Camping in the Wilds of St. Francis

The Story of Four Men and a Dog Amid the Swamps in Arkansas

It was November 1, 1901,  without the wind was blowing a gale and occasionally the window blind would slam and the rain and snow would pitpat against the window pane. I had been trying for an hour to get interested in a work on fish culture, but had dozed off several times in the attempt.

Suddenly the 'phone whirred violently, nearly causing me to fall over backwards. It rang again before I regained my equilibrium as well as composure. "Hello! Hello! Bob, is that you? This is Wheeler." "Yes," I answered; "What is it. Captain?" "Sa-a-a-y, Bob, don't you want to go on a camp hunt down in Niggerwool swamp?" I turned and looked out of the window and shivered. "When?" I faltered. "Why, now—right away, Dummy," he shouted. "This is just the time; got a wire from Bill Henson that the ducks and geese are coming in so thick that the chickens are going to roost two hours earlier every evening on account of the clouds made by the flights." I felt the blood in my veins take on a fresh start as I thought of the rare sport. "Well, well, wake up, what d'ye say, will you go or not?" "Sure I'll go," I answered. "When will we start?" "To-morrow morning. 8:40 o'clock." "All right, Cap, I'll see you to-night. I'll be ready."

I hurriedly rang for Smith, my secretary. "Smith, I'm going away for a few days will start to-morrow A. M. Get all my mail up right away." "How about your appointment with the Manufacturers' Association  to-morrow. Mr. Smith offered. This certainly was a stumper. My first impulse was to phone Wheeler that it was all off. I. being chairman of the association, of all others was supposed to be on hand. Then there was the question of railway discrimination to come up. Why did I not think of all this before I answered Wheeler? Well, I just could not disappoint him, he would sure have my scalp. Enter Smith again; "Here's a message from Mr. Blackmer stating that he will not be able to attend the meeting to-morrow owing to important business engagement." "Smith," I replied, you send a letter to each member of the committee that our meeting is postponed until two weeks from to-day." I vowed the next time I saw Blackmer I would pay everything.

It was now nearly 3 o'clock and not a thing done toward my equipment. I had to phone my gunsmith to get my outfit to me at once. There were rubber boots, blankets, hunting coats, fishing tackle and everything contingent to a camp-hunt in Arkansas to be looked after. I went home early and sprang it on my wife. "Horrors! You are certainly crazy to go hunting this kind of weather. I did think when I married you that you would gradually get over the desire for such terrible journeys." I finally overcame her objections, as I always do, and got busy packing up my outfit. I saw Wheeler, and he said he had everything arranged —the tents, rations and all things necessary to a camphunt. He had anticipated my desires to a great extent, and engaged one of the best old souls that ever "Old Ireland sprung." in the person of Jeremiah Tracy "Av ye plaze," to do our cooking and look after the cornmissary equipment. Jerry was a mighty good  shot, too. Quite a number of young bloods, who want to do things quite in line with their braggadocio swagger, engaged Jerry about twice a year to accompany them on their "shooting trips." Of course, Jerry's accomplishments serves to make the "bag" quite respectable, but our reason for engaging Jerry was for his sterling worth and because we could trust him implicitly; and Jerry's camp stew was something that to be without would relieve our camp-hunt of one-half its pleasure.

The next morning found us started on our way and comfortably settled in the smoker for a day's journey. We arrived at Paragould, Ark., without mishap, and after supper took the "jerk-water" over to Buffalo Island. There we engaged three large bateaux from the club house, and having loaded our camp outfit and plunder, provided ourselves with a competent guide for to attempt to navigate the St. Francis River without a guide would be as bad as an attempt to do Mammath Cave without one. Only the practiced eye of the native guide can discern the channel, and even they sometimes get fooled. After one is confronted with a dozen channels to choose from you might travel up one of them for several hours before being confronted with an impassable barrier of brush wood and moss. Then there is the tiresome journey back, and the chances are, being without a guide, you would again get into the wrong channel, and it might finally result, after a half-dozen attempts to extricate yourself, that you gave up (and out, too), resigning yourself to your fate, i. e., to wait patiently for help, which might not come until next day. Then, again, the river is full of a most beautiful, but treacherous green moss. The water is simply beautiful clear as crystal and always delightfully cool. We drank this water and found it very palatable. Let me say right here that this water is as near chemically pure as any river water in the world. The moss grows up from the bottom and moves with every motion of the current, resulting in a most beautiful effect. It seemed to me as if thousands of green flags were embedded in the river, moving to and fro, as the current pushed through them, causing the folds to ripple out in long waves. It's a sight worth going a thousand miles to see. Owing to the prevalence of this moss, rowing is simply out of the question. "Poling" is resorted to as a mode of navigation.

