Bulow Gold

By Bill Ryan

Historian Bill Ryan combines his researched facts into a highly readable story of the building an immense plantation in Florida. Two middle aged geneology ladies attempt to unlock the secrets of the lost diary of "Aunty Mary" who was housekeeper of the immense Bulow plantation in Florida. There are hints of an immense buried treasure which may still remain. You will travel from 1812 to present time as the story of the rich Bulow plantation in Florida emerges.
William Ryan is the author of "The Search for Old King's Road," "I am Grey Eyes," and Osceola His Capture and Seminole Legends" which reveal much about early Florida in its turbulent time under Spanish, British, the American rule. "Bulow Gold" is the latest in this series that reveal little known stories of early Florida.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Ryan
• Release date: Apr 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476003092

Bill Ryan

Bill Ryan is the president and founder of the Louisiana Dutch Oven Society and serves on the board of directors of the International Dutch Oven Society as the representative for the Southern states region. He started cooking with Dutch ovens as a hobby in 2000 and has participated in Dutch oven cook-offs since 2007.

Book preview

"People I dream of and often imagine events, I much later found

were real"......Grey Eyes

Bulow Gold

a tale of old Florida

By William P. Ryan

Bulow’s man Scipio meets with manager Pellicer within the immense Florida wilderness of what would become Bulowville

Bulow Gold

Copyright 2012

William P. Ryan

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for you personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, the please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Note: This is a work of researched historical fiction.

Table of Contents

Cover

Copyright

Start

Chapter 1 - Present Time

Chapter 2 - New Relations

Chapter 3 - A slave 55 years

Chapter 4 - Transported to Charleston

Chapter 5 - Social Network

Chapter 6 - Visit Bulowville

Chapter 7 - Old Henry

Chapter 8 - A Late Night Visitor

Chapter 9 - The Treasure

Chapter 10 - World at War

Chapter 11 - Maureen's Defense

Chapter 12 - A New Position

Chapter 13 - Zephaniah Kingsley

Chapter 14 - Spanish Jack

Chapter 15 - The Good Lawyer

Chapter 16 - Doing Murder

Chapter 17 - History Lesson

Chapter 18 - Yellow Jack

Chapter 19 - John Russell

Chapter 20 - Bulow begins

Chapter 21 - King Philip

Chapter 22 - Master Bulow is dead

Chapter 23 - A Strange Woman

Chapter 24 - The Finest Plantation

Chapter 25 - James Audubon arrives

Chapter 26 - Collecting Birds

Chapter 27 - Indian Mary

Chapter 28 - Mosquito Roarers

Chapter 29 - A Treasure Map

Chapter 30 - Georgia Freedom

Author's Notes

Return to Start

Chapter 1

Present Time

Umber pecans danced across the floor as Hattie watched the wooden nut bowl wobble to a stop.

My lords, Hattie, don’t let those genealogical tid bits upset your apple cart, Maureen said. She moved toward her sister’s favorite chair by the window that overlooked wild vegetation and Florida cabbage palms. We are ninth generation Floridians and proud of our heritage.

Wish it was a cart of apples that was upset maybe filled with Granny Smiths or Red Delicious. Everyone loves the white flesh of apples, Hattie said, pinching her cheeks to restore the color that had vanished when she read the shocking pedigree. She reached for the nutcracker and soon fumbled the nut’s delicacy between her thumb and forefinger.

Now there’s a skeleton in the closet with bones as dark as these pecan shells. So what’s our next step into finding our ancestors? Her face revealed her inner mirth, knowing her sister’s feelings about exposing her very private roots.

We must move with caution, Hattie. Think of all our social ties and family. Remember, we are Southern Aristocrats. We must take our research slow to make sure there are no mistakes. Scarlett O’Hara wouldn’t have taken information like this to heart at first glance. It would have taken a lot more convincing for that Civil War lady.

Maureen was one to get the facts and her ‘I know it’ face seemed to be set in place.

You are always poking around on that computer. Sooner or later you are going to find somebody’s dirty closet, laughed Hattie but she began to look at her sister with more concern.

Just what was the dirty secret you dug up about us now? she asked knowing that her sister did not always tell all, and certainly had a private side.

