Chapter Three

 

 

 Saint Julians River 

 Copyright Bill Gallagher

Tampa Florida 

Deming New Mexico

 

 

  3.




     This is the Obscene World Of Flesh.       
     Here reside animated machines made of sun and rain and dirt.  Combined and recombined, broken down to pieces, refined, again, energy flowing to the future in wondrous self assembly.  This magical mix, powered by other dimensional forces, and possessing a physical memory of monstrous proportion, facilitates the Creators presence in this reality.  The Creator is an Engine of Construction, a coded vortex program penetrating the World Of Light.
       The Creator Is You.
       Creation is your purpose.  It is what you do.  Your being is a powered balance, a crux among the worlds, dependent on the magnificent machine which is your body, you author true moments within the infinite possible dimensions.  As long as you last you create reality in the World Of Light.  
     You are here so The Creator can be here.  
     It cannot be more simply defined.
      Reality being what it is, many times conflict occurs, there is an uneven melding where forces collide, death happens.  And things wear out.  Deadly mistakes are really just deadly moments, unavoidable, they are the point where an organism, an engine, stops creating.  There is not really an end to Lifes force though, Lifes memory.  The Creator does not end.  
     Imagine yourself as a very slow reflection of the sun, light being further converted to finer and finer forms, through you, before finally being cast back into space, into infinity, a reflected energy helix so intricate it cannot be imagined, ceasing only when all light is collected into one point, again.  This is much easier to understand in the other world, not such a struggle to see as it is here.  The other world has its charms, its PERSPECTIVE, but it is not the World Of Light.  In this physical reality, the World Of Light, everything is literally made of light, even matter is made of light, it is pure pure energy, a concentrated form of energy, densely constructed electromagnetic fields with self assembling properties.  Tight Light.  High Order.  Perhaps the most finely derived coherent form of matter is light, its milieu both playground and classroom for Id Entities.
     Identities.  
     Souls.  
     Pain is fleet, but Identity is Forever.
      One of the men in the surveyors group had been lost, as an engine he was irretrievably broken, his identity was no longer secured to physical reality because his body was no longer capable of creating moments.  He had unwittingly walked right into a hunting camp of Seminoles, all adult males, and one of them shot him in his heart without thinking.   These were not the civilized Seminoles from around Fort Brooke, oh no.  These were WILD Seminoles, Johnny had seen the difference very quickly, and the other men already knew.  These wild Seminoles were hostile combatants, unashamed of using their enemies technology against them, proud of it in fact.  Defiant, and very easy to pull a trigger.  Death Wish.
      The soldier who the indians shot discharged his weapon upon being struck by the enemy ball, but shot wild.  His name was Roger Wolfe, yet another casualty in the seemingly endless drama of violence and conquest which so far has been the human condition.  Rifleman Wolfes hunting partner was with his body now, and quick time would be made to achieve a field funeral for the fallen man.  There would be a mass grave burial for the Seminoles.   
      Dead Roger Wolfes hunting partner,  Charles Holloway, had been walking nearby but out of sight of the Seminoles when Wolfe had been shot to death.  Holloway sniped the enemy camp, knocking down one of the Seminoles, who did not get back up.  He drew fire to himself, but was able to dodge behind a large pine tree and reload.  He took another of the Seminoles with his second shot, killed him outright.  Two more men,  Captain Matthew Gilmour and Rifleman Shane Paruche arrived then and the shooting became regular and calculated and deadly.  Each of the men comprising the survey crew, from the Captain down, had fired thousands of balls just during the last few years, and every soldier made practice on a regular basis.  Lead was cheap, flint was free, and powder was made to be used before the dampness got to it.  The Seminole who unthinkingly shot Rifleman Roger Wolfe had rained destruction down upon his own head, and the heads of his tribesmen.  The Hounds Of Hell.  Rome reborn twenty centuries old.   
      The five Seminoles passing by Johnny Prestwicks position at the wagons had been fleeing the scene, but ran into a deadly hornets nest instead.   Johnny had gotten his two, and the three men in the Captains group had come up undetected from behind, 3 Seminoles 3 Musket Balls.  The. Obscene. World. Of. Flesh.  There was a total of 11 Seminoles.  Their physical loss was total.
      If it had been up to the Seminoles it would have been the other way around.
      Military training and equipment are Very Serious Things in the land of the predator, and are not to be scoffed at.  The more wealthy a nation, the greater its military.  There is no recourse but force.  It is the law of this land, and always has been.  Any propaganda to the contrary is without foundation.  Events speak louder than words, and events have been in the very least repetitive, if not redundant.  Even banal.
      It was thought by the United States military that there were less than 5000 Seminoles in the entire state of Florida, but many of those were considered hostile because massacres of European settlers were known to happen with some regularity.  It was why the military was here, it was a true state of war.  Add the fact that this was the SECOND Seminole Indian War, and one may see that not only was the military established throughout all of Florida, but it now had some years of experience to draw upon, too.   According to the Second Treaty, Seminoles either had to go west, or stay on their reservation in the Everglades.  The Second Seminole Indian War was enforcement of that.   The well established military and a burgeoning industry up north allowed consolidation of the Union to proceed at a frenetic pace, and so it did.    
      The Captain said it most eloquently as the seven remaining surveyors stood around the grave of their fallen comrade:    
      "We must try our hardest to bring about about a better world, even though our mistakes sometimes lead us astray.  Action is superior to rest, in the World Of Light.  Time is not to be wasted.  There will be plenty of time for rest and darkness later."  
      Without thinking Johnny said "Amen", and the rest of the men repeated it, several emphatically.     
      During the burial of the indians it was noted that at least 2 of the "Indians" were really Negroes, escaped slaves.  Johnny had met Negroes in his life, they seemed somewhat childlike, full of enjoyment whenever they could create it, in spite of the world at large.   They were a large part of early America whether they, or anyone else, liked it or not.  Johnny had never really been able to comprehend slavery, though it was well established in the world, and had been for many thousands of years.  The slaves were coming far fast he thought.  From a stone age hunting culture to guns and industrial machines and motors in one generation.  The indians too.  The ones that lived.  Everyone was in for a short wild ride, and the best one could hope for was to prolong the ride, get the most out of their penny.  Those dead Seminoles and Negroes, their ride was over, their penny was up.  Roger Wolfes was too.    
 
