The Audubon Warden

By Charles LeBuff

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries the plume birds of Florida were in peril. Their valuable feathers were used in the international millinery trade and their extinction was imminent. A cadre of dedicated Audubon Society wardens helped to slow their destruction. Among them were the martyrs of early wildlife conservation, Guy Bradley and Columbus McCleod. Both of these men died in the line of duty protecting plume birds in South Florida. This book is based on what came after those tragedies, when a new generation of protectors picked up the conservation torch. It is nearly twenty-five years later, during a national period of economic hardship that this story unfolds in Southwest Florida. The early 1930s were a time when hard-working people were forced to live off the land. Some, like maladjusted Pug Wilson, were extremely dangerous.
Wilson threatens Jake Barnes, a successful tarpon fishing guide who changes his career path when he accepts a position as an Audubon warden. As a sworn lawman he is charged to protect birds and other wildlife. Despite serious threats on his life, Jake is determined to carry on his important work. In The Audubon Warden Jake Barnes deals with his loving, but sometimes mentally unstable wife, his dangerous livelihood, and interactions with callous outlaws during the time of the Great Depression.
The Audubon Warden brings the hard and perilous work of a Florida Audubon warden to life. Once again, Charles LeBuff captures his knowledge of Southwest Florida’s history, environment, and wildlife conservation. He writes about an important and ruthless era in a clear and easily understood narrative.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles LeBuff
• Release date: Dec 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463490747

Charles LeBuff

Charles LeBuff launched his writing career in 1951 with the publication of a note in a herpetological journal. Later in the 50s he published papers on Florida snakes and crocodilians. He started a federal career with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service at its Red Tide Field Investigation Laboratory in Naples, Florida, in 1956. In 1958 Charles transferred to Sanibel Island after accepting the number two position on what then was known as the Sanibel National Wildlife Refuge. He and his family would remain on Sanibel Island for 47 years. During his time on that barrier island he completed a 32-year career as a wildlife technician with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, retiring in 1990. During Charles’ federal tenure he and his wife and two children lived at the Sanibel Lighthouse for nearly 22 years During that time it was headquarters for the refuge (renamed J. N. “Ding” Darling National Wildlife Refuge in 1967).In 1961, Charles was elected president of the Sanibel-Captiva Audubon Society and in 1967 he was a founding board member of the Sanibel-Captiva Conservation Foundation. He is the last surviving member of that founder group. In 1968, as an avocation, he formed a loggerhead sea turtle conservation organization known as Caretta Research, Inc., and headed that group until 1991. Charles received the first sea turtle permit issued by the State of Florida in 1972, STP-001, and he held it for 40 years. In the decades of the 70s and 80s he published many works on the biology and conservation of sea turtles. By the mid-70s the Sanibel-based organization included most all of the sea turtle nesting beaches along the Florida gulf coast. Today’s successful sea turtle conservation efforts on the beaches of Southwest Florida evolved from Charles LeBuff’s pioneering work.He was elected as a charter member of the first Sanibel City Council and served as a councilman from 1974 to 1980. Charles began writing seriously after his 1990 retirement from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and that year his book The Loggerhead Turtle in the Eastern Gulf of Mexico was published. This is now out-of-print, but has been replaced by an updated eBook, The Sea Turtles of Southwest Florida. The most successful of his early commercial books is his historical autobiography, Sanybel Light (a revised edition is available as an eBook). His most recent published work in paper is Amphibians and Reptiles of Sanibel and Captiva Islands, Florida, a book coauthored with Chris Lechowicz (2014). In 2013 he and Sanibellian Deb Gleason coauthored Sanibel and Captiva Islands, which was published by Arcadia Publishing, in March, 2013. This pictorial book is part of their Postcard History Series. His earlier Arcadia book, J. N. “Ding” Darling National Wildlife Refuge, details the history of this popular wildlife refuge, and was published in 2011. In 2004 he published The Calusan, a historical novel with Southwest Florida as its theme. The Calusan is out of print, but is available as an eBook. His Everglades Wildlife Barons is a biography about the legendary brothers, Bill and Lester Piper of Bonita Springs. This is a popular paper book (also in eBook format) about the Pipers and their Everglades Wonder Gardens that closed after nearly 77 years of operation in Bonita Springs, Florida, in early 2013. It was recently sold by the extended Piper family and has recently reopened in a different mode. In 2015 he released the first in an eBook trilogy, Fearsome is the Fakahatchee. This is a modern crime novel that is a spin-off from The Calusan. Fearsome is the Fakahatchee unfolds in and around Naples, Florida. The second eBook in this trilogy, Lake Trafford Sniper, has recently been released. The third, and final book in the series, is expected in mid-2016.In his retirement Charles continues a busy lecture schedule and writes. Currently he is also working on a book dealing with the American crocodile in Florida; carefully balancing his time between the two active writing projects he has underway. His hobbies include wildlife photography, replication of Calusa Indian artifacts, and wildlife-oriented wood carving. Charles also manages to get out in the field to engage in python-hunting from time to time.

