A Corner in Glory Land

Book 1: Glory Land Novel

by Janie DeVos

Genres: Coming of Age

Synopsis

In turn-of-the-century Florida, a family comes of age, and a daughter finds her destiny entwined with a land as full of promise as it is danger.
 
The steamy, sweltering banks of Florida’s Ocklawaha River don’t look much like Glory Land to young Eve Stewart, despite her father’s proclamation. But it’s here that Eve, her three siblings, and their parents will settle in July, 1875. Within a few years, Eve’s father, Hap, has made good on his assurances. They have a large, weathered clapboard house and a comfortable life, thanks to Hap’s job on a steamboat.
Eve and her twin sister, Ivy, are blossoming into young women. Yet as Ivy grows more involved in medicine making under the tutelage of a neighboring black woman, her path leads away from the family.
 
Eve, an aspiring writer, loves her home though she longs to see the wider world beyond its swamps and shores. But when she discovers a secret Ivy’s been keeping, Eve must decide between protecting the family name or saving her sister. With the help of a half-Creek Indian tracker, Max Harjo, Eve sets out to find Ivy, beginning a journey that will dare her to follow her ambitions and her passion wherever they lead.

Release date: December 19, 2017

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 218

Sample

Acknowledgments

Writing a book is so much more than just coming up with an idea and using a whole lot of imagination to bring it to life. It takes a whole lot of people who are willing to share their own expertise, skills, and experience to make it happen. In doing research for the first book in the Glory Land series, I needed to rely on some wonderful people who could help me peel back time on an old part of Florida that was of great fascination to me: steam boating on the Ocklawaha River. It’s a part of Florida’s story that I tend to think is often overlooked, but one which I feel deserves to be remembered and appreciated for adding yet another layer of unique richness to the state’s history.

First, I’d like to thank John Beale, education and volunteer coordinator for the Florida Maritime Museum, in Bradenton, Florida. His patience and willingness in providing me with information was vital in helping me to paint an accurate and respectful picture of steam boating down Florida’s rivers.

And Astrid Drew, research and new media director of the Steamship Historical Society of America, in Warwick, Rhode Island, who was helpful in providing information on the larger vessels: steamships. Yes, there is a difference, and because of her expertise, I was quickly educated about that.

I’m very grateful to Ron Mosby, Ft. King Board of Directors member and historian, in Ocala, Florida, for the wonderful tour he gave me of the fort and for providing answers, or contacting others for the answers, about Seminole Indian life and social practices.

I’d very much like to acknowledge and thank Mr. Fred W. Wood, author and longtime resident of Evinston, Florida, who invited me to sit down in his family’s old post office/general store on a hot July afternoon and generously shared his time, memories, and stories about his family and the town that they founded.

And, many thanks to a very special lady, my sister, Kathy Johnson, who is a longtime resident and realtor in Ocala, Florida, for providing me with information on the rivers in central Florida, as well as for a personal tour of the Silver Springs area, including the Ocklawaha. It was all extremely interesting and helpful, Sis, and the addition of the milkshake didn’t hurt, either. Love to you always.

And, finally, a deep and heartfelt thank you to my wonderful, sharp-eyed editor at Kensington Publishing, Alicia Condon, who took a chance on me. To you, Alicia, I am forever grateful.

Preface

The Ocklawaha River

Silver Springs area, Central Florida

July 1875

I didn’t like the river when I first saw it. It scared me. Maybe it was because of its color, a dark greenish brown caused by the many trees that hung above and over it, staining the water with their sap, as well as shading it throughout much of the day. But, my father, Hap Stewart, saw things quite differently when we came upon it. He pulled our tired old horse to a stop on the road, which was nothing more than a sandy trail, and looked around from the wagon’s seat, breathing the air in deeply. His bright blue eyes were as excited as they were at Christmas. Mama always said he was worse than the four of us kids about the holiday, though she smiled when she said it, and I think she actually thought it was kind of sweet. But his eyes were the only part of his face that was childlike that day at the river. The dust from the road had settled into the deep lines on his face, giving him a gray, worn look, even though he was just thirty-four years old. My thirty-six-year-old mother, sitting beside him, had fared no better. The only sign that there was any youth left to them was my father’s still-bright auburn hair, a Scottish trait he was well proud of, and Mama’s blond.

