Shover.
In due season we arrived off the bar of Indian River and anchored.
A whale-boat came off with a crew of four men, steered by a
character of some note, known as the Pilot Ashlock. I transferred
self and baggage to this boat, and, with the mails, was carried
through the surf over the bar, into the mouth of Indian River
Inlet. It was then dark; we transferred to a smaller boat, and the
same crew pulled us up through a channel in the middle of Mangrove
Islands, the roosting-place of thousands of pelicans and birds that
rose in clouds and circled above our heads. The water below was
alive with fish, whose course through it could be seen by the
phosphoric wake; and Ashlock told me many a tale of the Indian war
then in progress, and of his adventures in hunting and fishing,
which he described as the best in the world. About two miles from
the bar, we emerged into the lagoon, a broad expanse of shallow
water that lies parallel with the coast, separated from it by a
narrow strip of sand, backed by a continuous series of islands and
promontories, covered with a dense growth of mangrove and
saw-palmetto. Pulling across this lagoon, in about three more
miles we approached the lights of Fort Pierce.
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