 
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      Camp was vacated early the next morning.  The remaining 7 men were on their way north again, though not as light hearted as they had been just the day before.   A large stone from the river was placed on the grave of Rifleman Roger Wolfe, and the Captain noted the exact location of the grave in the survey journal, for future reference, in case it became necessary to retrieve the body later.   The Seminole Indians grave had been left unmarked near a very large oak tree.   
       All the men were glad to leave this place of death.  The natural beauty of the area was hidden now behind a pall of morbid haziness, created inside their minds, fabricated by themselves from dread and superstition, obscuring their vision from the inside out.  A dis-ease.  This pall of dread hanging over the troops would pass, but it would forever be renewed too.     
      Peoples memories generally sort themselves with the more pleasant to the front, and the less pleasant to the rear, a saving grace.   
      About middle day the group came upon a clear spring which literally bubbled out of the earth to form a small pond below it.  The men stopped to take a rest, and to refresh the horses.    Johnny had a moment so he walked a sandy area around the edge of the pond, and he began to see flakes of stone.  He let his eyes adjust a little to the shade created by some large oaks, which grew to fantastic size near these Florida water sources.  The moss was thick in these old oaks, it looked like long gray wizards beards.  When dried this moss was a good usable commodity as cushion stuffing.
       Johnny could hear some kind of far distant but rhythmic knocking noise, he wondered what it could be.  He was startled by the thought that perhaps the noises were native drums announcing the deaths of comrades....but this line of thinking was foolishness, it was not possible, and besides the knock knock knocking did not sound like drums at all, though he could not really say what it might be.   Johnny began to search the sandy area above the waters edge.  It was not long before he found another beautiful spearpoint for his collection, a collection which was growing fast and becoming almost cumbersome.   This point was pink and glass-like, about as long as his palm was wide.  He held it up to a ray of light streaming down through the oak trees.  The stone glowed translucent.  Amazing.
      Johnny had thought himself alone, and was slightly disturbed to hear a low whistle from about ten feet away, even though it was a whistle of appreciation.  He turned and looked behind himself to see Matthew Gilmour standing there, he'd been going somewhere and had walked by as Johnny held the spearpoint up to the sunlight.  Johnny felt chagrin at his secret being discovered, but immediately thought better of it.  This was The Captain, if anyone could appreciate these stone works of art for what they were it was The Captain.   The Captain waited expectantly.
      "They are weapons from a time before..."  Johnny knew it sounded funny but it was the truth.  He held the spearpoint out to Captain Gilmour, who walked forward and took the artifact of stone with what could only be called reverence.   He observed it closely, a Hmmph here, an Ah there, as was his way, then handed it back to Johnny.   The men looked each other in the eyes and a spark of understanding  passed between them, there were no words, and there did not have to be.  The spearhead spoke volumes to people who understood certain things.  The necessity of eating.  The wild, unbridled planet, with all its beasts, and what it takes to live here.  Volumes.   
       Johnny began to tell the Captain of his discovery and exploitation of these tradeable and perhaps even saleable works of art which he had seen no where else in all his travels.  His Grandpa had taken him hunting birds out in the harvested fall fields of his home state, and there had been found arrowheads of a sort, but crude, chunky, and made from grey and brown materials mostly.  These were still dutifully collected, because they were interesting and could be used in trade among some men.     
      "These Florida agate spearheads are the most well made and colorful types I have ever come across," finished Johnny.
      "Well John Prestwick," said the Captain, "Thanks very much for the instruction, and perhaps I will be able to repay in kind one day soon."  The Captains eyes were already scanning the sand below their feet for shards, as Johnny had explained.   
 
