attention; but it is time to be off.”
It was five A.M. when Barbicane and his party, quitting Tampa Town,
made their way along the coast in the direction of Alifia Creek.
This little river falls into Hillisborough Bay twelve miles above
Tampa Town. Barbicane and his escort coasted along its right bank
to the eastward. Soon the waves of the bay disappeared behind a
bend of rising ground, and the Floridan “champagne” alone offered
itself to view.
Florida, discovered on Palm Sunday, in 1512, by Juan Ponce de
Leon, was originally named _Pascha Florida_. It little deserved
that designation, with its dry and parched coasts. But after
some few miles of tract the nature of the soil gradually changes
and the country shows itself worthy of the name. Cultivated plains
soon appear, where are united all the productions of the northern
and tropical floras, terminating in prairies abounding with
pineapples and yams, tobacco, rice, cotton-plants, and sugar-canes,
which extend beyond reach of sight, flinging their riches broadcast
with careless prodigality.
Barbicane appeared highly pleased on observing the progressive
elevation of the land; and in answer to a question of J. T.
Maston, replied:
“My worthy friend, we cannot do better than sink our Columbiad
in these high grounds.”
“To get nearer the moon, perhaps?” said the secretary of the Gun Club.
“Not exactly,” replied Barbicane, smiling; “do you not see that
among these elevated plateaus we shall have a much easier work
of it? No struggles with the water-springs, which will save us
long expensive tubings; and we shall be working in daylight
instead of down a deep and narrow well. Our business, then, is
to open our trenches upon ground some hundreds of yards above
the level of the sea.”
“You are right, sir,” struck in Murchison, the engineer; “and, if I
mistake not, we shall ere long find a suitable spot for our purpose.”
“I wish we were at the first stroke of the pickaxe,” said the president.
“And I wish we were at the _last_,” cried J. T. Maston.
About ten A.M. the little band had crossed a dozen miles.
To fertile plains succeeded a region of forests. There perfumes
of the most varied kinds mingled together in tropical profusion.
These almost impenetrable forests were composed of pomegranates,
orange-trees, citrons, figs, olives, apricots, bananas, huge vines,
whose blossoms and fruits rivaled each other in color and perfume.
Beneath the odorous shade of these magnificent trees fluttered and
warbled a little world of brilliantly plumaged birds.
J. T. Maston and the major could not repress their admiration on
finding themselves in the presence of the glorious beauties of
this wealth of nature. President Barbicane, however, less
sensitive to these wonders, was in haste to press forward;
the very luxuriance of the country was displeasing to him.
They hastened onward, therefore, and were compelled to ford
several rivers, not without danger, for they were infested
with huge alligators from fifteen to eighteen feet long.
Maston courageously menaced them with his steel hook, but he
only succeeded in frightening some pelicans and teal, while
tall flamingos stared stupidly at the party.
At length these denizens of the swamps disappeared in their
turn; smaller trees became thinly scattered among less dense
thickets– a few isolated groups detached in the midst of
endless plains over which ranged herds of startled deer.
“At last,” cried Barbicane, rising in his stirrups, “here we are
at the region of pines!”
“Yes! and of savages too,” replied the major.
In fact, some Seminoles had just came in sight upon the horizon;
they rode violently backward and forward on their fleet horses,
brandishing their spears or discharging their guns with a dull report.
These hostile demonstrations, however, had no effect upon Barbicane
and his companions.
They were then occupying the center of a rocky plain, which the
sun scorched with its parching rays. This was formed by a
considerable elevation of the soil, which seemed to offer to the
members of the Gun Club all the conditions requisite for the
construction of their Columbiad.
“Halt!” said Barbicane, reining up. “Has this place any
local appellation?”
“It is called Stones Hill,” replied one of the Floridans.
Barbicane, without saying a word, dismounted, seized his instruments,