Mosquito Colony: An Echo Left in Time and Place

By Charlotte Parsons

Life in America proved to be more challenging than the European settlers had expected. Indenturing themselves to an adventuresome Scottish doctor, Andrew Turnbull, for passage and land in the biggest colonization endeavor ever to arrive in America, they abandoned their diverse Mediterranean homelands seeking a better life. Over fourteen hundred Greek, Italian and Minorcan passengers boarded eight British ships for a devastating three month journey over the stormy Atlantic. Starvation and sickness took the lives of 148 of them. This was only their beginning of sorrows.

Preparations for only five hundred awaited them. Lack of shelter, food, and clothing, combined with ill treatment, bad water, insects, snakes, Indians and disease further decreased the colony, dooming their dreams for years. With financial failure of their plantations due to severe weather and political intrigue, governmental changes and Colonial war, a new way lead them on to other adventures.

Though considered fiction, the story, places and people are real. Their romances, adventures, and experiences were enhanced where necessity required. This uniquely combined ethnic colony bonded. Intermarrying, God parenting, exchanging and combining traditions and religion, and sharing hardships creating a new breed of American. Their legacy lives on in northeastern Florida.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450277204

Charlotte Parsons

I'm a native of Florida. I lived in Idaho for thirty two years and raised my family. My husband and I moved back to Florida, and he passed away five years ago. I live in a quaint and beautiful little town called New Smyrna Beach, FL. My mother's ancestors came here in in 1768 with Andrew Turnbull for his agriculture venture. I love Florida for the climate, and I have many relatives still here. Research into my family history made me aware that their unique circumstances in the building of this nation during it's birthpangs is a fascinating collection of factual experiences that should be shared with Colonial History enthusiastists. Their experiences as indentured slaves during the pre-revolutionary war , Seminole war and Civil War in primative costal Florida is like a roller-coaster ride in adventure. Hostile Indians and runaway slaves, wilderness survival, political and international intrique, are all interwoven in a titilating tale of romance and endurance if brave Mediterranean pioneers. Read "Mosquito Colony" and ride through history!

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Copyright © 2011 by Charlotte Parsons

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-7719-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-7720-4 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 01/28/2011

For Mabel Matthews and Sarah Hagin;

my Mother and Grandmother.

"Designed by our heritage, combined with our

environment, and refined by our choices."

Table of Contents

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Founding the Colony

Uprising in the Colony

The Colony Survives

The Savage

After the Long Winter

The Governor’s Ball

Growth of the Colony

Raid on Mosquito

Starting Over

Better Days

Carnival Time

A Time for Love

Trouble Brews

After the Holidays

Death and Change

Changes in the Colony

Francesca’s Decision

Colonial Woes

Decisions

The Visit

The Dreaded Talk

Wake Up Call

The Breaking Point

Acceptance

Wedding Bells

Andrew Escapes

A Leader is Born

War and Change

The Priest

Expedient Deception

A Defeated Man

Epilogue

Chapter I

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Founding the Colony

Dawn of August 18, 1768 was golden, as Anastacio Mabrumati stood alone on the high shell banks of the Hillsboro River, gazing toward the mouth of Mosquito Inlet, wanting to hurriedly absorb some of the unusual beauty of this foreign land which he had recently adopted as his homeland. A moment was all he dared take.

No one ever had time to enjoy this daily spectacle, he thought with exasperation, while watching the first light on the calm waters of the Hillsboro River on the East Coast of Florida turning misty green, and the shimmering sun chasing away early morning shadows. Glowing tentacles reached upward into the bluing sky, and then downward, kissing the tidal river with glistening gold.

His awareness sharpened to the sounds around him as an early rising whip-o’-will announced to the world, over and over, Jack-married-the-widow, jack-married-the-widow from it’s lofty perch somewhere in a massive old live oak tree who’s limbs were hanging heavy with long, gray beards of Spanish moss.