Do you recall I was looking around on our Georgia side, and was doing some searches at Hahira Georgia, near Valdosta? I thought we had a distant Aunt up there but could not find her. Well I got into the Georgia data base and did find an 1865 census, and sure enough there she was.

There was a long silence. Hattie looked up from her shelling, she knew her sister would answer in her own good time, but the silence held, except for the sharp crack of an occasional nut.

Then Maureen began in the soft Savannah voice she had when sometimes she was speaking to herself, and was not aware that anyone was there. She seemed to get ‘more Southern’; the Belle of the South as she spoke.

"If this was 60 or 70 years ago, I would not tell you at all, but now I think I can, but it might not be so easy for you to hear.

Our Aunt Mary was a Negro!

The nut bowl scattered. Hattie looked at Maureen, waiting for the smile and the joke she knew her sister loved. She was always pulling one on her. There was now an even longer silence as she waited for the punch line

It’s a fact, Hattie; our Great Grandfather’s brother Nathan married a Negro who was called Aunty Mary. She was his housekeeper on the cotton plantation and took care of him in his later years. They had a number of children and he left the lands to her after he died at a ripe old age. This was such a scandal that our family never spoke of it, nobody ever visited them, and they certainly never acknowledged that side of the family. Now I am certain of it, and I tell you I am going to find out the whole story. It’s not going to be hidden anymore.

Maureen continued as Hattie sat silent in shock. You know Nathan fought in the War of the northern invasion. He was on the Union side too. And he then married a Negro!

I can’t explain it. I know he left the army in Savannah because he was with Sherman’s bunch. I do know this Aunty Mary was real, and I do intend to find the real story.

Hattie took a fresh look at her sister. This was not the young girl from their high school days, the one that was always trying to twist the tail of the teachers, and the one that would frequently be sent to visit with the principal. She was really a wild girl growing up. Was there still a flash of this wildness in her face that still reflected the beauty and liveliness of her youth?

Maureen, you stop this! Why are you prying into affairs of people long dead and gone. Why are you digging up trouble for us? What’s the point of all this, where are you going with this nonsense! I wish you had never gotten that computer. I hate those things, I won’t have one and this is something we don’t need.

Maureen pulled out a folder filled with computer printouts. Just look at this, I got it off of the ancestors program I bought. You know this is a good program you have to pay for. I never told you this but I had my DNA tested too.

You did what! said Hattie. Her voice grew shrill.

Why would you do such a thing as that? Maureen, I swear I understand you less and less. She looked at her sister as if she was seeing her for the first time.

Maureen always had a soft southern accent that held tones of upper class Savannah. Hattie knew that her sister had read just about every history book ever published and often deeply dented their household accounts to purchase some obscure, out-of-print history book. But Maureen had a hard side too; she was known by her many boy friends as having a quick, hot southern temper. You never wanted to tamper with her.

Hattie knew that older people could speak of Maureen, known as a wayward girl and not averse to partying until the morning. Maybe this was why she married so late in her life. Well, that worked out too cause Harold, her husband, was an older man, and he did not last long. Maureen was left a rich widow and so it goes. Maybe living on the right side all the time was not as good as it was purported to be. Their father left the sisters well off, too.

Only a year separated them but one would hardly know they came from the same family. Hattie had the snow white complexion from her Scottish Irish ancestors while Maureen had the look called black Irish. A bit exotic, she loved cheap costume jewelry while Hattie might be called plain by some.

Hattie stood up, not certain what to say. Maureen, I just don’t know you at all, why would you do such a crazy thing, she repeated looking at her sister who was still considered attractive and a dresser in style regardless of her some 60 years or more of active living. Nothing from Sears or J.C. Penny would ever be in her wardrobe. These were Hattie’s main suppliers.

Maureen held that ‘gotcha’ smile she always had when she had one up on her sister. My DNA came up with a trace of African, she said with a gleam in her eye.

Hattie knew some reply was needed. When I was working as a hospital lab tech I learned some about those tests. It’s crazy; they are not as accurate as they are put out to be. How much money did you spend to have those tests done? she asked knowing that maybe a straight answer might not come.