Book preview

Prologue

In 1823 a large part of the land and water of the southern Florida peninsula became the sixth county in the Territory of Florida. Named Monroe County, it included what would later become a number of smaller political subdivisions. The counties Broward, Collier, Dade, Glades, Hendry, Lee, Palm Beach, and some of Charlotte were originally all parts of Monroe County.

In 1887 Lee County was formed from Monroe County by the Florida legislature with the City of Fort Myers as its county seat. The city had been incorporated in 1885. Three-hundred-fifty residents called Fort Myers home at that time.

Prior to incorporation the town was first the site of a military fort during two Seminole wars and the Civil War. Its economy was based on agriculture, timber, cattle, and fishing. Over time, and especially after the arrival of the railroad in 1904, the economic base began to shift. The comfortable winter climate and sport fishing attracted an increasing stream of newcomers and winter visitors. Some recent arrivals contributed to the orderly evolution of Southwest Florida’s growth and quality of life. Others took advantage of the environmental riches they discovered in this wild corner of the United States.

With the onset of the Great Depression in 1929, many Lee County citizens found it difficult to eke out a living by 1932. Without work some found themselves so destitute they migrated north, hoping to find jobs. Others hung on and basically lived off the land. The latter put pressure on natural resources, and one man in Fort Myers becomes responsible for protection of migratory birds and other native wildlife. This individual was Audubon Warden Jake Barnes. He was authorized to enforce the federal and state regulations that were developed to protect those assets. Thus, with this background, this fictional story begins…

1

Jake Barnes sat in deep thought, pondering issues in his personal life, while others seated at the table spoke on a variety of subjects.

Jake was one of four men, all law-enforcement officers, who were meeting over breakfast at Mae’s Café, a popular Fort Myers eatery. Three of the four were uniformed and represented two law enforcement agencies. Jake was not wearing a uniform. His clothing could be classified as uniform-like because he habitually dressed in similar tight-fitting blue jeans and a blue chambray long-sleeved work shirt. This morning he wore his revolver and his badge. Without the badge he might otherwise be mistaken for a cowhand.

Jake’s thoughts had drifted to a more serious subject than that of the others. They had spent breakfast casually discussing their views on the national political climate.

Two men rose to say their goodbyes. They were Florida Traffic Inspectors, forerunners of the Florida Highway Patrol. Trooper Ralph Thompson quickly tried to end a conversation he had been engaged in with Lee County Deputy Sheriff Phil Chase. Chase remained seated across the table from Jake.

The trooper continued as he got up to leave. Phil, I need to add something before John and I get on the road. You’ve admitted this morning that you’re a Democrat, and since this is 1932 and a presidential election year I think you indicated—without actually saying it—that you’re rooting for the Democratic candidate Franklin Roosevelt to win over President Herbert Hoover.