He perceived it was now low tide, and lazy waves were rolling slowly in to splash the sea-weed laden shore. The heavy salt air mingled with the seaweed’s pungent odor to create the familiar essence of the sea. He breathed deeply, enjoying the moment. Hanging above, huge billowing white clouds waited in anticipation for the heat of the sun to load them with moisture for the cooling afternoon showers.

Sloshing sluggishly in the water at the end of the newly constructed coquina stone wharf, an unkempt old schooner lay at anchor. Though he couldn’t read the name, Anastacio sighed with relief to see it, knowing it was the Balmer out of Charleston. Waiting eagerly, they had expected it yesterday. Never-the-less, it arrived sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Now it languished, with its belly heavily laden with their desperately needed supplies. It would be unloaded shortly by the work-weary settlers of the colony. Hopefully food supplies were the main cargo.

The reminder of work jostled him back to present, and the stolen moment of reflection had passed for Anastacio as he became aware of the noisome bustle that was going on behind him in the new little village square. However, you would have to conjure up enough imagination to call it a village, or a square, as yet.

More accurately, it was still just a large clearing on a sand and shell knoll, surrounded by the frameworks of the buildings of the steadily emerging town of New Smyrna. With only a few finished, all the rest of the structures were in diverse stages of construction, and situated near the huge new loading wharf that reached out into the deeper water of the lagoon. He knew this wharf was to become the heart line for the life blood of the agricultural colony.

He briefly surveyed the confusing clamor ahead, which was abhorrent to his peaceful nature. A short time ago he had heard the bong, bong of the drum which was the last summons to the communal breakfast. He hated the crowds and confusion of these morning gatherings, and he could almost smell the tension and fear that permeated the humid air, mingling with the earthy corn meal gruel aroma. But he was hungry, and eager for whatever food he could get, so he hurried, hoping to make it in time.

To his left, he passed by two large barrack-type structures where many of the weary workers were still spending their nights, although in truth, little sleep was to be had. Their meager housing was taking forever to finish. Meanwhile men, women and children were presently being packed only inches from each other in the swelter of the tropical summer on hard tabby floors, with only a little Spanish moss and pine needles laid down to cushion them. They simply curled up on the only blanket they had been allowed to bring with them on the voyage over the Atlantic. There just hadn’t been enough room aboard the over-crowded ships, and little provisions had been given them, as had been promised when they arrived.

The budding town was situated among huge moss-laden live oak, magnolia, palm and cedar trees on the edge of a high embankment which then dropped a few feet to the wave-lapped river shore. There was a deeply rutted little road that crossed over another of the same sort down near the wharf. That one was the King’s highway, which led from the wharf all the way, some seventy-five miles north, to St. Augustine. Though little more than an old Indian trail now, it was scheduled to be widened and improved in the near future, complements of the Royal Crown, as part of the incentive to coax growth to the area. The other rutted little road skirted the back of a long row of the primitive palmetto huts which were still being constructed for living quarters. Piles of oyster shells had been dumped and spread on it, soon to be crushed by the wheels of the oxcarts to make a firmer base for the sandy roads, which became muddy and boggy after the perpetual afternoon thunderstorms.

The odor of the rotting residue left in the oyster shells also wafted in the air, as the morning river breeze picked up. Large horse flies buzzed and circled, feasting on the dried remains. But even this was part of the familiar smell of the sea, and had been familiar to him all his life. It was not repugnant to him. The sea was a nurturer, and a friend. The smells and sounds - the familiar screeching of the sea gulls and squawks of the larger sea foul, the gentle splashing of waves on the shore were always comforting. Though his knowledge of the sea was gained so far away, back across the vast Atlantic and Mediterranean, to the Blue Aegean Sea, they were at the same time basically the same.

One of the barracks type buildings was the dormitory for the young, single men. This was where Anastacio presently slept. It would continue to be his home unless he married; then he would be provided separate housing. A very few of the earliest arrivers had been issued cotton mattresses, but right now he slept on the hard floor with just his blanket, and his cape rolled around a pile of moss, which served as a pillow. The other barrack building was being used for an orphanage for the many young children who had lost their parents to hunger and disease and the elements, of which there was daily an ever-increasing number. Some lost their parents at sea from sickness and hunger, and many more had died already in this colony because there was only minimal food and shelter. It also served as a day-care for the youngest children of the workers whose care was being provided by some of the older children, and usually just one adult female. She was often chosen from the least sick in the infirmary, whose injury or sickness would keep them from the field work anyway.