“Ceily, ol’ girl,” Papa said to her, “we didn’t even have to die to do it.”

“What in the world you talkin’ about?” Mama distractedly asked. She was caught up in the sight of the enormous river before us. It curved and moved like a gigantic slithering snake, and its deep color only added to the illusion. It was a quiet river, though its flow was even and strong. Before Papa could answer Mama, my twelve-year-old brother interrupted them.

“Can we go swimming?” Joseph was already heading toward the back of the wagon, assuming the answer would be yes. He was two years older than our brother James, and three years older than my twin sister Ivy and me, and was, by far, the best swimmer out of the four of us.

As we’d traveled down into Florida from Thomasville, Georgia, we’d often taken advantage of the many rivers, lakes, and ponds we’d come across, and Joseph didn’t see any reason why this time would be different.

It had been three days since we’d last had a bath, and with the intense July heat bearing down on us, a swim sounded heavenly. But, before my anxious brother could work his way around a couple of pieces of our old furniture that blocked his way off the wagon, an enormous splash quickly turned everyone’s attention back to the river and to an area of disturbed water. It was quite obvious that something heavy had just entered. Suddenly, a small, dark gray skull covered with rough hide broke the surface. As it rose a little higher, two small black eyes appeared above the water line, too. The alligator could obviously see our family for he swam along the bank of the river with his eyes firmly rooted on us. He was in no hurry as he went on the hunt for more accessible and familiar dinner choices than any of my family members offered.

“Still wanna go swimmin’, son?” Papa smiled, amused.

“No, sir.” Joseph shook his head, eyes wide.

“Let’s go, Pa, ’fer it gets us,” I urged. I stood behind Mama, ready to climb over the backboard of the seat which separated us and into the safety of her lap if necessary.

“No, now, that gator ain’t gonna bother nothin’ that ain’t in that river with it.”

“Still, let’s go on,” James said, not taking his eyes off the reptile and edging over a little closer to me, trying to get closer to Mama, too, and hoping Joseph wouldn’t notice. James tried to emulate our older brother but most often fell short. It just wasn’t in his nature. Even I knew that at my young age. Whereas Joseph was the leap-then-look sort, James was the mulling-things-over-before-taking-the-plunge kind. I was somewhere in between. Ivy, however, wasn’t like any of the rest of us.

Though my sister and I had shared our mother’s womb, there was nothing else about us that was twin-like. As a matter of fact, I looked more like my brothers than Ivy. She looked a good bit like Papa, even though she’d inherited Mama’s nearly-white blond hair. But she had Papa’s strong, sturdy build; his cornflower blue eyes, and his rounded facial structure. My brothers and I had Mama’s leaner build, more angular facial features, and brown eyes, although James and I did have Papa’s red hair while Joseph had somehow managed to get dark brown. Even though folks thought my sister and I were quieter in nature like Mama, Ivy acted more detached than anything else. I’d heard Mama say that Ivy’s devil-may-care attitude was “either gonna save her or get her kilt, and should it be the latter, it’s safe to say that it won’t be in a very good way.”

As the rest of us watched the gator as still as statues, Ivy reached down into a large wicker basket that contained some of the morning’s leftover biscuits and threw one directly in front of the creature.

“Ivy! Don’t waste our food!” Mama scolded while James told Ivy not to bring the thing’s attention to us. But the biscuit sank, and the alligator swam on uninterrupted, obviously having larger victuals in mind.

“C’mon, Pa, let’s get out of here. Let’s find us somewheres safe to swim,” Joseph urged.