Hell yes, I am. This country’s in one hell of a fix and I believe Roosevelt will straighten it out.

Trooper Thompson responded, I enjoyed our discussion and I just want you to know that I’m in agreement. Y’all take care.

Phil waved goodbye and after turning his head to face Jake he said, Where exactly is that head of yours this morning, buddy? You never opened your mouth to get a word in and that’s weird. What the hell are you thinking about?

"I heard down to the docks first thing this morning that Pug Wilson gets turned aloose from the jail today. I was at his trial because I was the arresting officer, and he was to serve a total of a hundred-eighty days—that was his full sentence. Walt Joiner—you know him, he’s the chief bailiff—told me that Pug’s sorry attitude and behavior was what kept him incarcerated for the whole six months. Pug’s not one to bend to any kind of authority. Most others I’ve carried to the jail have had enough sense to calm down and adjust. Then usually the length of their jail time is cut for good behavior. Not Pug Wilson. No sir.

He swore he’d kill me the day I arrested him. He told me that again the same day when I carried him to Fort Myers and booked him at the jail. I’ve took his threat serious and I’ll start looking over my shoulder. Lately, I’ve started to wish I had eyes in the back of my head.

Phil Chase broke in. That’s a damn good attitude. You need to watch out, Jake. You best start carrying your sidearm all the time, too.

Oh, I am, I am. As Pug’s stretch dwindled out I gave those words of his my primary consideration. I’m well aware that vengeful threats by someone of such low character can’t be shrugged off. Hell, I’ve taken them all serious and so far I’m still walking and working.

Chase, seated across the large round oak table, was an old friend of Jake’s. He was close to Jake in age and physical appearance. Unlike his friend, Phil was balding and a little overweight. He decided it was best if he stopped opinionating to give Jake the chance to continue talking. He knew that Jake liked to talk.

The old table had long ago lost its finish. It was sort of the local community’s furniture and used seven days a week by prominent local clientele. Mae’s Café was a favorite meeting place for politicians and other officials who enjoyed sharing meals and conversations. Notables like Thomas Edison, Henry Ford, and Harvey Firestone were regular patrons of the family-style restaurant on Bay Street when they over-wintered in Fort Myers. They routinely populated this very table.

The deputy carefully raised his refreshed heavy mug of black coffee from the table with both hands. He pursed his lips, and blew onto the cup’s steaming surface. Jake had not resumed the conversation, so after hesitating Phil took a cautious sip, licked his lips, and continued to comment on the matter, Jake, you’d best take what Pug told you as gospel truth. He’s a sore loser and I know from experience how vindictive the man can be. He’s dangerous. Remember that time he gut-cut that fisherman over on Captiva at Andy’s Dock? The guy was brought to town by islanders but they just barely got him to the hospital in time. It was nip and tuck but the doctor used all his skills and saved the old man’s life. I think we’ll one day have a resident deputy out there on them islands but I’m the one that worked that case. I had to go out to the islands by myself and find and arrest Pug. Once I got there—that’s a long story in itself—it took me three days to run him down. He threatened me then, too.

I remember hearing about that episode. I think if you step back and consider the source... simply put, Pug just can’t help himself. He’s really a victim of his times... he’s a throwback to the way things worked around here last century. Some men—and a few women—who were raised like Pug can’t ever be tamed. I learned about his background from talking with others who’ve known him long-term. Life hasn’t been easy for him.

Phil Chase interrupted, Oh, hell, Jake, that’s just an excuse a lot of these old boys use. They wave around their woeful tale about a poor and mistreated childhood. His likes are no account from the get-go. In Pug’s case his daddy was just about as bad-ass as he is. The old man was killed about ten years ago by a pistol-packing drunk coworker at one of the fish houses up in Pine Island Sound across from Captiva Pass.