The preparations that were made for establishing New Smyrna Colony here in the Florida frontier which the British had recently acquired from Spain were woefully inadequate. It had turned out that three times the original five hundred quotas of recruits were actually loaded onto one or the other of the seven odd assortment of naval ships for departure from sundry islands and coasts of the Mediterranean Sea. Only one of the ships, an old war sloop, had been rebuilt and put back in use. It actually belonged to the enterprise, donated by the governor on instruction from the British government, as an essential commodity to such a huge undertaking. It was given to Andrew Turnbull for his recruitment of colonists, and later to be used to haul cargo, by the helpful and wise Florida Governor, James Grant. This was part of the British government’s efforts to encourage the settlement of the surrounding land near St. Augustine. The other six transports - Charming Betsy, Friendship, Hope, American Soldier, New Fortune, Henry and Carolina - all had been loaned to him by the British Navy, because all the kings men were anxious to help develop the land acquisitions in the new world. This was an easy acquisition, as one of his partners, Sir Richard Temple happened to be commander of the British Navy.

As speedily as possible with the settlers now helping, the overseer and head carpenter, Mr. William Watson, were building the palmetto huts. But for the workers, the long days of labor required by their contract to pay for their passage here left them little time….

The tiny palm-thatched shelters were projected to be stretched out, side by side, 510 feet apart, some eight miles along the banks of the Hillsboro River. They formed a single line on either side of the wharf, following the curving contour of the river shore. Of course, it was promised that the huts were to be replaced by wooden structures as quickly as possible. There was an abundance of palm, pine, cedar and oak timber on the land. Also, a saw mill had been purchased.

These were shelters for the indentured families from the island areas of the Mediterranean. He had pondered the underlying principle for this peculiar housing arrangement. Though there was an advantage to being strung along the river shore, these people were very social, and had been accustomed to having their homes grouped around a central square, where socializing kept them happy in off-work hours. Anastacio had evaluated this particular scenario, and personally felt this unaccustomed arrangement of housing would prove to be detrimental to the social harmony of their colony. But then it seemed to him nothing had been planned well.

As he hurried past, he took note that most prominent in the little village, was the one huge storehouse near the wharf - built prematurely - anxiously awaiting the anticipated crops which was the whole object of the overwhelming enterprise. It seemed a mockery that, instead, it presently was full to overflowing with the sickest of the immigrants, and being used as a make-shift infirmary. Many of his newfound friends were suffering and dying in there. As for an actual infirmary, it had somehow, inadvertently, been scheduled as the last of the village buildings, and was just now being started next to the church. This seemed to Anastacio another strange oversight, considering that their delineator, Andrew Turnbull, was by profession a physician who, until recently, had practiced medicine in Smyrna, Asia Minor.

He had reached the very back side of the square where he could see the foundation and front walls of the austere and impressive looking Catholic Church, already well under-way. It seemed to stand in defiance, seeming blasphemous to the English over-seers, who were staunch Protestants. They resented the time taken away from fields and crops that it took to build this most elaborate of all the buildings. But, as Mrs. Maria Gracia Turnbull was a Catholic, they dared not protest to the proprietor - her learned husband - Dr. Andrew Turnbull. It was being built with loving care by the parishioners, whose very life had always revolved around their church.

Huge coquina blocks had been hued from the quarry over on the island across the lagoon, and floated across for the construction of all the notable buildings. It was the only stone available, and had formed naturally from compressed seashells and sand over countless years. This church would have been something to be proud of, but then your eyes moved on to the cemetery which was situated on the small rise directly behind the church. With the fresh mounds of earth baring the crude new crosses at the heads of each grave, it instantly revealed a gruesome secret; the rampant death toll compared to the age of the colony. Anastacio shuddered and turned away.

