FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Aug. 4, igoo. 
Death of John Gomez. 
Tarpon Springs, Fla., July 22,.~Editor Forest and 
Stream: News comes of the death of John Gomez, the 
veteran of Panther Key. He was fomid dead near Four 
Brothers Island on Friday, July 13. He had gone out 
Thursday fishing, and it is supposed that he fell out of 
his boat'and was drowned. His age is reported at 122 
years, but this is an error, for old John always said that 
he had been born in 1781, so that at the time of his 
death he was 119. Tarpon. 
J*'rom Forest and Stream^ Sept 12, 1896. 
I have recently seen mention in your paper of John 
Gomez, a citizen of the world, and more especially of the 
west coast of Florida. Long years ago, say in the sum- 
mer of 1863 (that seems a long time, does it not?), I be- 
came the proprietor of John Gomez. The Commander- 
in-Chief of the East Gulf Blockading Squadron (there 
was war in those davs) selected me for the command of 
the U. S. schooner Two Sisters, familiarly called the Two 
Shysters. The lofty vessel was a Baltimore pungy of 
about 40 tons, drawing about 9 feet of water aft and 4 
feet forward, as some suggested, so that she could climb 
hills like a kangaroo. She carried under my command 
one i2-pounder howitzer, and was manned by twelve sea- 
men, three petty officers, one master's mate and a pilot. 
When I proceeded on board to take charge of this my 
first command in the Government service, I found sitting 
on deck, smoking silently and diligently, his knees near 
his chin, his back rounded like a bicycle scorcher, his 
old straw hat covering his head from the nape of the neck 
to his eyebrows. John Gomez, Pilot, U. S. Navy— a man 
swarthy, silent, and looking like an Indian, but when 
once opened up, like an oyster, with considerable meat in 
him. John was my property actually for about six 
months, incidentally until the war closed. He ate and 
drank with me, and slept, when he did sleep, somewhere 
near at hand. Pie knew a good many things not gener- 
ally known, and when he chose to talk he could be very 
interesting. The duty on which I was employed was of 
great interest, and frequently very exciting — that of the 
inshore, shoal water cruising, and blockade of the west 
coast of Florida. Gomez was in his way a perfect pilot. 
I think he knew familiarly every shoal, rock, oyster bed, 
creek, inlet, mud bank, fishing ledge, roosting place for 
birds, deer track and channel from Key West to Pensa- 
cola. It is my impression that most of our living came 
from his directions about where to find fish, game, shell- 
fish, etc., and it was a most fascinating species of yacht- 
ing and hunting combined, where the game was primardy 
blockade runners and men generally, and secondarily 
everything edible that waved a wing or wiggled a fin. 
John came originally from Central America — Hondu- 
ras, as I remember now — or had lived there many years. 
His age was apparently between forty and seventy. Over 
that range of thirty years you could guess at will. There 
were no fences on the range. After he had warmed up 
so as to talk, he related strange stories. He had lived 
many years in Florida, had an intimate knowledge of the 
Everglades, and an acquaintance with the Indians resi- 
dent there. He had apparently made his headquarters at 
or about Tampa. When the war broke out he was there- 
abouts, but a time soon came when he found it con- 
venient to cross the line, and also not to be slow about it. 
So he "took to the bush," and found rest for his wander- 
ing feet at Key West. It will be almost impossible for 
me to reproduce his picturesque language, but, as far as 
I can, I will tell the story in John's own words. It seems 
that John had a family in Tarnpa. I do not know 
whether it was his own family or one that he had adopted, 
but it seems that one day a troubadour, returning for a 
brief season from the wars, had or fancied he had some 
rights in the case, so he attempted to enter the precincts 
of the homestead occupied by Mr. Gomez and the family 
aforesaid. John said, in telling the story: 
"I yere talk in town, that man Willums come back. 
