James' Crossing

James’ Crossing

Frances Sterling Ellis

Published by Georjes Press at Smashwords.

Copyright 2016 Frances Sterling Ellis

Cover art copyright 2015 Lynda Ellis, used by permission.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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ISBN-13: 0-978-9966-790-12-5

Author’s Foreword

James’ Crossing began as a question: How did my Sterling ancestor, who was said to have jumped ship in Florida, get to the old Southwest, specifically, the Mississippi Territory? My question became more tantalizing when my daughter Cheryl found documentary evidence that James H. Sterling fought for the United States in the Battle of New Orleans during the War of 1812.

Subsequent research proved the generational links from James H. Sterling in the past to the author in the present. We also learned that Samuel Carlos Sterling, James H. Sterling’s son, lost his church membership for dancing! And, finally, we learned that Moses Bass, whose story had been passed down among the generations as more fable than fact, was, indeed, an ancestor and a Natchez Indian who was latter reclassified as a Chickasaw.

In James H. Sterling’s time, Spain held a long-established claim to Florida whose boundaries extended to some ill-defined point in the West and continually crept north. They were contending with the English for possession of the Georgia colony, and they were at odds with the French over their claim to the Louisiana Territory whose boundaries were also amorphous and overlapped the Spanish claims in significant places. And, later, the former English colonies united as a self-governing nation and became another player on the field.

Native Americans lived in these disputed territories and believed the land, like air and water, were free to be used by all. Often they signed treaties with an understanding that they were simply granting privileges of hunting, and even living, in the territory with little or no understanding that they were ceding political and civil control to the European interlopers and their descendants, which presented my characters with quite a tangle.

The characters in James’ Crossing, real and fictitious, lived the history of those times. James H. Sterling’s interactions, often unprecedented and frequently improvised, led me to a deep appreciation of his ground-breaking for subsequent generations.

Chapter One

James H. Sterling stood on the deck looking toward the east coast of Florida. Just for a minute he thought he might be looking back toward his homeland, back toward the coast of Scotland from the North Sea. But as he watched the sun sink over the horizon, revealing palm trees along the distant shore, reality set in, assuring him in no uncertain terms that he was far from home. He felt as somber as the ensuing darkness, which, as the last rays of light disappeared, seemed to symbolize loss of all hope for his escape.

He recalled too vividly his capture by Royal Navy seamen who had surprised him on his walk along the North Sea, an event that seemed now like a very long time ago, when, with a sudden rush, three sailors jumped him, yelling Deserter, Traitor to your country, and Bounder. He had tried to explain that he was not a traitor and had never been in the service, but to no avail.

The stout one shouted, You should be if you ain’t. The ruddy-faced sailor challenged him. D’ye expect us to put down rebellious colonials and defeat the dastardly French, too, whilst you go yer easy way, layin’ about in taverns, courting wenches, drinking yer awful Scottish brew, and reapin’ the ’arvest of our ’azardous work? And then he turned to the third sailor and said, I didn’t get me ruddy face ’anging about in no tavern, did I?’E’s had the sun to his face right smart, ’e ’as; ’e looks like a bloody deck hand, ’e does. What d’ye say, ’arvey?

Clap him in irons and drop him in the longboat is what I say. ’E’s deserter, ’e is, or my name ain’t ’arvey Jillson.

James had tried to explain:.I took the sun to my face when I recently went on a cattle drive from Scotland down to England with a man who said he was taking the herd for the Royal Navy. So you see, if you leave me alone, I may be of much greater service to you as cattle drover to your victualler than I would be as a sailor.

The truth was, James had been on one cattle drive some time ago, and for the last few weeks he had been apprenticed to his uncle, a tailor in Edinburgh. Harvey and the other two had looked at him for just a minute, observing his strong body, his average height, his long, wavy brown hair, and his clear blue eyes, and decided they would not let him go. They overpowered him easily, in spite of his strong exertions and clever arguments. Strapping his hands behind him and tying his feet together, they threw him into the longboat and rowed to a large vessel anchored in the North Sea. As he stood now on the ship off the coast of Florida, he spied the new moon, low in the sky and rising into the darkness which he chose to believe was a symbol of man’s eternal hope. James wanted desperately to get away. He estimated land to be about three miles away from the ship, a difficult swim, and he also realized this might be as close to land as he would come for a long time. He had heard that impressed seamen were often exchanged from ship to ship on the high seas, never getting into port for years.

