466 
FOREST AND S T R E A M 
August, 1918 
Th/eKin^ Party 
“^Breaks thmu^b the 
Mangrove to Shark River 
By W. LIVINGSTON LARNED. Decorations by the author 
T HE morning of March nth! Awak¬ 
ening now, with each successive 
dawn, brought none of the old-time 
joy. Once they had eagerly awaited these 
ghostly, pink daybreaks, with their pano¬ 
ramic beauty and their incessant hum of 
insect or call of bird. Mr. King and the 
boys were now in no mood to look for Na¬ 
ture’s artistic whims. The expedition had 
narrowed down to a desperate attempt to 
keep body and soul together, until the ex¬ 
igencies of the situation should make it un¬ 
necessary to struggle on. 
And to Mr. King, at least, that hour had 
arrived. He saw the dial of his watch 
through a haze, for his eyes were blurred 
and his head buzzing. He remembered 
struggling, as he attempted to get upon his 
feet. It was weakness—physical weak¬ 
ness ! Six o’clock, with all the vast ex¬ 
panse of muck and saw grass and stunted 
myrtles, bathed in strange light. 
It was eleven before they could proceed. 
Twice Mr. King fainted and the boys 
dashed wet leaves into his face and forced 
hot cabbage palm broth between his dry 
lips. For they had made a fire and scoured 
the little island for all that it provided 
in the way of food. 
There were any number of shallow 
waterways leading to the southward and 
they selected one at random: the widest 
and deepest. There was a current. This 
Mr. King could easily ascertain. It was 
inspiring to watch the bending grass 
and the purl of the first real “water” 
they had observed in so long a while. 
It seemed illogical to suppose that this 
current could die out. It might split, thin¬ 
ning out into many channels through the 
grass, but it would come together again. 
Moreover, there was a gratifying absence 
of marl. The boat required less watching. 
Now they came upon a course so shal¬ 
low that it was necessary to drag the boat 
over the muck. All three bent to this 
task, although the stops were frequent 
and the pain of the added exertion almost 
intolerable. They had fallen into a habit 
of silence. Seldom was a word said. 
Hope once more brought joy to their 
hearts, long so near to despair. 
“The waterways are converging,” said 
Catlow, in a hoarse, unnatural voice. 
“Looks that way to me, too,” added 
John Jr. 
Mr. King could only nod and smile—a 
tired, grim smile. 
There was enough water to float the 
skiff. They dragged it through a hedge of 
tall grass and had the satisfaction of seeing 
it ride triumphantly upon the surface of 
a well-filled slough. There were Indian 
markers, too, swaying and bending, their. 1 
white faces a sure sign of deep water. 
These pigweed “stakes” are the Seminole’s 
On the pinched faces of the adventurers genuine tragedy is written. This picture 
was taken by Mr. Talbot on the deck of the “Powell” soon after the rescue 
With tightened lips and weary bodies, they 
looked ever to the South and watched the 
low fringe of mangrove and cypress. 
There was an hour of this, when to coax 
the skiff along was a giant task, and then 
route sheet through the ’Glades. As his 
canoe passes, it bends them, disturbs their 
roots, and the sun bleaches them a distinct¬ 
ive shade. By 2:30 the flow was so i 
marked, that Mr. King, despite his illness. 