Hattie always got straight A’s. She followed the rules. The teachers loved her. She looked at her somewhat wilder sister with amazement. Were they truly related? She did secretly enjoy the early day escapades her sister would drag her into. Now Maureen was determined to go down this dark road that no one could safely travel. Hattie knew that some silly test had no interest to her. She might take a look at the weather on Maureen’s high powered computer, or maybe play one of those games, but searching stuff on the internet. Going on one of those genealogy trails was not for her.

Maureen still had traces of the beauty she once held. Her dresses came from Down by the Sea, a local boutique. They looked expensive and they were. Her jewelry, while often imitation, could pass as real. She always liked to keep her close friends stirred up. Hattie, for the most part, liked her plain outfits and never had a problem getting clothes right off the racks. For all the exotic ideas of Maureen, Hattie could make up for it with her plain, straight-forward life. Maureen had enough for both of the sisters.

Maureen had made her startling announcement and now came the plan which she already had.

Pack an overnight bag; we are off to Valdosta. It’s only three hours from here and I am dying to visit our new relations and discover who they are, pronounced Maureen, already knowing her loyal sister would go along even if she did not approve.

You are crazy. I am not going out to see some people I don’t even know. And what if they might be relatives, I have plenty of real cousins we never see or speak too. Who wants some relations a hundred years back? And, black relations! You must be mad.

Hattie knew she would not win this one.

Their old Volkswagen mini-van dated from Maureen’s wilder days, but it was in excellent shape, thanks to the Bunnell repairman, and checking stubs full of receipts for spare parts with odd German names. Having an old Volkswagen was like owning a boat. She kept it because it reminded her she was not always an old lady. Hattie was the one that carefully packed things for the trip. She checked off bottled water, for you never knew, a wicker case of sandwiches, Granola bars, and of course, a medicine kit suitable for open heart surgery if it was needed.

She did not favor this trip but Maureen already knew her sister would go along.

Maureen was on the net running off maps with the printer clicking out many sheets of paper that she stuffed into her carry case. Early on Saturday morning they would be off for Valdosta and hopefully find the cotton farm with their maybe relatives.

We are going to take some back roads. Here is route 100 to Palatka. It runs kitty corner across back woods Florida where we will pick up 75 into Valdosta. I don’t want to take this old van onto I-95, even if it could do the speed limit; we are going to see more on the backwoods route. It will be fun.

Maureen always gave a travel talk to her suffering sister as she ground through the gears and the ancient German engine could hit enough revolutions to take them along at a healthy 55 and sometimes even 60. At 55 it ground softly, go above sixty and it might remind you why there were no cars of its type still around.

Hattie looked unhappily at the vacant fields, passing the farms with faded For Sale signs and the total lack of gas stations or restrooms.

Didn’t they grow a lot of stuff here once? she asked. That was enough to launch Maureen into one of her travel lectures that she loved to give to pass the time.

Look out there, it’s mostly sod farms, none doing too well. Once there were potatoes and cabbages here. Once upon a time Florida could feed whole counties now look at it! What a shame. It was that damn government and their Fair Trade acts. They wrecked Florida when they turned it into one big Orlando and brought in cheap Mexican potatoes, South American cabbages and other stuff that ruined our local farmers. They now have to grow grass sod to sell to the rich new developers like Palm Coast or vanish. Most of our old families are gone. The colored have no jobs Maureen lectured as she watched the for sale signs flash by fields now growing weedy grass.

The old bus was holding its best pace. Maureen hoped they did not get stuck behind a lumber truck. She did not have the power to pass. She was silent for a while losing the thread of her new lecture. Hattie knew better than to get her started again but then could not resist it. Maureen, why are we doing this? Who cares if we have some black grandmother, some generations removed? I don’t know these people we are going to find. What is driving you to do this?

Maureen looked out the side window at the moving scenery for a few moments before answering. There was a faint smell of cow coming into the open window.

"It’s just like these empty, lost fields....once they were productive, full of people, men of color and immigrants doing useful work. The pioneering white farmers planned their season and managed for profit. All had stories to tell, and lives to live. Some were interesting too. Now they are all gone. The farmers and their jobs are gone. I think the people who went before us, our ancestors had good stories too, there’s more to our lives than just watching some stupid TV show.