Better to attempt to jump ship now, he concluded. Remembering his mother’s oft-stated rubric Try, he quietly removed his boots and, tying them to his belt, let himself down by a rope into the Atlantic. He swam under water for as long as he could hold his breath, and then, coming up for air, he swam as swiftly as he could go until he had left the ship behind. Believing the port to be St. Augustine, due west, he attempted to avoid recapture there by swimming northwest. As he swam, he feared what he might encounter when he reached shore. Maybe unfriendly savages, swamps, wild animals. Or, would he be greeted by intolerant colonials or Spanish or by waiting British, who would take him back to the ship, maybe in chains? Or would he be stranded alone on a deserted beach?

Fatigue set in, so he turned on his back, treading more slowly to rest a bit. Soon fear drove him forward again. Flashes of home assailed him as he rolled over and struggled ever forward, slashing the waves with his strong arms: his mother and father, now in their late fifties, getting old; his sister, married with a family of her own; and his younger brother, John, still at the local priest’s school, getting the education that his father always demanded for his children. Finally, feeling the sand beneath his body, he rose, waded out of the water, fell down amid some coarse grass, and fell asleep, too weary to be concerned now with his environment.

James awakened at first light to find an Indian standing over him, club in one hand, and his own boots swinging over the brave’s other arm. James felt his wet clothes clinging to his stiff body. In spite of his alarm, he commanded, Stop! I come in peace and want only freedom from my captives out there, motioning toward the ship, barely visible through the morning mist. He doubted his words were intelligible to his adversary; but to his amazement, the brave lowered his club and pulled James to his feet. Suddenly they were surrounded by more Indians, who hustled him off through dense woods, the dry leaves and underbrush bruising his bare feet. The ocean breezes rustled the over-hanging live-oak branches with their evergreen leaves not changing to autumnal hues and hanging on in spite of the constant bombardment of the sea breezes. Birds fluttered overhead, an occasional rabbit crossed their barely perceptible path, and James’s Indian guards pressed firmly on his arms, one walking on either side of him, giving him little time to view his environment. As they moved swiftly along, the braves pulling and pushing James in their midst, his fear was diminished with faint hope: They have spared my life so far. Perhaps they intend to make me their slave.

At last they approached a group of crude cabins and the Indians pushed James into the largest one where an old Indian man sat on a seat covered by a bear skin. After a brief dialogue between the Indian with James’s boots and the old chief, in some gibberish that James could not understand, except for the word Carlos with which the chief seemed to address the other, the young man left the house. The old chief sat silently, peering closely at James H. Sterling, apparently examining him in every detail. When he said---in English---You Scotsman? Yes, James Sterling. he replied. James was surprised and apprehensive. He was soon relieved somewhat when the old man called out to an Indian maiden who materialized from the dark recesses of the cabin carrying a blanket. Here, the chief said to James, pointing to the blanket, wrap yourself and give the woman your damp clothes. When she retreated, James removed his clothing and wrapped himself in the comfort of the warm Indian blanket. The maiden returned and removed the heap of wet clothing from the dirt floor and took them to the rear of the cabin. After a little while, the woman brought James some boiled meat and a bowl of hominy, his first meal in the new world.

While he ate his breakfast, he glanced around the cabin. He saw no exit, no means of escape, except the opening through which he had entered. Blankets and animal skins hung on the walls, along with headpieces made of feathers. Pottery jars of different sizes, and baskets, from which he could see ears of corn, lined the walls, along with more animal skins. Darkness shrouded the extremities of the house, pervaded by a suggestion of smoke, certainly giving off a smell of smoke and raw meat. After some time, Carlos, the Indian who had taken his boots, rushed in. He jabbered something to the old chief, who translated to James in English that a search party was looking for him. He called the maiden, who brought James’s clothes, now nearly dry, and a pair of Indian moccasins. While James dresses himself, two Blacks entered the cabin and gathered up a supply of food and blankets. James Sterling, the old man told him, these Blacks will guide you into the woods, away from the coast, safe from those who follow you.