He say he kill me. One day I see Willums come 'long 
the road. I take my gun. T say, 'Willums, I no wanta 
you come in here." He say, T come in. I killa you.' I 
say, 'Willums, don'ta you come in da gate.' Willums, he 
coma in da gate, I shoota him, an' he staya there. I coma 
'way.' 
That seemed to me to be good and sufficient cause for 
John's hegira, and later his family joined him in Key- 
West. He found employment as pilot on Government 
ships, but he did not lil<e to serve on the steamers or 
larger ships. Once wdien employed on one of the fast 
steamers running up the coast for Tampa, close inshore, 
the night being very dark. John did not make out how to; 
go slower, as he desired to do, and unaware that he 
should tell his fears to the officer of the deck, he wan- 
dered about until he found the engine room, and said to 
the engineer on watch: "Mista Engineer, don'ta b'ily 
your water too hot!" which was his idea of going slower. 
To tell of the fish we caught and the game we shot 
under John's direction and guidance would be "another 
story." He was a new and unique type to us. He was a 
compound of Spaniard, Indian, hunter and fisherman all 
in one. He carried, somewhere about him. a flint and 
steel and a horn full of tinder, and produced fire from it 
to light his pipe. He was always perfectly clean and 
i!eat, but his clothing was tropical and free; I do not 
think he liked to wear shoes. Squatted on deck with his 
old pipe was his usual posture. His language was calm 
and slow; I rarely saw him vehement. But there was a 
secret, slumbering force about the man which savored of 
helpfulness and power, and I have rarely met a man 
w-hom I would tie to. for outing or danger, ashore or 
afloat, with more confidence than I would to John 
Gomez. 
, .He told me a story once about a deer hunting expedi- 
tion of his in the Everglades below Punta Rassa which 
has left a picture in my mind which will never leave it. 
He was trying to creep up to a spot where he had seen a 
deer. He' was standing for an instant m a flat place, 
peering cautiously through the bushes in search of his 
game, "when he felt something strike him gently on the 
inside of each leg. He cautiously looked down, moving 
little Hs possif^le, and ?a\r ffn enprmoiis rfittlesnake be- 
tween his feet, head erect and ready to Strike if he moved 
an inch. He was forced to stand immovable until the 
snake lowered its head and uncoiled its length, when a 
great leap took him clear of its attack. At this moment 
he heard a low laugh and saw an Indian in a tree, who 
had been an amused spectator of the scene. The rigid 
John, the wrathful snake and the chuckling Indian would 
make a oicture if they could be painted or drawn. That 
would have been the chance of a lifetime for the camera 
fiend. ^ . , f T I 
The last time I was in Key West I inquired for John 
Gomez, but could not learn his whereabouts. I am glad 
he is still alive. All true sportsmen would fully appreci- 
ate this son of nature. At first sight he would be passed 
by, but if once one could penetrate beneath the bark 
there was the rich yield of a life of adventure to gather 
sap from. The species is fast dying out. Soon there will 
JOHN GOilEZ. 
be no more. Pioneer, hunter, sailor, fisherman, all in 
one, the school is closed that made them, the books are 
out of date from which they were taught, and the railroad 
shrieks where they hunted, and the bicycle whirls where 
once the deer paths ran. Good-bj^ old John; we shall 
cruise together no more, unless there are happy hunting 
grounds and smooth seas where we are both bound. 
C. H. RocKWBLL, Commander U. S. N. 
In a Nova Scotia Camp* 
BY EDWARD A. SAMUELS. 
In my many outings with rod and gun it has been 
my great privilege to meet with a large number of sports- 
men who were more than ordinarily interesting and com- 
panionable. Enthusiasts as they were, they were full of 
reminiscences, and many a thrilling story of the chase 
have I listened to by the camp-fire or in the hunting 
lodge in the wilderness. What a volume those narratives 
would make if I had been able to record them: but most 
of them have passed away from me and they cannot be 
recalled. There is one, however, which I heard in camp 
with a number of sportsmen not long ago which I will 
endeavor to put on paper. It was told by one of our 
party and I will present it here as nearly as possible in 
the narrator's own words. 