The guide provides himself with a long paddle at least twelve feet long, and standing erect in the boat, poles when he can touch the bottom and paddles when lie cannot. One remarkable thing about the paddling is that the native never paddles on both sides. I have seen them paddle by the hour, and always on one side only. I've tried by the hour to learn the trick, but gave it up in disgust. "Ye jos-hol' your pole (paddle) this-away and throw it that-a-way, an' you go right along, ye see? Lemme show you," says the native, and away he goes again, but I turn away in despair and pass it up. Life is entirely too short, and as Jerry puts it, "The devil's in it, anyhow."

Well, we finally got away, the guide and Wheeler taking the front boat, and Baltezor, myself and Jerry manning the other two. Such a picnic, such strenuous sport I never before engaged in. Only one accident marred the journey. It was our pup Mephisto. Through some accident he got into my coat, and his master, Baltezor, being in another boat, caused his pupship much uneasiness. Our boats were about a half-mile apart, when Mephisto suddenly jumped overboard and made for his master. 'Twas rather a heroic effort on the part of the pup, and had it not been for prompt action on my part, he would now be frolicking in the Doggie's happy hunting grounds. He was a much wetter, but wiser dog, after being pulled out, and was satisfied to be wrapped in a blanket for the balance of the journey.

After four hours of hard work poling, pushing, paddling, we landed at Cypress Point. Here we dismissed our guide, as we found his too frequent potations of Jerry's bottle had had a very exhilarating effect upon him, and we decided to fire him, which we did much against his approval. "How'm I goin' t' git back?" he growled. "Swim," was Wheeler's rejoinder.

"The hell you say!". he shouted, and started to draw  his gun, but before he could draw Wheeler gave him a swift uppercut on the chin, which put our friend "out." He came to in about five minutes after Jerry had emptied two bucketfuls of water on him. We had relieved him of his gun during the interim. He raised himself to a sitting posture, rubbed his head and then rise to his feet. Wheeler pointed to the woods and said, "you git." He growled something under his breath, but concluded he had had enough of our society and vamosed, nor did we see anything more of him; maybe he found himself later lining the stomach of a catamount or some other varmint of the swamps, but we gave ourselves no uneasiness on his account. We got our "hotel" up in short order, and inside of a half hour we were making Jerry's hot cakes and maple syrup fly. This, washed down with black coffee, made us all over again "ready for any fray." After supper we resolved to reconnoitre, it still lacking an hour from sundown. We found nothing worthy of our powder, however, and started on our return. When Hearing our camp, Jerry suddenly held up his hand and dropping to his knees, began peering through the thick undergrowth, which surrounded our camp. "Whist!'' he whispered. "Pigs!" He rose to his feet and rushed forward with a shout, and we in his wake. We found the tent full of pigs, wild razor-backs they were into everything Jerry was crazy. "Ye devils!" he yelled. They paid no attention to him. We came to the rescue, and after belaboring right and left with the stocks of our guns, succeeded finally in driving them off.

Ordinarily, these razor-backs are as wild as deer, but when starving, as these evidently were, they will sometimes attack a man. We turned in early, posting Mephisto as guard for the night. We slept as only tired men can sleep, and only awoke when Jerry was shaking us, saying: "Are yez all dead?"

