Another three weeks and no blog post. Even though there is a lot to write about in my personal life, if I have time to write, I feel like I need to be working on Julia’s Story. I had set a lofty goal to have the rough draft finished by August 16, the day we leave on vacation. That’s not going to happen. I have at least 100 more pages to write. I decided that I need to quit pushing myself because the writing is no fun if I am constantly looking over my shoulder at what page I am on and trying to make myself keep to a certain time frame. Or what my audience might think. So, I am going back to writing at my own pace and enjoyment. It will get done when it gets done and if it happens to be in time for Christmas publication, okay, but if it is not until next Spring, that is okay, too. But, what I can do, is feed you snippets now and again so you don’t forget the story. Here’s the introduction to Julia’s Story. Enjoy!
Terra Ceia, Florida 1843
I wake with a start. Bonaparte’s barks echo in the fog. Somewhere outside I hear the sound of bushes rattling. Who is it? There are no other settlers near our hut on the south shore of Terra Ceia Bay. The animals should be secure. I last checked on them at dusk. The cow and calf rested together in their pen made of pine longs. The chickens roost in the big oak tree whose limbs protect the palm thatched roof of our hut. Perhaps it is just the wind. I pull the coverlet over me and try to drown out the noise.
My husband, Joseph, left this morning for Fort Brooke. Like a tangled ball of yarn, he tries to unknot the complicated rules and requirements that keep us from filing claim to this land which we were promised. The Armed Occupation Act passed by the United States Congress in 1842 and signed by President John Tyler on August 4, did not discriminate against us, German immigrants not yet Citizens of the United States. All it required was that we clear five acres, build a house, live here for five years and serve in the militia. The desire for new settlers in south Florida who could defend their own land and save the government from paying soldiers to keep the Indians from attacking the established cities in the north was stronger than any prejudice against nonnative born people. At least in Washington. Here on the frontier, in the Florida wilderness, discrimination is strong, but subtle. Joseph’s trip to Fort Brooke will likely not tell us who continues to make it so difficult for us, but perhaps this time, he will be successful.
A scraping noise against the thatch followed by more barking pulls me back to a more immediate cause for anxiety. Who is it? I flash back to the past. Images of hands reaching for me. I curl into a ball. No, no more. I am safe. Another noise. Is it Indians? Do they know that I am alone? Well, not quite alone.
“Mama? Where are you? Mama?” Eliza, my three year old daughter, sits up in her trundle bed beside mine.
Now, I hear the hens squawking and the call of an owl as he signals to his mate. The hens! An owl is after the chickens! The need to protect our flock who supply us with meat and eggs, overcomes any fear. I toss the covers aside and leave my bed. Shushing Eliza, I tell her not to move.
I tiptoe to the entrance of our rudely constructed home. No one told me that moving to the Florida wilderness would require the skill of weaving palm fronds together to make a roof. At least it is better than living in a tent. Only a little better. I reach for Joseph’s gun which learns against the wall made of palm logs. Thank God he left it here for us. My hands shake as I pour gunpowder into the chamber and tamp it down. Stepping outside, I can barely make out Bonaparte’s outline in the soft pale light of the spring moon. I have practiced with the gun before, but never alone, and never at night.
A large winged shape swoops out of the old spreading oak tree that shelters the hens. It skims over the dog’s head. Bonaparte stands bravely between the owl and his next meal. I rush towards them; then, stand firm as I brace the gun against my shoulder. Bonaparte leaps in the air after the owl. I yell at him to get down and pray that I don’t hit him as I aim and pull the trigger. A tremendous bang echoes through the night air as I fall backwards to the ground. For a moment, I cannot breathe. The impact knocks the wind right out of me. My ribs ache. Have I broken some?
I hear a scream. Is it mine? I look towards the house as Eliza runs towards me. Stumbling over the hem of her nightgown, she catches herself and then, falls on top of me. The pain threatens to knock me out again, but I struggle to sit erect and hold my frantic daughter.
“Mama! Mama!” she cries. I comfort her and then, in an effort to distract her, I ask, “Did I get him?”
“Get who?” Eliza’s sobs slow to a shudder. I smooth her hair from her eyes.
“The owl. It was after our chickens.”
We both turn towards the direction of Bonaparte’s frantic yelps. A large brown owl looks at the dog in disdain. His yellow talons grip the limb of the oak.
“Bonaparte! Leave it alone!” I order. Disappointed, I slowly rise to my knees, and then, straighten. I gasp with pain.
“I missed.”
As if to mock me, the owl turns his wide brown head and blinks at us. Then, he hoots and calls to his mate. It sounds as though he says, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?” From the distance, I hear a piercing screech of reply. The owl takes flight flying so close over our heads that I feel the brush of his wings.
I will get you next time, I promise.
“What happened to you, Mama? Did he hurt you?”
“No. I guess I put too much powder in the gun. Your father must have left it loaded, and when I added to it, the charge was more than I could handle.” Rubbing my shoulder, I turn towards the hut. “I hope the chickens can hide from him. We cannot afford to lose any of them now.”
I tuck Eliza back into bed. Bonaparte guards the door looking for the owl. Slowly, stiffly, I make my way to bed. I’ll be sore for weeks. I blow out the candle and ease carefully onto the mattress stuffed with dried Spanish moss, but I cannot sleep. Neither can Eliza.
“When will Papa be home?”
“I don’t know. As soon as he can, I expect.”
“Where did he go?”
“Eliza, I’ve answered that question before.”
“I forgot, please tell me again.”
“Your father has gone to Fort Brooke to file papers with the land office. There have been some questions about our claim here, and he needs to make sure everyone knows this is our land.”
“Why couldn’t we go with him?”
“Because someone must stay here to protect our home.”
“I’m afraid. I want Papa to come back.” Eliza sniffles. I cannot see the tears, but know they stain her pillow. I know because they wet mine as well.
“I want my Papa.”
I know child, I miss him, too, I want to confide. Instead, I say, “Eliza go to sleep. Papa will be home when he can. In the meantime, we will be fine without him. Bonaparte is here to tell us if anyone comes near, and I have Papa’s gun.”
Intrigued, Eliza’s sobbing stopped. “How do you know how to shoot Papa’s gun?”
“He showed me how before he left. Now, no more questions. Say your prayers and go to sleep.”
Obediently, Eliza is still. I listen as her breathing grows quiet and steady. But, my tears still flow. Oh, God, how will we survive alone? When will Joseph come home? What have we done? What made us think that we could make a life here?
Thank you!!!! I love it.
You are right about writing though… when it becomes a chore, your writing won't be as good. Relax and let it flow – anxious as I am for the next book, I'll still be here when it comes out. And it will be better for the wait.
Have a great vacation!