The Bucket Flower. Donald R. Wilson
from one end to the other with a small, rusty smokestack protruding from its middle.
After stowing their overnight valises and basket lunches prepared by the hotel, they set off down the river. She sat on a bench with Millie and Henrietta. Mrs. Dalton and Aunt Sarah were behind them. Beyond the little steam engine were the men. Mr. Everett steered the boat while Mr. Bolton helped the Negro feed the fire with wood supplied at Palatka.
Almost immediately they spotted alligators along the banks. She felt nervous about these reptiles which, unlike the ones at the alligator farm, were free to swim out to the boat if they chose. Millie and Mrs. Dalton had not seen alligators before and were excited.
“I wish those birds would go away,” whined Henrietta. A myriad of flapping wings fluttered all around the boat like huge snowflakes. The mangroves on the right-hand shore were almost white with birds.
Having studied Elliot Coues’ Key to North American Birds in preparation for her trip, she was able to identify the long-legged egrets and the ibises with their curved beaks. They remarked about the hundreds of fish just below the surface. Mr. Davis thought they were catfish.
“I wish I’d brought my fishing pole,” he said.
With only a slight breeze to provide relief from the hot sun, she was grateful for the shade of the boat’s roof. The river was like an elongated lake with dense vegetation encroaching on both sides of the water’s edge. She had brought her notebook with her and was disappointed in not being able to examine any flora closely even though they were near the vegetation on the right. No signs of human habitation cluttered the riverbanks, and they saw just one fishing boat. The alligators were too numerous to count.
When they decided to stop for lunch, Mr. Everett pulled in close enough to the shore for Mr. Davis to tie up to an overhanging branch. Before the ladies were able to spread out the lunch, the passengers were attacked by swarms of mosquitoes. They had not been a bother while out in the stream with a breeze caused by their forward motion. Henrietta screamed as the others swatted until Mr. Davis was able to untie the boat and Mr. Everett could steer away from the shore. Everyone agreed eating was more pleasant once they were under way and the mosquitoes had disappeared.
“How far is it to the first town?” asked Mr. Everett over the chug-chugging of the engine.
Everyone looked at Beth since she had planned the trip.
“We must come to a fork in the river before we come to Pomona,” she said, hoping the hotel clerk had given her accurate information.
“How much farther after that?” Mr. Everett persisted.
“It can’t be far. Didn’t you ask the man who rented us the boat?”
“I thought you had gotten directions at the hotel.”
“Maybe we should turn back,” said Mrs. Dalton.
“There’s a fork up ahead,” said Mr. Davis, pointing over Mr. Everett’s shoulder. “The town can’t be much beyond that.”
After the fork were more forks as the river meandered like a maze among a cluster of grassy islands. All the waterways between the islands looked the same to her. She wasn’t certain whether the St. Johns River had divided into two or more streams, but she directed Mr. Everett to keep to the right as she had been told at the hotel. “We must be on the Oklawaha River now.” The birds were more plentiful than ever.
The river narrowed, and no other boats were to be seen. After a time they passed a shanty on the left shore.
“Perhaps we should stop and inquire,” said Mr. Davis.
“We’ll stop at the next shack we see,” said Mr. Everett.
Her anxiety increased as the little steamer chugged on until mid afternoon without their seeing other evidence of humans. “Maybe that shanty was Pomona,” suggested Aunt Sarah. Someone snickered. The others remained quiet.
All at once a loud thump at the bow sent a shudder through the little boat. Henrietta shrieked and several others responded with an assortment of gasps. Mr. Davis stood up and looked over the side. “We hit an alligator,” he exclaimed, watching the stunned reptile float past, “and bloodied the old bugger!” The boat seemed no worse for the encounter and chugged on.
After another hour Mrs. Dalton said, “We should turn around and go back. We don’t want to get caught out here after dark.”
“It will be dark before we can get back,” said Mr. Davis. “Our only choice is to go on until we come to a town. We don’t have enough fuel to get back.” A glance at the woodpile confirmed for her that their fuel was more than half gone. The boatman should have sold them more wood. The Negro seemed unconcerned even though the stream was now hardly twice the width of the boat.
“We could go ashore and scavenge for wood,” suggested Mr. Davis.
“How could we get through that thicket?” Beth asked. The branches over the water created an impenetrable tangle as if it had been woven.
“There’s no town out here,” said Mr. Everett. “I’m turning the boat around and heading back to that shanty we passed—if no one has a better suggestion.”
“What if there’s a town around the next bend?” asked Mr. Davis.
She went to the Negro. “Is there a town around the bend?” she asked.
“Ah dunno,” he replied with a shrug.
“Sakes alive! Turn around now, please,” said Mrs. Dalton with murmurs of agreement from the others. No one objected as Mr. Everett maneuvered the boat around in the narrow space. “If we’re lucky, we’ll have enough wood to get back to that shack.”
“We passed that shanty almost three hours ago,” said Millie. “We’ll be lucky to get there before dark.”
“What if the shanty’s empty?” asked Henrietta Thompson in a whining voice.
“Then we can stay there for the night,” said Mr. Everett in a cheerful voice. “We have the river current to help us in this direction. We’ll be fine.” Beth appreciated his attempt at cheering them up, but she had not noticed any current to speak of.
“It’s a good thing we brought more than enough food for lunch,” said Aunt Sarah. “There’s a little left over for supper.”
“Maybe we ought to save it for breakfast,” said Mr. Bolton dourly, his first remark in hours. Beth knew that two sandwiches, several oranges, and a little lemonade remained.
They traveled downstream for several hours with Mr. Everett still at the wheel. Mr. Bolton threw the last stick of wood into the firebox. The sun was low in the western sky, and their conversation, which had been lively until mid-afternoon, dwindled down to almost nothing. She watched the right-hand shore, but nothing was there except buttonwood with occasional tall palms standing behind them.
“We must have passed it by now,” said Henrietta in a whiny voice that was getting on Beth’s nerves.
The sun was behind the trees on the western shore. They had less than an hour of daylight. “There it is!” shouted Mr. Davis from the bow. Just then the little steam engine sputtered into silence. Two poles were found aboard which Mr. Davis and Mr. Bolton used to move them toward the shanty.
A barking dog greeted them at a small, rickety pier.
As they drew near, a man carrying a rifle came down to the river’s edge. Behind him stood a woman and three children. “This hyar’s private prop’ty.” He was wearing a battered straw hat and ragged overalls. His feet were bare, and his bearded face appeared to be none too friendly.
“Sir, can you tell us where Pomona is?” she called. The boat had stopped about ten feet from the pier.
“Hit’s over thar on t’other river,” the man said, pointing behind them. “You cain’t get thar from hyar.”
“Sir,” said