When we find our ancestors we begin to get bits and pieces of those old lives. If you put fertilizer back on these abandoned fields, they could grow again. If you can look behind you, those stories want to be told and will come rushing up. It can get interesting. Genealogy is a lot better than a TV show."

Genealogy research is a fertilizer of stories. I want to know these stories, how did we get here, where are we going? We might even find an adventure.

Well that makes some sense, Hattie laughed; I always knew your genealogy work was full of something. Now you tell me it is fertilizer!"

But you never answered me. What is this trip about, trying to find some old black lady who may or may not have been related to us? What’s the point? When Maureen had no direct answer, she had a trick. It was to answer a question with a new one. That gave her time to think about things.

Today everyone looking into their ancestors is pleased to find they had some Indian blood. Seems like all the skinny women claim to be descended from some Cherokee Princess.

Go back a few generations and it was a disgrace to be called a half-breed. Times change. Have you looked in the super market lately? You see dark children with a white mother or a man of color with a light skinned family. I read somewhere that in a few generations we would all have coffee colored skin, or maybe Cappuccino. 200 years ago that would have been life and death. Times change, did not some Roman once say something like ‘oh what times, oh what customs?’ Can’t say I am in favor of this, but I do see it coming.

As I have gotten older, I don’t see race or skin color as being as important as I once thought it was as a young girl, brought up in all the Southern ways. For once before I am gone, I would like to know the truth of things. You know we are just one generation back from the Klan. Lots of those people are still around. The older I get, the more I wonder about things I once really believed in.

Maureen was silent for a long time, somewhat embarrassed to reveal her real thinking, even to her sister. You just never said things like that to anyone, especially in the South. There was a very long silence.

Getting on route 75 was a terror. The old bus did its best and hovered in the right lane, being passed by roaring trucks and cars going at least 50 miles over the speed limit. They crossed the Suwannee River that Stephen Foster wrote about but never saw. They entered Georgia and its rows of endless advertising billboards. The Withlacoochee River Bridge flashed by. Lots of history here, said Maureen while keeping one eye in her rear view mirror for semi trailers that could try to eat them up. Have to tell you about it sometime, this is Seminole country.

Hattie was navigating from their printed maps. They bounced across some railroad tracks, passed a gas station that featured cold beer and cheap gas, parked with red dusted pickup trucks. Finally they came to a dirt turn off that took all of Maureen’s gearing skill to keep their wheels from being locked in the ruts. A cloud of red dirt dust followed behind trying to surround them if they halted. They passed by fields where tufts of white showed on bone dry plants that had long ago yielded their doubtful crop of cotton. Around a bend and shaded by some old pecan trees appeared the farm. The Wagon was leaving some blue smoke and making a new unhappy clatter of oil starved valve lifters as Maureen switched off into silence. Nothing was heard but the ticking of hot metal and wind rattling the paper dry cotton plants. A hunting hawk made a shrill, sharp cry.

There was a hint of distant thunder from a far off storm.

Chapter 2

New Relations

They arrived at the old Hahira cotton farm just a bit northwest of Valdosta. There is nothing emptier than a picked cotton field; the red dirt is dry as hot gusts of wind blow the grit into ones’ eyes.

This old family farm was run down. A broad porch once held many rocking chairs. Warped, dried-up wooden flooring boards were showing their popped-up nails. The old-fashioned wood siding had not seen paint in a very long time, if ever. Four empty cane-backed rockers moved at random in the gusts of wind.

Gray tattered curtains fluttered behind open windows some still covered with fly flecked screens. The house might have been once painted, but this was only a long ago memory with faded color spots on the warped wood siding. It seemed to be leaning away from the wind too.

An elderly red bone hound raised its head to look at the visitors. It was not interested enough to get up and bark. It thumped its tail a few times then closed its eyes going back to whatever dreams a hound has. The house was a large two-story dwelling. It had a long shed-like barn behind with several rusting and apparently abandoned pieces of farm machinery, dead where they were last left. There certainly were no appearances of prosperity.

A young girl, perhaps 14 years, looked at them from a window. Hello, are your parents at home? Maureen said. The girl said nothing and quickly vanished. A very tall man opened the porch screen door, held it part way, and looked with unfriendly eyes at the two visitors. He was dressed in well washed but clean bib overalls. Very thin, and well over six feet, he had a narrow, sun-baked face of undeterminable age. It looked like he had not shaved for days. His shirt was clean, white and even looked starched.