Finally he reached the main square, which was intended to be the gathering place for the new settlement, but never as yet for social purposes. Here they were crudely summoned before first light by the beating of a drum to the scant and dissatisfying breakfast of cornmeal gruel, which was cooked and ladled out of a huge, common, copper kettle.

It really wasn’t the food that was distasteful. True it was foreign tasting to them, but every morsel was eagerly consumed. They were just not eating with their families in their own homes, which was very important to such family oriented Mediterranean peoples. Too many personal changes were imposed, and along with the mistreatment and over-work, he feared for the success of the up-coming plantations.

It was mandatory that they hastily swallow down their food, thronged by hordes of strangers. Then they were moved on, much like herds of cattle, to the loading platform on the river’s edge, where they received their working tools and orders-of-the-day. And God forbid that they were late!

Still hurrying, Anastacio could hear from the distance that the orders were being loudly barked out in English by a dozen or so impatient overseers. Standing next to some of them were translators who were repeating the orders into the three languages of the immigrants; Greek, Italian and the Spanish related Catalan, which was spoken by people from the Isle of Minorca, who actually made up the greatest majority of the colonists. It was confusing, to say the least.

However, there were over 1200 workers, men and women and children getting assigned an enumerable variety jobs. The younger children were being sent to a nursery. It could have been total chaos. To keep down some of the confusion they were separated, first, into their own ethnic groups, then age groups, and finally, some by male and female.

But there was one thing they had in common, and it probably accounted for the comparatively small amount of noise for the amount of people. All had their ears straining to comprehend every single word of what was expected of them. They were terrified of misunderstanding the instructions of the brutal overseers and drivers, who had been chosen specifically with one purpose in mind; to impose terror. They seemed to prefer fear as an inducement to extract the maximum capacity of labor from them.

Anastacio sighed in resignation, as he could see that he had arrived too late. Though he was terribly hungry, he had to skip the only nourishment he would receive until supper. One last resounding bong of the drum had announced the meal was over. This was a stiff payment for his moment of contemplation of beauty at the river’s edge, and he hurriedly fell in behind a group which was made up of his Greek countrymen to hear their work assignments.

Including the Greeks, this morning, seventeen other groups were formed. The gruff drivers and interpreters could be heard organizing work parties You lead today… and ten more…. right there, can burn the south field for the sugar cane. It‘s near ready for plantin‘. Get your tools from the supply shed, there… he pointed, and they would begin scurrying away. I want the same ones who were grubbing palmettos yesterday to finish, and do the piling for the burn later today. Another group would filter out of the crowd and head for the tool barn. The crew to unload the Balmer were selected and sent to the wharf, and finally the crowd began to move away.

In actuality, though his crew was made up of all Greeks, he didn’t quite relate to them as his countrymen. He had tried to fit in with them, but they were from different areas of the Ottoman Empire than he, and most were the war-like tribesmen from the mountains in the southern part of Peloponnesus on the mainland of Mani in Asia Minor. The customs, homeland, and even character of the people were exceedingly different. He was an islander, of the sea people.

Then there were even more Greeks from Mani, who had long ago migrated onto the island of Corsica, when the Turks first captured their homeland of Mani.

He had been the only recruit from his own small Greek island of Melos in the Aegean Sea, where he had left his father’s home. His lovely dark-eyed Italian mother, Maria, had left her own homeland of Italy when she was sixteen to marry a handsome Greek sailor. This recollection hurt him still, as she had died only the year before. So then, more urgently than ever, it became his desire to escape the tyranny of the Turks who ruled their island. He thought momentarily of her sweetness, and missed her exceedingly… unbearably, for an instant. He winced with the pain of her loss, and wondered what she would think of his choosing this path for his life.