      
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     After lunch, which consisted of strong coffee, some bread made from cornmeal, and the last of 2 smoked turkeys, things lightened up among the men a little.  Already blessed forgetfulness was blanketing their minds, helping them look forward to what might be, and away from what was.  The knocking sounds, though sporadic, continued, and got progressively louder as they traveled north.  Johnny began smelling odors he associated with Tampa Bay, but Tampa was at least 100 miles south of them now.  What he was smelling was the Gulf Of Mexico.  After leaving Tampa they had followed a road which roughly paralleled the sea-like gulf, but that road had kept them inland 30 or more miles.  Now this same long road was coming closer to the gulf, and would eventually end near the mouth of the Esteenhatchee River.
    Finally the survey group came into a clearing, and off to the left was the open blue of the Gulf of Mexico.  There was only the slightest chop on the surface of the water, along with a chilly onshore breeze which rustled all the fronded plants, making sounds like slithery canastas.  Seagulls dipped and swung here and there.   In spite of the sounds from the Gulf, the knocking noises which Johnny had been hearing all afternoon were now very loud.  Everyone else seemed either oblivious, or took the knockings for granted, which meant they knew what they were.  Either way they were not afraid and Johnny thought it in his best interest to play it close, and let things unfold in their due course.
     Within 15 minutes the road along the gulf became a Shell Covered Road, very nice.  Civilization!  All around Florida were many thousands of huge indian trash piles consisting of shells left over from an immense shell fishery.  When hauled off and used to pave roads this shell was superior in strength and drainage.  Sometimes after a rain, and if one looked, pieces of pottery and even bones were also evident among the shell hauled in to pave the roads, but all was quickly ground to dust by the big wagon wheels that traveled the ways.
    The knocking noises had ceased abruptly just a few minutes before.  As the group rounded a last turn in the road it quickly became obvious to John Prestwick what all that was about: part of a fairly large boat yard lie right before them, on the edge of a wide dark slow moving river.  The boatyard took up spots on both banks, north and south, and several different kinds of craft were being repaired and even built.    One of the workers saw the group and hailed it, waving his hat and hollering.  The others saw the activity and joined him.  Johnny looked at the Captain and he was smiling.  The other men were smiling too.  Then, a loud boom off to their right.  A cannon! Civilization indeed.  From the sound of the cannon report the fort was up the river about a mile, and probably on the other side.  This was proven to be a correct assessment.
     Upon entering the boatyard the men milled about shaking hands and it was easy to see that this had happened before.  Many of the men knew each other from times past.  As the introductions and greetings were made the entire group moved toward the river, and it was then Johnny saw the ferry barges for moving cargo across the Esteenhatchee.  The area was lush, and huge trees abounded everywhere.  Roads were really just pathways between trees.  Two such trees across from each other on either bank had been enlisted to serve as barge posts; large ropes and chains with pulleys were used to secure the barges to these tow ropes and to their moorings.  Instructions were given and everyone got busy, most of the equipment would be locked up in the north boatyard, because this was as far north as they were going as a unit.  The visit to the fort on the other side of the river was just a short vacation before the real work began.  After their 3 day leave at Fort Frank Brook the surveyors would regroup at the boatyard near the mouth of the Esteenhatchee river, then they would travel to where the river turns sharply north.  There the survey group would cross the river and continue east, launching off into the vastness beyond.  That trek would take them to their work, starting near a lovely place locally known and even officially recorded as "Devils Garden", all the way down to Stone lake, Thonotosassa, then back to Tampa.  Rough country.  Uncharted country, but only for a little while longer.
                                                                    