What do you want here? he said in a high sharp voice while holding an unfriendly stare. Hattie noted his eyes were coal black. It was still hot and bright but seemed like the sun went darker when he looked hard at her. A cold breeze shivered down her back. She heard far off thunder rumble again.

Maureen put on her best Southern sugar smile and ‘Savannah’ accent. Pardon us for coming without notice, but I do believe we are cousins. Aren’t you the Youngman family? I think your great grand father was a first cousin to my father. We probably are related, and we wanted to meet you, being in this area. It’s nice to find new kin and if you are the Youngman family, I think we are related.

She knew well about the Youngman clan but wanted to hear him agree.

At first they were given the Southern ya’ll reception. He quickly warmed up and could be pleased that someone from the past finally came up his lane, some relations he really did not know about.

It’s always good to find new kin.

Maureen kept throwing out names from her research. Uncle this, or cousin that. She had no idea, but did recall some names.

. They were sitting in rocking chairs on the warped porch sipping at the over sweet tea that the girl from the window brought out. Maureen wondered if all Georgia families kept sugar rich sweet tea on hand at all times. She took only a sip.

The young girl serving was very thin, perhaps older than 14 years and appeared timid. She hardly spoke, but smiled each time Mr. Youngman asked the ladies to accept more tea. Her skin was a light cream brown, she had dark almond eyes, and long dark hair that was tied off in a ribbon. Her dress looked home-made and her old-style high top leather shoes were badly worn. Hattie thought a good meal would not hurt her either. She was pretty, but kept her eyes on Mr. Youngman, saying nothing.

Is this your daughter? asked Maureen.

He did not look directly at the girl. No, she is no real kin to us but we just took her in cause she had no where’s to go. You know we practice Christian charity. We are staunch members of the Bethel Baptist Church here, and this is what we believe. So I took her in.

I am Lizzie, the young girl said softly. When no one replied, she smiled again, and carried the now empty tea pitcher back into the house.

Harriet, you come out here. These folks say they are kin. He shouted this through the open screen door. A middle aged woman appeared. She was almost as thin as him. Dressed in a cotton pullover dress much washed, and wearing what once was a colored flowered apron now deeply faded, she offered a pale smile, different than her husband’s darker ones. Her gray mouse-colored hair was tightly pulled back into what would be called a bun, and her watered blue eyes viewed them from some badly fitting spectacles. Her nose presented a large wart or wren that Maureen tried to avoid looking at.

Harriet seemed friendly and even started talking about relations without prompting. She was interested in Maureen’s winding tale of uncles, cousins and grandfathers. The farmer said nothing once Maureen got started. He finally halted her listing and spoke directly:

I heard your talk; you said you were related to the Youngmans? That was the name of our grandfather, and his great grandfather before him. You must be from his Brother Henry’s side. Henry went away long ago and nobody knew what happened to him. We never had contact with any of our distant kin, but I figure you might be related cause you are here, aren’t you?

Hattie took this as permission to smile more warmly and he motioned them to the porch chairs.

The house is not in shape for visitors, but let’s move onto the shady side of porch and talk a bit. We can get to know each other better. I don’t get out much. Where did you say you were from?

Before Maureen could answer the farm wife waved her hand indicating Maureen should wait. She was quickly back with a very old scrapbook, turning the black-pasted, mildew flecked pages with care. Nameless uncles, aunts, cousins, and long ago children looked back from the fading photos. Maureen fidgeted, as pages of these old pictures held people she would never know and this was not taking her anywhere.

They stopped at an open page that held a faded print of an old man with a white beard. Could this be their great, great grandfather Youngman? He was posed in a dark suit sitting alone with no wife. The black cardboard page was flecked with mildew. It had left a pattern where another picture had once been pasted next to it long ago. The companion photo was no longer there.

I am very interested in Mr. Youngman’s wife, Aunt Mary, I think her name was. Do you have any pictures of her? Maureen asked while trying to move her research further.

The farmer who had gone into the house emerged suddenly banging the screen door. He must have been listening and now came back into the conversation.

