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Updated: May 26, 2025
We had been marching on for some hours across a pine-barren, with the sun beating down on our heads, and were anxiously looking out for a stream or pool at which we could quench our thirst, Carlos and I being together, when an object was seen moving across the plain towards us. It was soon made out to be a horse. "It is riderless," observed Carlos. "Can it be a wild one?" I asked.
I remembered the fable, however, of the hare and the tortoise: "Sure and steady wins the race." Parched with thirst as we were, it was a hard matter for us to restrain our eagerness. On went the tortoise, turning neither to the right nor to the left. It seemed to us that the ground was sloping, and that we were on the edge of a pine-barren.
I knew that the Saint John River, in many places, consists of a chain of small lakelets, connected by a narrow stream; but of their position or extent I was very uncertain. The next day found us wandering on across the pine-barren, as did the following, while the mist hung heavily over the country.
Quitted Mobile on the box of the mail for Portersville: our way lay over Spring Hill and through the Pine-barren; the road was a track cleared by the woodman's axe; the stumps were not as yet macadamized by time, still the horses picked their way amongst them at a very fair pace.
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