Coffee, hot biscuits, bacon and gravy a la Tracy constituted our breakfast. We pulled stakes by 6 o'clock and pushed onward up stream, as certainly a more dismal place than Cypress Point is not on the map, glad enough we were to get away from it. After three hours' work we discovered the donique, on which old Bill Henson had squatted. Doniques are the oases or dry spots that are found occasionally in the Niggerwool swamp.

No one seems to know whence this name "Donique" came. There is a word "donock" signifying a stone, found in the encyclopedia donique may be a corruption of it.

We found old Bill as grizzly as ever and gladly he welcomed us to his dominion, for these squatters are veritable kings and recognize no law except of their own making.  This was Henson's donique. Old Bill and his wife and daughter Rose welcomed us heartily, telling us to "make ye' sels' at home." We accordingly unlimbered our outfit, and in course of an hour were "at home." Leaving Jerry in charge, we started off again to reconnoitre, and incidentally to bag anything in the shape of game, coming our way. We succeeded in pulling down several mallards, and it turning colder, rapidly we put back for Camp Wheeler. Jerry had supper waiting for us, and we did eat ourselves to a condition of wellnigh imbecility. "Bedad!" says Jerry, "Ye'll ate yersels home in a wake at this rate," for like the old saw we "licked the platter clean." Our beds were made up on the ground; we took the precaution, however, to first lay about 200 clapboards (which we "borrowed" from Bill), on top of which we spread two bales of hay, which we laid in stock through the thoughtfulness of Captain Wheeler. To lie on the ground without these precautions would be almost suicide. The soil on these doniques is of various depths, six, eight and ten feet, and to my mind is liable to slip its cables at any time, and I so expressed my fears. But old Bill said, "I've been living; heyar twenty years- and I hain't seen no slide yit," and he guffawed so vehemently that the subject of our conversation shook very perceptibly. Wells are dug in this soil by simply driving a gas pipe down until it strikes water. A pointed perforated tip is screwed on to the driving end of the pipe. Sinking a well, in consequence, is not a laborious operation on a donique.

After supper we sat around smoking our corn cobs and listening to the rain pattering on our tent. Suddenly we heard Old Bill's voice saying, "Say. boyees, kin I c-min out-n the wet?" "Sure, Bill! Come in and join the festive throng," said Captain Wheeler. "Thought I'd come over and set with ye and p'raps you might want to hear my pianner." With that he pulled from under his coat an old fiddle. This was his "pianner." "Hyar she is, boyees. She's been busted more times'n I have, but she'll sound good s'long's there's a piece left on it." Sure enough, it was a veteran, scarred and seared from many an experience in company with its master, for Old Bill has been a hard case in his time. The numerous scars on his body attested to this fact. He had lost one eye in an encounter. He pulled open his shirt one day and showed me a hole in his breast that I could have put my fist into. "A load of No. 8 went in that," he muttered. "Doctor had a hard time diggin' me out. I spec' I wa'n't born to be shot to death or cut up, may be they'll hang me some day."

After he had regaled us with "Kitty Clyde," "Dixie," "Ole Gray Hoss" and several more tunes which I cannot now remember, he stopped suddenly with, "Ain't you'll got something good?" Captain Wheeler tipped Jerry a wink, and the bottle came forth, and Old Bill "tasted" it, and felt better. As a matter of fact, we had to almost throw him out. The bottle was certainly an attraction for him.

Next morning we were astir by daylight, and each one of us took a boat and started out for a day's pleasure, leaving Jerry and the dog to keep camp. We each took a lunch and a can of minnows and guns and ammunition. I struck out toward the west and up stream, the others preferring down stream. I was admonished not to go too far, for fear of accidents. I got into a nice body of water and pulled along complacently for an hour or so without incident. The wild, weird waste of water and country was attractive to me. Occasionally a heron would rise up out of the water and wing silently away. The barking of squirrels was heard incessantly. Strange waterfowl uttered discordant cries and sometimes a "woof-woof" from some donique would indicate a family of "razor-backs." I fell into a reverie here was I but fifteen or twenty miles from civilization, yet here was a waste of country that evidently was still in its primitive state. I was indeed alone with nature I was hypnotized by nature itself.