Jake Barnes rose off his chair and stretched to his full six-foot height while running his right hand through his wavy brown hair. Gray was showing on his temples. I’d best get out and about and start my day, Phil. Talking with you this morning over breakfast has been enlightening, to say the very least. Lord, if this old table could only talk. Can you imagine the stories it could tell?

Don’t you know it. Just be careful, Jake. Where’re you headed today?

"I’ve got to run the Spoonbill down to Punta Rassa and check out a complaint that someone—probably a rich Yankee tarpon fisherman—who was staying there telegraphed up to our office in Maitland. Apparently there’s been some night shooting going on at the Kitchell’s Key rookery. Later today, I’ve got to schedule a personal interview with a Sunday feature writer at the newspaper for one day this week. He wants to do a story about me and what I do."

Phil smiled and responded. Good, it’s about time you got some coverage about what you do and how important it is.

Jake stepped away from the table, voiced his goodbye to his breakfast companion and as he turned away toward the door, he nodded and spoke to the other regular customers he knew. He then put on his broad-brimmed straw hat, walked through the door, and began the ten-minute walk to the city dock where his patrol boat waited.

Grinning, Phil Chase continued talking and his loud voice followed Jake out the door, Well, you have a safe day, Jake. You watch out for that crazy Pug. Keep your powder dry.

~ ~ ~

"Good morning, Warden Barnes." A ruddy-faced portly gentleman spoke as Jake Barnes returned to the dock where he had moored his boat earlier in the morning at the break of dawn.

Hey, Gaddy how’s it going for you this morning?

Oh, I’m doing OK, I reckon, but I’ve got to talk to you about something.

What’s on your mind?

I don’t want to upset you, sir, but Bob asked me to ask you about your fuel bill. He says it hasn’t been paid in nearly ninety days. That new model 344 Evinrude must be drinking gas by the drum, he says.

When Bob gets in for work you tell that numbers man that he’s right. That new 40-horsepower motor is damn sure thirsty. I’ll give my office up in Maitland a call and see what the holdup is. He hasn’t cut off our credit yet, has he?

Oh, hell no. No sir... well, not yet anyways.

That’s good to know. Please top off both my tanks. I’ve got to head down to Punta Rassa this morning and I’ll need to run up in the south end of Matlacha Pass after that. I’ll fill up again when I come back in this evening. I’d best have full tanks if Bob should all of a sudden decide to cancel my credit account.

Yes, sure enough, Warden Barnes.

2

The surface of the Caloosahatchee was almost like glass as Jake, in the Spoonbill, moved out into the wide river. Dark but clean freshwater bound for the estuary flowed downstream assisted by an ebbing tide. This current would provide some benefit to his speed. Jake eased off the throttle a little for fuel economy. Later, once the summer rainy season engaged, a steady torrent of dark tannin colored freshwater would speed downriver. On normal tidal ranges, as brackish water flows eastward up the Caloosahatchee it reaches a point just east of downtown Fort Myers. It is here where the water becomes classified as fresh—legally—but not technically. The railroad trestle crossing the river marks a manmade but invisible boundary that legally delineates the fresh from the saltwater for fishing license requirements.

Jake’s patrol vessel was a custom-made wooden clinker-built watercraft and twenty feet in overall length. Her design was excellent for handling rolling seas, chop, and poling over still shallows. It was built by the famed Daniels Brothers Boatyard in Fort Myers and was gifted to the Audubon Society by a wealthy member. Jake had named her the Spoonbill when she was launched. Overall the Spoonbill was an excellent skiff for the estuarine shallows and the deeper Intercoastal Waterway that Jake regularly navigated. She was fast and dependable. The only negative aspect related to the craft and the only issue ever expressed by Jake was that her outboard motor was too loud. When he ran the Spoonbill at high speed you could hear him coming!

