent place, but the sea 
breeze was most refreshing. It did not take long to hire 
a light-draft boat and place our stores aboard. Tom, 
a gentleman of color, was both guide and cook. Tom 
brought three hounds, that belonged to a New York 
sportsman, with him. They were a nuisance in the 