“Can’t.” Papa hopped down from the wagon seat, placed his hands in the small of his back, and did a slight back bend, stretching his travel-weary body. “We’ve finally found it, and the amazing thing is we didn’t even have to die.”

“You back to that again?” Mama, sounding slightly annoyed, took her eyes off the gator to glance over at Papa before turning her attention back to the beast. “You’re talkin’ crazy. What in the world have we found?”

“This, m’ darlin’ sweet Ceily, is what we been waiting for, dreaming, saving, and sacrificing for. This is where we’re callin’ home. Just look at this place!” He swept his arms out wide, emphasizing the wilderness around us. “We can make anything grow in this sunshine and heat, and here’s a great big beautiful river to help us do it. Family, welcome to our very own corner of Glory Land!”

“Not sure that’s what I’d call it,” Mama said, looking down at the ground by the wagon for any biting, stinging, or poisonous thing. “Lord, God, it’s hotter ’n blazes!” She jumped down and lifted her hands to me to help me down. “C’mon, Eve, honey.” But I was in no hurry to be on the ground. Instead, I took a step back, bracing myself against the inside of the wagon, shaking my head defiantly. I noticed no one else seemed to be eager to jump out of the wagon either.

Papa would have no part of squeamish women or children, however. Reaching over the side of the wagon, he lifted me up by my armpits and set me down on the ground by him. “Might as well get used to it, little girl, ’cuz this is where you’ll be livin’. Jus’ wait ’n see; we’re all gonna love it!”

“Either that or die tryin’ to,” Mama grimly stated as she spotted just the tip of a scaly tail slither into a hole beneath a palmetto bush. “And from the looks of things, I’d be willin’ to bet it’s the latter, and sooner rather ’n later.”

Chapter 1

Claimed by the River

Ocklawaha River

South of Palatka, Florida

October 1883

The snagboat had cleared most all the debris away except for one thick submerged branch. Though it was hardly visible, it was long enough to get caught in the stern’s recessed paddlewheel and bring the riverboat Jocelyn to a jolting, shuddering stop. The wooden vessel creaked as if in pain. Hurrying down the steps from the pilot house, Captain Odell Franks muttered obscenities under his breath so as not to offend his high-paying winter clientele. These lily-white, overly dressed, strange-speaking northerners were responsible for half of his yearly income. He thanked the good Lord for them but also gave thanks that he only had to serve them for half the year. I’d once overheard him telling the landing master at the Lake Weir landing that they were “stuffier ’n an attic on an August afternoon. But, at the same time, they’s chillier ’n a bass on a Janu’ry mornin’. Strange bunch, they are.” He laughed, shaking his head.

Coming alongside my father, who was the boat’s steward, I looked over the stern with him to see what was hanging us up. Captain Franks joined us. “Branch?” he inquired. When Papa confirmed that it was, the captain turned around and shouted up toward the pilot house. “Emmitt,” he addressed his colored wheelman, who stood at the door to the pilot house, a small four-sided structure that made up the third level of the boat. “I’m gonna have ya move ’er a foot or so, but hang on ’til I tell ya. First, I want your boys jumpin’ on in and havin’ a looksee. If they can jostle that thing loose, at least a little bit, the wheel might spit ’er out.”

Emmitt’s two boys were the captain’s usual deckhands. Moses Hailey was seventeen, though Papa had said more than once that he possessed the level-headedness and skills of someone much older. Louis, his brother, was a year older and different from Moses in every way. Whereas Moses was slender and quick—both in movement and mind—Louis was broad and slow. It was clear who was in charge, but Louis seemed happy enough to let Moses regularly take the lead. Moses hoped to follow in his father’s footsteps as a pilot on a riverboat one day. It was one of the most prestigious and best paying jobs a colored man could have in Florida. I heard Papa say one time that he didn’t know who was prouder of Emmitt’s position; his sons, his wife Mayoma, or dear Emmitt himself, especially given the fact that some of his family had been slaves on an indigo plantation in south central Florida. The Haileys had reason to be proud of Emmitt, and I understood how they felt. My family and I were just as proud of Papa, and the job that he did.

