"Death in the Everglades" takes the reader back to a time and place (roughly fin-de-siecle Florida), where the state was just shedding its status as the kind of place where a barefoot mailman could be devoured by an alligator while working his route, on into the years when the super-rich decided to make the swampy, almost tropical climes their wintering destination (and while I'm not an expert on the state, I'm familiar enough with its past and present to know that once the damn Yankees found Florida and got a hold of it, they never let go).
The book loosely follows the life of a one Guy Bradley, a man who hunted birds for their rich plumage, supplying the feathers (and sometimes the entire skins of the birds) to upper-crust women back East who liked to sport the feathers in their hats. The author has a good heart and a balanced enough viewpoint to understand that chiding people who were almost starving for hunting animals (even to near-extinction) was the only way someone of limited means and education might be able to better the lot of themselves and their families. The bygone world the author illuminates is one where the feathers of ibis, egret, and heron fetched sometimes twice as much as gold, on a per ounce basis. This makes it much easier to understand why hunters were willing not only to fire at rookeries until the last bird fell from its perch, but why they sometimes turned the guns on men trying to stop them from hunting. PETA didn't exist back then, either, and the Good Ole Boys network of Crackerdom was strong enough that more than a few obvious murders were swept under the rug, and the bodies themselves ended up as chum for the sharks in the Gulf of Mexico.
Where the book doesn't quite work for me is in ever drawing a convincing picture of Guy Bradley, the game warden in question, as anything but a prop and a kind of plaster saint for the Audubon Society. The picture of the man who went from hunter to game warden is sort of piecemeal and patchwork, cobbled together from correspondence, and buttressed by too many chapters that have little to do with the man in question. He may have been a "martyr" as the book's subtitle suggests, but he may have also just been a man who got into a quarrel with another man with whom he had some bad history (who, incidentally, alleged that Guy Bradley used to take potshots at his house on occasion).
I applaud conservationists, and anyone who gives their lives in an effort to protect animals has my utmost respect. And the book has much to recommend it, with its lush descriptions of Florida's near-jungles, and its keen grasp of local history and politics adds to the flavor, but there's a big hole in the shape of Guy Bradley at the center of this short book, at least for me. He is glanced, not seen, and since he's supposed to be the soul of the book that's a bit of a problem for me.