I tried to throw off the spell and vowed I would not let another gang of ducks pass me. But, here they come again, flying, and straight toward me, like a black cloud; as they near me up they rise and pass on beyond with a qua-a-a-ck, qua-a-a-ck, and yet I don't shoot. Why? I cannot tell, it remains simply, I cannot. A pretty story I will have for the boys when I get back. Well, they may go hang, I shan't tell them.

Soon I struck a narrow and swift channel, just the place for bass. I anchored to a tree and prepared for business. I got out my spoon and cast out in the middle of a troll. I could see the spoon whirling like a one-horse motor. Suddenly a black shadow from out the depths moved out and remained stationary for a minute. My heart nearly froze. I was in a tremble lest I should bat my eye. For I knew he was watching me. Then, like a flash he was after the spoon, and before I recovered the shock the line was nearly spent. I pressed down the brake and immediately my rod nearly bent double, then straight up in the air he rose and down again with a great crash he came toward me; rapidly I spun up my reel, till suddenly he was again off. I let him have the line gingerly and gradually worked him up closer and closer, and as he attempted a final coup, I slipped a long-handled landing net under him, and the prize was mine. A beautiful 4-pound striped bass. Ah! such sport, my blood was now up; I caught six after the same tactics and lost one; I was more than repaid already for the hardships experienced. Then, again, I had something to show the boys as evidence that I had not been dreaming.

After awhile, there being a cessation of hostilities, no more strikes materializing. I allowed my gaze to drift to the bottom of the stream, about twenty feet down. I observed a large black object moving slowly up stream. At first glance I thought it an alligator. While alligators rarely get that far north, yet they have been seen there. After gazing more closely I concluded it to be a large school of catfish moving up stream slowly and as compactly as possible. They were lined up in twenties. They were evidently moving with a great deal of caution. After watching them for some time I purposely dropped my paddle, and away they scattered. There must have been several hundred of them. With all the seining going on there seems to be a few catfish left, anyway. Speaking of seining, reminds me that there is hardly a cut-off anywhere in the St. Francis but has a seine stretched across its mouth. Fishermen from Buffalo Island and Bertig make periodical visits to these seines and bring the fish in by the skiff load. They are then packed into barrels and shipped to St. Louis, Chicago and even to New York. Not withstanding, it is contrary to law, but little effort is apparently being made to suppress this traffic.

One of the several clubs established down there did engage a man and had him sworn in as a United States deputy marshal, to look after this illicit business. He confiscated a great many seines and destroyed many more. After he had been shot at from ambush several times he gave it up as a "warm"' job. I heard several of the natives say that they didn't want to "git" (kill) him. Just wanted to "skeer" him. Well, they skeered him all right. I also heard threats that if a certain club didn't quit interfering with their business they might wake up some morning and find no club house. (Shortly after this experience a large club house at Bertig was burned and has never been rebuilt. The members became discouraged, sought for and found another location.)

I arrived at camp without incident, and found the rest of the sportsmen had preceded. They had bagged a dozen of fat mallards and three sprigtails.

It was agreed that in the morning we would go after deer, Old Bill having seen tracks and signs of them. So we started east the next morning to the "Ridge." We found where the deer had stripped the bark from a tree, which was the beginning of the trail. After following the trail for some little time, Bill concluded that the deer had bivouacked on the other side of the Ridge. So it was agreed that Bill and Jerry should go to the south and over the Ridge and beat up the brush and drive the deer over westward. We three spread about sixty yards apart and waited. I took the north side and threw myself down in the tall grass, commanding a good view of the ridge. I wailed for three-quarters of an hour and had grown rather restless. I had visions of Bill and Jerry off under a tree having a good laugh at our expense. I was soon after on the point of giving up in disgust, when I heard a rustle back of me. I turned quickly and there, scarcely thirty yards from me, were two deer, one a fine buck. They stared at me and I at them, and we all stared. I never saw such large luminous eyes before. I raised my hand finally and ejaculated "Shoo!" and they "shooed." It didn't occur to me to shoot. It was my first sight of a wild deer. I did not have "buck ague," but it was a close relative. They started like the wind toward my companions, and I held my breath. Presently I heard bang bang, then two barrels more. My friends did, indeed, bag two of them, and I didn't. I thought it best not to relate my experience, having too much consideration for my peace of mind and reputation, as you may suppose. But we had venison for supper all right, and it was good.