His coal black eyes squinted at Maureen. His mouth took a straight line and he was silent for a long time before answering her question. There was another substantial rumble of thunder in the West. He looked up at the darkening clouds and then back at the sisters.

Don’t know about any of them people; that’s too long ago for us. I don’t know about a ‘Mary’.

He spoke quickly before his wife could reply.

We don’t have any pictures or a family bible neither. If they ever were, they are long gone now. How anyway do you know, or feel you are related to us?

He then stood and walked to the porch steps looking up at the rapidly darkening sky. If his attitude was now not friendly, it was full of ice. He motioned for his wife to go inside. She was watching him and looking upset. He stood looking at their van and moved his thin arm toward it.

I got too many uncles, cousins and kin now, there’s no need to go a hundred years or more into the past, I surely have no interest at all. He coughed and spat at the dry dust. The hound raised its head.

It was clear their interview was at an end.

We never knew you before and we don’t know you now, there’s no point to all this, he said with now unfriendly, cold eyes. There was a stronger rumble still far off in the sky.

When Maureen tried to name more names his face grew harder. My wife don’t know noth’en more, we got things to do rather than messing around with your useless palaver. You old ladies ought to get gone cause it looks to me like a big storm might be coming.

He then slammed the screen door as he walked back into the house. Some fly catcher papers with corpses of flies past straightened in the growing breeze. The old farm house seemed to awake, a few boards groaned, and leaned a bit more as the coming wind was getting stronger.

The sky was beginning to look like the black and white beginning of the Wizard of Oz. There was a bang; a crash of thunder and their hosts had gone inside leaving them alone on the porch. The old dog rose, stretched and walked slowly away. The interview was over.

Maureen, we better get out of here. I don’t like the looks of this weather; let’s go back to the store we saw, maybe they have a TV with a weather report, said Hattie anxiously as she opened the van door and began to climb in. Maureen reached to open her side.

The wind was rocking their van more than a bit.

Psst....you ladies come on in here. A soft voice carried from the dark, partially open door way of the nearby barn. Come on here now, outa this wind, cause I done got things to show’ya.

It did not sound too hostile. Maureen motioned a reluctant Hattie to follow her. They walked slowly past a sliding barn door that seemed to be only partially hanging on its hinges. It looked like the door might take off at any moment. A big gust of dirt and dust followed them inside.

It took a moment for their eyes to get accustomed to the dark. The young girl with the name of Lizzie appeared as if she was illuminated in a soft spotlight coming from an upper barn window. She might be older than she first looked, it was hard to tell. Maureen could see that her long black hair needed washing. As their vision brightened they could see also that her complexion was light coffee colored. Her large expressive eyes had dark centers that glowed in the dim light. There was an Indian, almost oriental feeling about her.

I’ze the throwback they say, I bet they wanted to throw me back no how, she said with a laugh. You know I am part of this family, but none of them wants to admit it. When he said I was no kin of theirs well that’s not the truth.

There was a huge crack bang outside and the inside of the barn illuminated as if a camera flash was fired. Hattie and Maureen exchanged looks that spoke the mutual feeling they had better leave. Lizzie moved closer and took Maureen’s hand, holding her tight so that she could look into her face.

My name is Lizzie, she repeated. You look like good folk.

"When I went to the school here they wanted to call me a different name. They called me nigger, but I knows my mamma, God rest her, was white as snow. My real mamma is dead now; that woman you met, she is not my mamma. You know sometimes, you gets born and are afflicted from something done long ago, before you was even birthed, and I guess maybe I’m one of these.

I had a teacher in school tell me all about this, cause he was interested in me when he found out what was my real family name. They did finally have to give it to the school, but they wanted to call me something else. He taught me a lot in a science class talking about genetics. I always caught on fast. You know, I am a straight ‘A’ student in school, but nobody here knows this or cares a bit. My real name is Elizabeth. I do use my mother’s name and not the Youngman.

The school kids call me Lizzie. That’s an old name so I kinda like to be called Lizzie."

But whether they like it or not I am related.

Lizzie now looked at Maureen and Hattie with a bold eye. She was no longer the timid girl from the porch. She spoke in a hurry as