The trip downriver was smooth and without incident. Perfect weather with clear skies would enhance the fourteen-mile trip. There was not much boat traffic for him to contend with other than some commercial vessels returning to their home port of Fort Myers. This included shrimp boats that were riding low in the water. Their holds, ice-filled when they departed the downtown shrimp docks, were now filled to the brim with valuable shrimp. These were harvested out in the offshore Sanibel Grounds. Boats would keep trawling in the Gulf of Mexico until they filled their hulls with shrimp or were close to exhausting their ice supply. That must not happen. The shrimp had to be kept iced for the duration—from catch to unloading at the shrimp docks.

As he approached his destination, Jake thought, I believe I’d best take a quick look at Kitchell’s Key before I get to Punta Rassa. The two places are only about a half-mile apart.

Jake stood up to better read the water depth. The brackish water appeared to have hues of green as its most basic color, shades varying depending on depth. The water was not perfectly clear because suspended solids hung in the water column, under the influence of the tide. Submerged meadows of dense turtle grass were bent in relationship to the tide’s direction. Their undulating movement forced by the strong current and the reflection of sunlight further shifted the tint of the shallows. Experience helped Jake accurately judge how far the bottom was below him.

Interspersed with the seagrass were protruding oyster bars crowned by a thickness of the sharp-shelled bivalves. The occasional sections of white sand bottom were void of vegetation or visible bivalves. The oysters must be avoided—they can severely damage an expensive propeller. The kaleidoscope of reflections and color over which he moved had to be read correctly.

He eased back further on the power, coming to a near idle—just enough momentum to maneuver as he steered the Spoonbill across these somewhat hazardous perimeter obstacles that surrounded the island. The tide had fallen to a point about halfway between high and low. With a little care and luck I won’t have to pole, Jake thought as he continued to pick his way carefully over the shoals.

He did not want to get too close to the mangroves. This was the beginning of the breeding season, and a variety of colonial nesting birds were building nests, incubating eggs, feeding nestlings, or loafing on the dense mangroves. This included anhingas, white ibis, little blue and tricolored herons, brown pelicans, cormorants, and great and snowy egrets. All were among the species Jake was sworn to protect. He could not stay long. To do so could have serious negative effects on the rookery’s inhabitants. Avian apprehension of the boat’s approach caused hundreds to become airborne. They were further frightened when a boat stopped too close, fully inside their comfort zone.

Kitchell’s Key was owned by the state of Florida and somewhat circular. It consisted of mostly fringing red mangrove but out among the center of these poked a canopy of taller black mangroves. Some of the black mangroves were skeletal in appearance because most of the mature trees were dead. They were killed by standing saltwater that was left in what was once a shallow depression at the island’s center. The flooding occurred during the passage of the terrible hurricane of 1926.

Since that hurricane, the rate of erosion increased and any soil ringing the depression was disappearing. A combination of saltwater flooding and rainfall had suffocated the pencil-like roots, the pneumataphores, which protrude into the air from the muddy bottom for the plant’s gas exchange system. Several of these dead remnants had hosted resting magnificent frigate birds until the Spoonbill’s intrusion. These birds were now airborne and circling above the rookery island. They skillfully picked up rising thermals, and without really using their wings they steadily gained altitude. As the group spiraled they continued to rise while looking down at the intruder. Both sexes gracefully soared in the air currents. A few mature males, their red throats visible, were among them. The frigatebirds merely rested on such mangrove keys. They did not nest in Southwest Florida.

Jake systematically scanned the tall treetops with his binoculars. I’ll be gone to hell. There’s a dead man o’ war dangling from a tree. If some dumb-ass was shooting here after dark trying to hit some curlews he probably caught that bird snoozing and hit it unintentionally. No reason on earth for someone to shoot one of those dandies on purpose.

Once back in deeper water Jake headed for Punta Rassa. This community was once a thriving seaport where up to twenty-five-thousand head of Florida scrub cattle were shipped annually to Cuba, after the Civil War. It was also a strategic station for international communications. In 1866 a submarine telegraph cable was installed. It extended from the port to Cuba, and in 1898 the news about the sinking of the USS Maine in Havana’s harbor first reached the U.S. mainland at Punta Rassa.