Next morning old Bill came rushing into camp, shouting, "Git yer guns, boys, that's bar over yonder," pointing excitedly toward the west. We hurried to our boats and followed Bill, he leading in a dug-out. In about ten minutes we reached another donique and landed, Bill still leading. "You stay right hyar, boys, and I'll rec-conniter," says Bill, and we stayed. We waited and waited— ten minutes, fifteen minutes, a half hour. "The old rascal's giving us a 'con' game," Cap Wheeler growled. "Let's go back," he added.

I was not in favor of taking snap judgment, and demurred against returning without Bill. So we waited. Suddenly we were startled by the report of a gun and Bill's voice shouting what we could not make out. We started on a double quick in his direction. We had gone but a dozen paces when Bill burst into the clearing, hat off, hair flying, eyes bulging, and screaming, "The bar, the bar! He's after me now," and he tore past us like a whirlwind, and the bear followed right on his heels in a lope. If it were not that Bill's life was in danger, it would certainly have had a ludicrous aspect. Bill made straight for his dug-out, and the bear, paying no attention to us, made for Bill, and just as the latter made a leap of it his bearship fetched him a hook in the rear that carried away the seat of his trousers. But Bill was off and pushed off into midstream. Then bruin turned and saw us for the first lime. He sat down on his hunkers, laid back his ears, showed his fangs, and growled. We cocked our guns and advanced on him slowly. I confess I felt rather shaky. "Now, boys," said Cap Wheeler, "steady it is, and altogether, and right at his eyes. Ready, fire!" When the smoke cleared away our bear lay curled up and asleep —put to sleep by three valiant hunters. It was a specimen of the small black bear found occasionally in the swamps, and when hungry are very fierce, and will often attack a man. Bill by this time had come ashore, and was busy bathing that part of his anatomy which suffered from the bear's left hook, but had not yet recovered his voice or composure. Presently he commenced to swear. Finally he looked up and said, "Well, boys, I was skeered and don't you forgit it. I thought the tarnal critter hed me for keens."

Here's his story: "I hit the trail jes' beyond the edge of the woods and found whar he'd been diggin' up the acorns and roots and I followed along. Pretty soon I cam' to some droppings that was still a-smoking and I 'gin to feel warm. Presently I heard a sound in the bresh close to my left, and bless my soul, the bar popped into me with a bump. I don't know which was skeered the most, me or the bar. He backed away from me with a wa-aughl I brought my gun up and blazed away. I  was so frustrated that I fired wild. But it made him mad, and he rushed at me and knocked my gun out of my hands, and—well, boys, then I hollered and run, and you all know the rest. But I want my gun, and I want to git home quick and git the old woman to rub some 'intment on my rear." We loaded the bear into the boat and carried him to camp, and under Bill's direction skinned him and hung up the carcass.

Inasmuch as we three fired simultaneously at the varmint we were obliged to draw lots for the skin, which fell to Cap. Wheeler. It now adorns his library floor in the capacity of a rug. Old Bill said the skin by right ought to belong to him, for, he argued, did he not bring the game to us to shoot?

Jerry, the cook, tried to fry some bear steaks for breakfast the next morning, but we could eat none of it. It was altogether too gamy. Old Bill came to the rescue, and suggested that we broil them over the embers of our fire, which we did, and found the meat very palatable. That night, after we had turned in, it began to grow colder and the geese commenced coining in out of the storm and such a noise as they did make. It was simply impossible to carry on a conversation. It took them an hour to get settled and become quiet.