My father had gone from being a dirt farmer to working on a steamboat in the well-respected position of steward. Papa said he’d come to realize that he belonged on the water all along, and not in some field. He’d started out on a smaller steamboat, the Revere, soon after we’d finished building our pine clapboard house, which was set back a ways from the bank of the Ocklawaha.

Our home was two-storied with a front porch, which was considered pretty fancy, but Papa said he wanted to build the house big enough and fine enough the first time so that we’d never have to build another. My parents had a bedroom downstairs, and Ivy and I shared one of the two rooms upstairs, while our brothers shared the other. Mama wanted to paint the place white, or at least white-wash it, but there wasn’t enough money to do it after putting the window glass and screens in. Papa told Mama that Mother Nature would paint it just fine in time, and she had, only her color choice was the dull gray of constant exposure to the elements. In stark contrast to the washed-out color of our home was the color-infused cabbage palm and live oak hammock it sat in. Varying shades of green foliage were broken by the brightness of an ever-changing variety of flowers. Ancient live oaks, hung heavy with Spanish moss, swayed in gentle rhythm with the slightest breeze. And cabbage palms and sables were scattered throughout our yard, along with magnolia, sour orange, grapefruit, and tangerine trees. We figured that someone had started planting a citrus grove years before, but had given up for whatever reason. What was left were a variety of citrus trees that still looked beautiful with their white fragrant flowers in the spring. To our delight, we found that the fruit could be used in jams, jellies, and preserves as long as it was sweetened up with something, which was usually honey.

Our home was located several miles to the south of Silver Springs. It was convenient for Papa’s work, and convenient for our family, as well. Silver Springs had a well-stocked general store, catering to patrons who knew everything about everyone in the area, including who was hiring at the moment. Such was the case one morning when Papa learned that the captain of a small steamboat was taking on men.

Papa happened to be at the store buying nails and lard when the notice was posted, and after reading that the job required no experience whatsoever, he hurried down to the dock and was immediately hired on as the Revere’s new stoker. For the entire trip, he did nothing more than shovel coal into the firebox to fuel the boat’s steam. Trip after trip, from Silver Springs to Palatka, that’s all he did. It was hot, back-breaking work, but it kept the family fed, and allowed us to add eight more chickens to the four we’d brought from Thomasville, as well as a new milk cow, plus the materials needed to build a hen house and small corral for our horse and cow.

The Revere’s captain was well-seasoned and knew a good man when he saw one. Early on, it was apparent to him that Papa was a good-natured, jovial fellow, who could be put to better use working alongside the passengers instead of being hidden away in the belly of the boat. Papa was only too glad to come up on deck. He said that “feeding that furnace in the month of August, in Florida, was near ‘bout as hot as feeding the fires of hell.” Mama scolded him for saying that, but she quieted down when Papa told her that she ought to go try it herself and then say whether or not he had a right to describe it so.

As the boat’s steward, Papa’s job was to make sure that every passenger was well taken care of and comfortable. Papa was good at his job, and every captain knew it, often trying to steal him away from whatever boat he was on at the time.

Papa took extra care with the passengers who seemed most vulnerable, like the elderly and the unescorted ladies. It was a rare thing to see a woman traveling alone, although Papa said that Yankee women did it more often than Southerners. When I asked him why that was so, he said, “Southern women are given a greater sense of modesty and decorum at birth, but Yankee gals are born with a bigger sense for adventure and bigger opinions about everything, too!” I told him it sounded to me like those northern women had more exciting lives than the southern ladies did.

The majority of travelers from the north came seeking relief from the harsh winters and to see the glories of central Florida’s crystal-clear springs. By far the most popular was Silver Springs. The water had amazing clarity so its many mysterious caverns and caves could easily be seen, even those at great depths. And from those depths came many thousands of gallons of water bubbling up each day, so the spring remained full and cool and crystal clear all the time. The water filling the springs came from underground rivers, and the sandy spring bottoms, with their green ribbons of grass, filtered the water, giving it the clarity they became so famous for.

