A Corner in Glory Land Read online

  Cover Copy

  A Corner in Glory Land

  “I want a future, Ivy, where I can be excited about what may come instead of worrying about finding a bunch of roughnecks pounding at our door with the intention of taking the law into their own hands. That might be your future, Ivy! James and Joseph were right to get out when they had the opportunity, and now I’m going do the same for myself. I’m leaving y’all to make your own choices about what your futures will be—no matter how dangerous or pathetic they may be.”

  “Oh…Eve! Please…I…” Her voice cracked, and she couldn’t finish, so I finished the conversation for us.

  “I’m tired now, Ivy—more than I’ve ever been in my life. And I’ve got to be back at the store in four hours. I need to get some sleep. So, please, let’s not say anything else right now.” And with the finality of that statement, I turned my back on her and my life in Silver Springs.

  Also by Janie DeVos

  Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees

  The Art of Breathing

  A Corner in Glory Land

  Janie DeVos

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Janie DeVos

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  Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: December 2017

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0432-1

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0132-3

  First Print Edition: December 2017

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0433-8

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0433-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Sammie Ellis, who’s as warm and easy going as the Ocklawaha River.

  And for Elaine Percival, whose passion for all things good and right makes her a true force to be reckoned with.

  This one’s for you, friends, with love.

  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 t
old 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.