In the late 1800s the hamlet became a hub for a growing number of tarpon sports fishermen. These men and women sought the hard-to-catch fish in the passes between the nearby barrier islands. The community’s first and second commercial hotels had burned down—the latter, and the last, in 1913.

A major hurricane in 1926 destroyed the port’s infrastructure and it never regained its viability. There were limited accommodations for tarpon fishers, and that seasonally increased the community’s population. A few private cottages or spare rooms in homes were available. A small marina provided guide and boat rental services, but they were decidedly incapable of meeting the demand, which could be extreme at times. A few commercial fishing huts built by squatters were located at the northern end of the point of land. The weathered piling home of the late King of the Crackers was conspicuous on the Punta Rassa waterfront. In 1928 the Kinzie Brothers Steamship Line purchased land and built dockage to create a landing for their new automobile ferry service to Sanibel Island.

Jake tossed a line to the waiting red-headed dockmaster. He was standing on the pier’s deck poised with outstretched arms. The young man caught the rope and wrapped it around a wharf cleat to help get the Spoonbill snug and secure to the dock. Jake, in a friendly mood, spoke to him, Good morning, Leroy. How’s your day working out so far?

Hey, Warden Barnes. I’m just dandy, thank you. How are you doing? What brings you to Punta Rassa today?

I’m supposed to meet up with a man by the name of Danforth—a Mr. Powell Danforth. I was told to be here and meet with him this morning. But, I don’t know where he’s staying. Do you happen to know where I might find him? This kid knows everybody here and everything about what’s going on.

Yes, sir I know Mr. Danforth. He and his wife are staying in one of the Crumpler cottages. That man is a tarpon-fishing fool. And, he’s a big tipper, too. I sure hope he stays around here for a while longer.

Do you know which one... which cottage, Leroy?

Yes, sir, I sure do. As he pointed he continued, It’s the little sky-blue one over yonder. He didn’t arrange for a guide today and I haven’t seen them yet this morning. They’re probably still inside.

Thanks, son. I’ll be back directly. Please keep an eye on my boat.

Jake stepped up to the landing of the sky-blue cottage. The main door was open but a fine-meshed screen door covered the opening. This same type of bronze screen covered each single-hung window of the building, and all were open. This was sandfly protective screening, a necessity along the Southwest Florida coast. These pests, along with their biting brethren, the saltmarsh mosquitoes and yellow flies, sometimes made life miserable. Jake could smell the repellent insect powder burning inside the cottage as its familiar odor wafted through each screen.

He knocked and waited.

Seconds later, a middle-aged woman dressed in a white blouse and long blue skirt came to the door. She spoke through the screen. Good morning. How may I help you?

Good morning Ma’am. I’m Warden Barnes. I have an appointment this morning to speak with Mr. Danforth. Is he in?

She looked Jake over carefully and immediately her eyes drifted to the bronze badge above the left pocket of his light blue cotton long-sleeved shirt. He looked authentic.

Why, yes, he is, and he’s expecting you. I’m Mildred Danforth. Please come in, officer. The lady pushed the screen door open and Jake stepped inside.

~ ~ ~

Pug Wilson smiled as he walked out the main door of the Lee County Jail. He was a free man after being cooped up in that black hole loony bin for one-hundred-eighty days. He no longer wore the county uniform of black and white stripes. His personal belongings had been stored in a brown paper bag for the duration of his stay. Today he wore the same attire he had when he walked in handcuffed. He was dressed with an old handed-down blue work-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. They had been laundered, courtesy of the Lee County Sheriff. His footwear was also his—nearly worn-out and badly scuffed-up brogans.

His attire was incomplete. Once he got to his boat he would change clothes and get one of his prize possessions to wear—a very special cap. Pug was going out on the town and he wanted to look his best.

It was a baseball cap. It was not your everyday run-of-the-mill ball cap. This one had some history.