Some of the locals were none-too-pleased with the arrival of the Yankees in late autumn, especially those who brought contagious diseases, like tuberculosis, with them. Mama said it’d be bad enough to come down with one of those sicknesses living in a big city, but at least those folks had big-city doctors and big-city hospitals to tend to them. “Here, though, there ain’t nothin’ much to keep the ailin’ goin’ other than prayer and a pinch of pity,” she complained. But fears and resentments could usually be tempered by the money the northerners readily spent.

“All right, boys.” Captain Franks turned his attention from the snagged branch in the paddlewheel back to Moses and Louis, standing at the railing outside the pilot’s house. “Y’all go ahead and jump on in, but stay outta the way while your daddy’s tryin’ to move ’er a tad. Then, when I say, y’all try dislodgin’ that piece of shit—pardon me—” He quickly nodded to the fancy northern folks who stood around the promenade deck watching with great fascination. “You stay down here and watch them boys, Hap. I’ll go up to the house,” he said, referring to the pilot house.

Captain Franks knew that if any damage occurred, there would be less explaining to do and less hell to pay if he’d been at the helm at the time. When the captain started to mount the ladder-style steps, Moses and Louis ducked beneath the railing and dove into the foreboding water with practiced ease. Even though it was noon and the land was lit by the sun’s strongest light, the rays barely penetrated the water, and with the darkness of the boys’ skin, the two disappeared below the surface as if they’d been swallowed whole by some monstrous open mouth.

They surfaced and quickly swam toward the bank, well out of the way of the paddlewheel; then Emmitt tried to back the boat up a couple of feet. A terrible grinding noise accompanied the slight movement, and the boat was immediately stilled. “A’right, you boys,” Captain Franks yelled down to them. “Give ’er a try. See if y’all can get that bastard—pardon me”—he nodded again at the northerners and turned back to the boys—“outta there. At least see if she’ll budge any with a little encouragement.”

Both boys took a deep lungful of air, then disappeared below the surface. Soon scraping and knocking sounds could be heard coming from beneath the boat. Suddenly, the branch—whose size had undoubtedly been reduced some by its interaction with the paddle wheel—popped up to the surface like a bobbing cork. The boys each grabbed an end and dogpaddled with it to the bank, where Moses dragged it up and well out of the way of any other unsuspecting vessels. The two swam back to the boat and climbed up a rope ladder that Papa dropped to them. As soon as they were back on board, my father gave the house the all clear signal, and the freed paddlewheel began to turn and churn the water into thick white foam as a resounding cheer went up from the passengers. The Jocelyn was underway once again toward her home port of Silver Springs.

Chapter 2

Bee Stings

“Only eighty-three seconds late.” Satisfied with the boat’s arrival time considering the hold up from the snag, Captain Franks snapped the cover on his gold pocket watch closed, tucked it back in his navy-blue vest pocket, then climbed down from the pilot house. As the steamboat’s engine was shut down, allowing the boat to drift the last several feet toward the dock, Moses and Louis threw lines from the bow and stern to two men on the dock, who tossed the looped ends over vertical log pilings.

At Silver Springs landing and general store, folks were always milling around to see if any work might be available, and there was a constant flow of people coming and going on the boats. Many of those arriving needed to be driven somewhere, like the town of Ocala, which was just six miles to the east, or the Silver Springs Hotel, as well as a smattering of private dwellings. And waiting for the opportunity to serve them all were local drivers in buggies and wagons of all sorts and descriptions, lined up in the shade of a stand of oak trees just to the right of the white, two-storied building that was the store. With eagle eyes, the waiting drivers scanned the new arrivals as they made their way down the docks, watching for hands to shoot up in the air, hailing a ride. Then the first driver to spot the signal shot forward in his conveyance. . .