Gratefully, James grasped the hand of his host saying Thank you, thank you. He followed the Blacks out of the cabin into the nearby woods.

They walked rapidly for the remainder of the day, across rough terrain, weaving through woods, sometimes along dim paths, often stooping to avoid overhanging branches or swaying around impeding underbrush. James tried to keep pace with his guides, who walked so rapidly that James often lost sight of them for a minute or two. After several hours of rough passage, James heard, to his surprise, one of the Blacks address the other in some dialect resembling English.

Why didn’t you tell me you speak my language? James asked.

One of them replied, Don’t wan’ get caught. If you know we understand you, you talk at wrong time.

Why are you living with the Indians? James inquired.

We run away from up North. James eventually understood that they had been slaves and had run away from a plantation in Virginia to the safe zone among the protective Indians. In response to James’s inquiry about their destination, his only answer was, To a settlement.

At last, after a long day’s walk, they stopped after sunset in a clump of underbrush and trees where they ate dried meat and lay down on piles of leaves to rest. The Blacks were soon sound asleep, but James fought mosquitoes until, exhausted, he, too, finally fell asleep.

When birds began to flit in the treetops next morning, they set out again, moving westward through a vast expanse of wilderness where no sign of human habitation could be seen. Toward sunset they approached the St. Johns River. The Blacks told James Wait back in de underbrush ‘til us checks out the river crossing. When they returned, assured of their safety, the three men went on to the river where the Blacks had uncovered a canoe that provided passage for them across the river.

That evening the Blacks seemed to think a fire was safe, so they boiled some strange-tasting tea and some corn to eat with the roasted meat. When they lay down to sleep, the smoke from the fire kept away most of the mosquitoes, allowing James to rest much better than he had the night before.

They awoke next morning to find Carlos, the Indian with James’s boots, standing over them. You were safe? he asked laughing. I could have slain all of you in your sleep.

Thank God you did not, James stood and shook Carlos’ hand. This benefactor now seemed like an old, very dear friend. As Carlos returned the boots, James observed that the Indian was wearing an identical pair.

For days all four traveled west, usually in single file, allowing little opportunity for conversation. The Indian and the Blacks seemed intent on fulfilling their commission as quickly as possible. One day toward evening, they approached a single bark-covered cabin sitting in the midst of a small clearing that provided additional space for a small garden, with collard greens growing, and a covered stable nearby. This is the settlement? James wondered to himself.

The Indian, Carlos, moved ahead and was quickly joined outside the cabin door by a man whom the Indian greeted warmly, shaking hands and exchanging amenities. Mr. Donald McDowell, Carlos said, this is James Sterling, a Scotsman who swam into our village the other day from a British ship. When they started searching for him, my chief sent him here.

Welcome, James Sterling, McDowell exchanged greetings with James and the Blacks and asked about other activities along the coast.

Everything appears normal, in contrast to reports we hear from up North.

McDowell replies, I know about colonial dissatisfaction. Is that all you have heard? When Carlos replied without further information, McDowell offered whatever accommodations he had to the travelers, but they declined his hospitality and, leaving James with McDowell, turned back and quickly disappeared into the woods.

Sterling, is it? asked McDowell. What are you doing here with a Cherokee and the chief’s runaway slaves?

Yes, my name is James H. Sterling. I was mistaken for a deserted sailor and impressed on board an English ship. I decided to jump ship off the coast and swim ashore, taking my chances. The Indians later saved me from a search party. I’m from Scotland, as you can tell. Before I was captured by the sailors, I was apprenticed to my uncle in Edinburgh. Uncle James is a tailor.

Well, Sterling, I’m glad you’re here with me through the winter. I can certainly use your help with my trapping, McDowell invited.

Sterling said, Thank you, Mr. McDowell. I’ll certainly give you all the help I know how. He added, realizing how little he knew about pioneer life, You’ll find me a good student, I hope.

He soon learned that McDowell did indeed trap, for miles and miles each day. They got up in the mornings before daybreak and after breakfast, left the cabin with a mule and a crude litter. When they reached a line of traps, McDowell hitched the mule and litter, provided to haul the skins, to a nearby tree while they removed the animals from the traps and skinned them. The carcasses were buried unless the flesh was useful as food, in which case some of the meat was carefully retained in a kettle of brine. The dogs following along got their fill as well. Each day they would go to a different location to check the traps and to repeat the same preservation of skins and food. Back at the cabin, McDowell---and soon Sterling helping him---would trim and scrap the hides, stretch them, and nail them to the sides of the cabin or to near-by trees to dry.