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     It was somewhere around March 25, by Johnnys loose reckoning.  Time didn't really matter on this duty, not in the usual way, not in a strict sense.  It had very little bearing on getting things done.  Day and Night ruled the perceptions, and though he kept notches on a stick, he thought he may have missed one or two somewhere along the line.  He was sure it was close to the end of March, 1838.
       The barge ride across the river was uneventful, the deep water was tinged brown by mud, and it flowed steadily, but the barge operators were old hands and the whole trip across the river lasted only minutes.  Johnny would be surprised if the width of the river exceeded five hundred feet.  The fort was perched atop a hill which sloped up from the river, it was about one half mile from the front of the fort to the rivers edge.  The air smelled of pine trees and salt water and smoke.  The character of the river changed radically as one went upstream, it became deeper for one thing, and much more clear, like spring water, the bottom plainly visible.
       The fort was wooden, made from local pine and other woods obtained when the large hill had been cleared.  There was a sentry tower that Johnny could see as they approached the fort, and the sentry waved lazily at the surveyors as they passed on the road.   Johnny raised his hand in return.
     The roads along the river were shell covered too, but once the men left the rivers immediate vicinity the going became sandy, and that was not much fun.  Fortunately the sand didn't last long.  Toward the top of the hill there seemed to be some kind of underlying bedrock below the sand, making for good hard roads and grounds.  The road from the river to the fort wound around a small hill, passing assorted out-buildings and one large latrine at the front of the fort.  The land behind the fort dropped off slightly, revealing a few more out buildings and another latrine building, easily spotted because of the water tank on top.  Then nothing but the tops of many more trees, through which a road ran a straight line north.  There was supply from Tallahassee, they would later learn, wagons came once a month with a full load for the fort.  The loads included coinage from the mint in New Orleans for soldiers pay, foodstuffs and bottled consumables, some niceties, and lots of explosives.
     Everyone formed up at stores while the Captain gave his report to the Commander of Fort Frank Brook, a Major Tom Johnson, and arranged accommodations.  When Mathew Gilmour again appeared he seemed in rare form, his face was flushed, and his stride was more purposeful than ever.  As he walked by, Johnny thought he caught an odor of whiskey!
     "All right," said the Captain, "We have use of bunk area 3", he pointed to a low wooden barracks to his left. It looked just like every other barracks building Johnny had seen during his time in the Army.  "We will of course leave it as we find it, except if you can see any easily made improvements we can accomplish while we are here.  The latrine and showers are a short walk out the back door down the hill, there is a wooden sidewalk.  Settle in, clean up, and I will see you down at the river later on."
     That last sounded rather cryptic to Johnny but he certainly understood the part about clean up.  Rooms were assigned.  Real bunks!  Hot Showers!  The group was eager to enjoy the merits of civilization for as long as they lasted.