The Doctor and I have been close friends for many 
years [referring to a well-known physician of Boston]. 
Our tastes are entirely congenial and both of us are en- 
thusiasts in field sports. Every season has found us to- 
gether on a Canadian salmon stream or in the forests of 
the North in pursuit of the moose or other large game 
or upon the shores and marshes of the sea coast where 
the bay birds and water fowl are wont to congregate. 
It was during one of these outings — a trip to the wilds of 
Nova Scotia — that the moose hunt I am going to tell 
you about occurred. 
We had reached the section of country- m- wliich we 
proposed to hunt after a journey which occupied sev- 
eral days. It was made chiefly in our canoes and the 
route was through a chain of forest lakes which for pic- 
turesque beauty could hardljf be excelled. The last of 
the lakes was reached by a portage of about two miles 
in length, and at its upper end, between two rivers, we 
made our camp. The locality selected was a wooded 
point which jutted out a dozen or more rods into the 
lake. 
"It's just the spot" said John Freeman, our guide, 
"for the breeze will carry our smoke and camp noises out 
from the shore, and ag'in we're clost between two rivers 
and we can paddle up either of them for a couple of 
miles into the be.st moose kentry in these parts." 
It was an ideal spot for a tenting place, the view ex- 
tending the whole length of the lovely lake, which lay 
so placidly in the heart of the wilderness. 
"Ah. this is solid comfort!" exclaimed the Doctor as 
he lighted his after-supper pipe and stretched himself 
before the rousing fire of hardwood logs. "We are a 
good many miles from civilization, bat we lack nothing 
to complete our enjoyment." 
I a5pente.fl, f'thg old savage nature is cropping 
out again and showing itself plainly in the pleasure we 
are deriving from this wild life." 
"I don't think there's anything savage about it," said 
John, lighting his pipe with a brand from the fire. "Lor' 
bless ye! ever3rone likes to git out in the woods on a 
moose hunt; it's a sort of nat'ral desire." 
"Yes," I repHed, "a desire that we inherit from our re- 
mote savage ancestors." 
"You're speaking of savages," replied the guide, "and 
of course you mean Injuns. Now I don't acknowledge 
that any of my ancestors was one — not by a jugful. All 
the Injuns I ever saw was too 'way down for a decent 
man to own kinship to. I never saw but one of 'em that 
had a conscience, and I don't actually know if he had 
one. You remember on the carry yesterday we passed an 
old Injun named Jim Joseph? He once got in a drunken 
row with a white man and accidentally^, most folks think, 
struck him a blow that killed him. Nothing was done 
about it, but the old feller has been a changed man since 
the accident. At times his mind is all right, but giner- 
ally he is a little off. Some think that the murder weighs 
on his mind. If old Jim has such a thing as a conscience 
he is sufferin' from it all right. He likes his whisky all 
the same, and sometimes gits too much pf it." 
Those of us who have had much experience with 
guides know how varied are their characteristics and dis- 
positions. Some are industrious and are constantly doing 
something about the camp to enhance the comfort of 
their employers. Others are the reverse and are some- 
times lazy to a most exasperating degree. There are 
sulky guides, cheerful and always singing or whistling 
guides, jealous guides, honest guides and lying, thieving 
guides. I have had my outings with them all, and long 
experience has taught me gratefully to enjoy the virtues 
which appear and bear philosophically the vices that are 
almost certain sooner or later to crop out. John was 
what might be termed a reminiscent guide, and he enter- 
tained us for an hour or two with his odd stories and 
quaint sayings. 
"I consider the Injun a putty 'way down kind of crit- 
ter," he repeated, seating himself and pulling away at 
his somewhat refractory pipe. "I allers agree with the 
chap who said that the only good Injun is a dead Injun. 