It was proposed that we turn out at 4 A. M. and try to bag a few of them. We accordingly set the alarm clock. At 4 o'clock we three set out in our dug-outs toward the line of woods in the west, at which point we "spotted" them the night before. It was dark before us as a stack of black cats, and cold is charity. We could not smoke nor converse, nor hardly breathe for fear of flushing the gang. After we had struggled against the flags and moss for an hour, Cap. Wheeler signalled a halt by a low whistle. Very soon the first streaks of dawn became visible and with them came a sound of "honk-honk-honk," which we knew to be the signal of the old gander to make ready. We forthwith made ready, and waited for the flight to commence. Our previous discomfiture was entirely forgotten in the excitement pending. Suddenly there was a great rush and up the cloud of geese rose with their accompanying discordant cries and our guns spoke. My repeater spoke four times and three geese answered with their lives. Cap. Wheeler got four and Mr. Baltezor pulled down four more. We heard someone else firing in close proximity, and it developed in the person of Jerry, who had started breakfast and then started after us. "Bedad!" says he, "Oi never did see the like of 'em." He had three to his credit. "No more'n I got a bade on wan of 'em and another wan would get in the way, and I couldn't help killing two with one shot." It was certainly rare sport. Then we paddled back to camp. A cup of black coffee, some hot cakes, finished off with a pipe all around, soon set things to rights.

That morning Rose, Old Bill's daughter, gave us a fine exhibition of skill with a gun. The trees on the donique were very high, some as much as one hundred and fifty feet. There was a clearing of about one hundred feet where their cabin was located, and Rose, only about seventeen years old, would stand in this clearing and watch the tree tops and woe betide the duck or goose that attempted to fly over this clearing. While I was watching her, she caught a 12-pound goose as it started across, and it came to the ground with such force that it burst open. Old Bill says, "Yes, that's an old trick of the gal's," and didn't seem to think it much of a trick either. Another accomplishment Rose had was playing the harmonicon "mouth-harp," as she called it. She could reproduce all of her father's fiddle tunes, and she went the city girls one better and "chawed" tobacco instead of gum. She always wore rubber boots and carried a six-shooter in a holster, which she knew how- to use. Old Bill had a most wholesome respect for Rose, too. When "Pa," as she called him, disappeared, as he occasionally did, Rose would go after him the next day and round him up. She walked into the saloon at Buffalo Island a few days before we came, where Old Bill was bluffing the crowd and daring any two of them to step out and give him a turn, and took her dad by the ear and walked him out, and pointing to her boat said, "Git in thar and come home." And he got in and went home as docile as any lamb.

Our two weeks' camp came to a close entirely too soon, and it was with sorrowful resignation that we three and the pup sat down on a log watching Jerry put the finishing touches to our plunder before starting for home. It was a glorious trip, and barring the little distemper which Cap. Wheeler suffered for a few days, our health was excellent. I gained nearly five pounds in weight, and the others had just as much to show for the trip, excepting the pup, who had become as skinny as a snake from incessant activity.

We arrived home without incident, and the next day were deep in the confines of stuffy offices, and this is the last of the adventures of four men and a dog amid the swamps of Arkansas. 

Robert J. Simpson.

So far as we are aware, there is nothing being done of any moment to prevent the continued destruction of fish in the waters of this State. We have a most excellent game law and game commission, but with that great amount of intelligence which is often shown by State legislators, not a cent of money was appropriated for the enforcement of the game laws; consequently they are a dead letter. If there was any way to reach the people of the State to educate them to the great loss the State is sustaining on account of the destruction of game fishes, a sentiment might be created which would force the Legislature to make an appropriation to enforce the statutes. The Missouri Fish Commission is doing some work in restocking waters, but this will amount to little as long as the destruction is permitted to continue. What this State must have if game fishes are to be preserved is an enforcement of the present law and the enactment of a close season. As it is now fish are taken before and during the spawning season, which prohibits all chance for the natural replenishing of stock. There are intelligent fishermen who do not know that to take a black bass even after spawning means the destruction of the young fish, for they are not aware of the guardianship which young bass must have before they can shift for themselves.

We have but briefly outlined what is going on in this State, and we only wish that Forest And Stream had the power to create a sentiment in this State which would put an end to the present disgraceful conditions—not only as to game fish, but game of all kinds. Aberdeen. St. Louis, Mo., March 8, 1896.