Although the days were far gone when they returned home, they had much to do besides curing the hides. They cut wood, toted up spring water, gathered greens still growing in the garden, fed the mules, cooked their food, washed the dirty pots and dishes and their own bodies. In addition to the routine chores, McDowell carried forward soap-making in a barrel, placed to catch rain-water, in which he placed ashes from the cabin. He would occasionally spend time making or repairing shoes on a last or weaving large baskets from white oak strips. All these tasks and more James learned from McDowell.

When he could see no longer from the fire to do practical work, McDowell would take out his violin, which he kept carefully wrapped in wool clothing inside a trunk. He would play Scottish ballads, hoedowns, and hornpipes on his fiddle until late into the night, no doubt thinking of home. James, too, felt often times a terrible longing for his home and family in Scotland. More than once he dozed off to sleep while McDowell was playing and dreamed he heard bagpipes playing.

One night McDowell asked Sterling, What did you say you were apprenticed in?

Tailoring, James replied.

Then you must make a fur coat. We have lots of fox piled up over there. It would make a beautiful coat, and we can take it to Pensacola when we go to sell our hides.

Although James’s training had been incomplete and had not included furs, he agreed to try because it was obvious that McDowell expected almost constant productivity; moreover, James soon realized that he, like his host, must keep busy to avoid the depressing loneliness. So with McDowell’s help and suggestions, James made a fur coat. They lined it with some sacks that they soaked in suds from the homemade soap, rinsed and dried, and repeated the process again and again until the sacks became somewhat pliable. Finished, the coat hung against the wall until spring when they took the skins and furs to Pensacola.

Along the way they met up with a caravan of pack horses and ponies, driven and led by several men. Hullo, McDowell yelled to the men. While he and James Sterling rushed to join the waiting trappers, McDowell told his friend, These ponies belong to William Panton or more accurately to Panton, Leslie, and Company, merchants in Pensacola.

The drivers were all acquainted with McDowell. They rode along beside him as he joined the group and shook hands with a fond greeting. Howde, ole man, How you been? Good to see you.

James, McDowell explained, these men come from Indian villages and some white trading posts where they exchange Panton’s English imports, such as knives, shoes, pots, and cloth, for hides and credit at Panton’s in Pensacola. Gentlemen, this is James Sterling, who has been working with me for the past year.

James was soon engaged with his new friends as they rode along together, sharing tales of the back-country, camp chores, and expectations of civilization.

James was amazed at the extensive development and trade at Pensacola. He and his companion, along with the caravan drivers, enjoyed many evenings in the inns and occasionally at Panton’s great brick mansion. At the inns or taverns they toasted each other, their trades, their wives or girlfriends, and sometimes, when the drinks had been lifted too often, some emboldened woodsman would toast the King or the colonies. The usual conversation, however, avoided reference to the political storm clouds. Panton, after all, maintained trade with England.

While in Pensacola, James wrote a letter to his family back in Scotland, detailing his capture, escape and subsequent life with McDowell. He spent some time alone away from the crowds of men with his own thoughts, walking along the beach or through the woods, occasionally encountering other strangers, apparently indulging their own need for contemplation. At other times James enjoyed the diverse elements of society that came together in Pensacola, well educated, wealthy planters and rough, mostly crude Indian traders. Absent almost completely from the human mix, however, was the softer sex, with the exception of some Indian girls.

One of James’s secret pleasures was the occasional encounter with an Indian girl, Minnie, whom he often saw when he strolled along the beach or in the woods. He would attempt to engage her in conversation; however, the language barrier would preclude most communication except for hello or how are you? She smiled often, however, revealing very white teeth, red lips, and a brown complexion and eyes nearly the same color. She wore bright clothing made from the calico materials from Panton’s store. Her movements were swift and graceful, James observed with appreciation.