I've had lots to do with 'em and allers found 'em as 
treacherous as snakes. I allers make it a point to keep 
'em at a distance from me." 
"I think you are too sweeping in your condemnation," 
said the Doctor quietly. "I have had Indians out with 
me who were perfectly honest and who were most re- 
liable guides." 
■"That may be," replied the guide. "It was for 
their interest to be all right with you; but I never see 
one that was wuth a string of suckers. I believe in 
keeping 'em down to their proper place." . 
"Well, John," said I as he paused to ctit a fresh 
supply of tobacco, "they're pretty well kept down here 
in Nova Scotia; there are only a few left, and you ought 
not to treat them too harshly. Remember, it's, not a 
fair thing to strike a man when he is down." 
"That's rightj too," he responded; "sfock yer boot into 
him." 
"You are perfectly incorrigible, John," exclaimed the 
Doctor, laughing at the unique idea of fairness' that had 
been expressed. 
"Yes, they're a hard lot," continued the guide; "and 
they treat their best friends mean. Why, there was old 
Squire Thompson down country, years ago; as good- 
hearted an old feller as ever lived. He was too good to 
the Injuns and allers was giving to them when they came 
around. But Lor', it made no diff'rence: they stole his 
sheep right and left and even spared Capt. Bents, his 
neiohbor, a man who was too mean to live. Oh, .yesj he 
was a reg'lar vulgar critter: an out-and-outer." ,. 
"What on earth do you mean, John?" asked the 
Doctor. 
"Oh, he was always preachin' economy. I've got no 
use for such people. Yes, he was an ornery cuss. He 
was a widower, and they say his wife died from his 
meanness. He took a notion to git married ag'in, and 
began coortin' a young girl in the settlement. By jingo, 
he spruced up and tried to look young ag'in. Fie shaved 
ol¥ his beard and mustache and he was the homeliest 
lookin' object, for all the world like the grace of God 
in pursuit of murder." (As will be seen, John's meta- 
phors were often somewhat vague.) 
"That mustache." he continued, "had hid the biggest 
mouth in the country, for I believe if he had wanted to 
he could have swaliered a 14-pound codfish and never 
gasped. But the joke of it is the girl married him. 
Yes. she drove her pigs to a mighty poor market. The 
idea of marryin' that old feller with seven or eight 
3'oung ones! 
"Well, the Injuns never touched any of his stock, bvit 
stole from old Squire Thompson every chance they got. 
Yes, the old Squire was a big-hearted man and he loved 
good whisky; allers took his three good glasses between 
supper and bed. No, I wasn't fur behind him, neither." 
John's hand at this juncture was passed across his 
mouth as if the memory of the three glasses came back 
most vividly. 
"Yes. the old Squire was a widower too," continued 
the guide. "He lost his wife in their early married life, 
and he said sometimes that he thought a life of celebracy 
had not been altogether in his favor." 
"Celibacy," John," I suggested. 
'Tit's all one." he replied nonchalantly. "He was rec- 
onciled, however, to such a life and allers said that it 
was well to remember that the shorn lamb is tempered 
to the blast." 
"You are mixed in your quotation," said the Doctor, 
who was listening in great amusement to John's narra- 
tive. 
"May be," he replied; "but you know what he meant. 
Yes. the old Squire was a great sleeper. Gad! He'd 
sleep the legs off an iron pot; but when he was awake 
he was alive and mighty interestin', I can tell ye; far and 
away ahead of Capt. Bent, who couldn't see a hole in a 
ladder so far as intellectual thought was concerned. Yes,- 
the old Squire used to .say when he felt lonesome that 
celebracy wasn't the be.st thing in life, and he often 
topped of¥ with the idee that these light afflictions some- 
times assume a dark disguise." 
"The old Squire mu.st have been a very interesting 
man," observed the Doctor when John fini5he4 hl5 
somewhat incoherent account, - . 