James’s fur coat, now hanging in Panton’s store, gained much acclaim. James wanted to give it to Minnie, the Indian maiden whom he admired so much. When he told McDowell of his wish, McDowell was compelled to share his knowledge of Indian customs with his friend: Now listen, boy, the girl you’re interested in is the chief’s niece. Whoever is interested in her must show favors by giving gifts to her family, and in the remote possibility that you have something more permanent in mind---say marriage---you would have to remain in her village and observe certain customs of the tribe. You would have to fight their clan wars---

Stop, interrupted James. I hardly know how to live as you do. I know nothing about Indian customs.

Well, if you keep seeing her, just give the coat you made to the chief.

James began staying closer to his mentor, who was planning to get his friend away from Pensacola. But before they left, the Indian chief approached McDowell about the relationship between his niece and James. What are Sterling’s intentions toward my niece? When McDowell explained that James had no ulterior intentions and was returning with him to the cabin far away that the two of them shared, instead of showing relief, the old man seemed displeased. Quietly, McDowell made his plans to leave Pensacola very soon. As he collected supplies from Panton’s store and settled up, he noticed the old chief lurking about. Here, he told the chief, taking the coat from its hanging place. Mr. Sterling wants you to have it. He made it, you know. With apparent pleasure, the chief took the coat and went proudly out of the store.

Next day before dawn McDowell and James set out on their return trip home. Because he liked having James living with him, McDowell wanted to leave before his friend unwittingly blundered into something he didn’t want and from which he couldn’t escape.

At night they camped, keeping fire at a minimum and extinguishing it as soon as they prepared their meager supper. The third night, as they sat eating their evening meal, McDowell heard a noise in the nearby woods, a noise different from the usual sounds of squirrels scampering about and birds flitting to their roosting places. Holding up a hand, he indicated silence. They sat still, listening. Suddenly Minnie, the Indian girl from Pensacola, appeared. She walked slowly out of the darkening forest, a small knapsack over her shoulder, and approached the men by the still smoldering campfire.

Oh, no, said McDowell, suddenly realizing that he had probably blundered with the coat. James Sterling sat frozen on his log seat with a bite of food still in his slightly uplifted hand. His naturally ruddy complexion became even ruddier with the flush that spread up to his amazed blue eyes.

Come sit down and have some supper, McDowell invited the hesitant girl as she looked from McDowell to James, who also nodded his approval. She sat and dropped her knapsack down beside her. McDowell took some of the food from his tin plate and some from James’s and placed it on a third pan, which he handed to Minnie. She accepted the food with a thank you and ate silently.

The men sat quietly until she had finished. She took all the plates and pans to a nearby spring branch, rinsed them, and returned to the camp. She coyly looked at James, who quickly averted his eyes.

McDowell spoke. Minnie, are you alone? Are you sure you are not followed? She nodded. McDowell rose and walked about thinking; occasionally stopping to listen, while Minnie and James sat silently by the fire. He returned to the log that he had occupied by the campfire, dashing water on it to put it out. Gradually the moon dimly illuminated the surrounding forest; a remote owl hooted and a wolf cried out from far away in the woods.

Picking up the guns, McDowell handed one of them to James. Minnie, meanwhile, took a blanket from her knapsack, spread it out, and lay down, soon falling asleep. As the men sat and watched, McDowell spoke under his breath, We may be in for big trouble.

Suddenly a group of Indians surround them. What are you doing here? McDowell asked. As one of the braves stepped forward, McDowell recognized him as one he had seen in Pensacola.

Where is Minnie? Just then the brave saw her, apparently for the first time, asleep on the blanket.

You know as well as I do that she followed us, McDowell told him.

No, the Indian replied. You stole her away---for him, nodding toward Sterling.

Not so, added James quickly. She followed us, and only just now overtook us.

The Indian braves sat down, waiting for something: food, McDowell thought to himself. Let them eat their own food. As though they heard his thoughts, they took some bread and dried meat out of their sacks and began to eat. After they finished, they went two or three at a time to the spring for a drink. Finally, they, too, lay down around the ashes of the campfire and went to sleep.

For several hours, McDowell and Sterling took turns sleeping and watching. On McDowell’s watch, he dimly perceived Minnie moving her body around on the blanket. Suddenly, she saw the Indians. Sitting up, she got to her feet and