Though it seemed so long ago… It had been only a little over eight months, when quite by accident he learned that a Scottish stranger, a rich and influential doctor named Andrew Turnbull had arrived in a ship that lay at anchor in the harbor at Melos, seeking to indenture colonists for his new agricultural community in America. Tina Maria, his youngest sister had seen the unusual looking frigate anchored in the bay and mentioned it at the dinner table. I know it isn’t one of the Ottoman ships. It is the first of it’s kind here. For some strange reason she was the inquisitive one of the family, always wondering why this or that was done this way, or was here or there.

His taunting younger brother Antonio remarked, in his most sarcastic manner, Well now Tina, for once you’re right, I must admit, as I saw it myself. It’ll be gone tomorrow, though, because the Turks are only allowing it to load up with supplies. It’s actually from America. He returned to his eating, as he apparently had lost interest. But this had attracted his father Antonio’s interest, as he had always been quite fascinated by the new world. Well, Tony, go on, if you know so much… then; finish the story. Go on, go on…

Their elderly father, Antonio, who was usually quiet during most of dinner, surprised everyone with his interest. Eager to please, Tony, who was fourteen years old and at his most flamboyant age swallowed a mouthful of peas and finished his story. Well, all I know is that the old man Pasqualli, who was on the wharf fishing, said it was from America… because he heard the Turk harbor officers talking, and they are not at all happy that he is here. He is trying to start a colony in America and wants to have Greek farmers, I think… and workers to go with him, as they know farming in a warm climate. This place he is from is very warm, too. Also, he will pay them with their own piece of land, and give them all they need to live, once they’ve worked off the price of their passage. He looked up from his plate and looked at his father to see if this pleased him. Finding he was still the center of attention, he continued. Pasqualli said he would like to go, himself. He said he could have his own land, and the Turks could bother him no more. But he is afraid, or he would sneak on board tonight and stow away until they were out of the harbor tomorrow. Personally, I think he is a foolish old man to think of such things.

Papa Antonio asked for more bread, then absently began smearing it with fresh butter. Their cow had come in fresh and had not yet been confiscated by the Turks. They were very dedicated to keep her fed and hidden so as not to attract attention. He spoke whimsically, as he often did when he was a younger man, and planning one of his voyages. Ever since I heard of America, I said I would someday go there. Of course, my little fishing boat would not take me there. But it is a new world. One could begin a new life… His words trailed away, and they knew he would fall into silence again. He was always melancholy anymore, and life had him beaten, at least for now.

Anastacio had heard him speak of America before; how it had been his desire to go there. He had thought some about it himself after that, wondering if his father was right. And he had decided he was, and maybe someday he would find a way to go himself, obsessed with the idea of escaping the overbearing domination of being ruled by the Turkish Empire.

Now, out of no-where, here it was… The real question was, did he dare? Tomorrow morning? The doubts began to clutter his mind and he had a turmoil of emotions flood him. What should he do? Was he wrong to desert his family? Was there even time, if he decided to go… Then, instantaneously an overwhelming desire for the adventure besieged him, and he decided he must snatch this chance to escape the tyrannical government which was now in control of their much loved homeland. Though the Turkish government had vehemently refused to let Turnbull actively recruit colonists, they were reluctantly allowing him to take on supplies. So, with this in mind, he began to contrive a scheme to overcome this obstacle to his escape. He had to have a good plan. He couldn’t allow himself to fail.

After the others were asleep, Anastacio knocked on the old man’s bedroom door, and begged his Papa to leave with him. Oh, no, no, my son. Pay no attention to me. None at all. I… I am just a dreaming old man, living in the past. Forget my foolish words.

But Papa, it’s not foolishness, and you know it. Think about how good life could be to start over. Mama is gone, and your staying here will not bring her back. But you’re still alive, and perhaps for many years, too. Think about it. You wouldn’t have to work so hard; I would do your part for you. You hate the Turks. Please, Father, it will probably be the only chance for us.

The old man Antonio, who was sitting on the side of his big empty bed, rubbed his weather-beaten hand lightly over the covers on the side of the bed where his beloved wife used to sleep. I cannot, Anastacio, but….. he put his forehead in his hands, as if to hold back the pain the thought brought him, I know you, my son… your need to go. Strange…. I was lying here awake thinking perhaps you needed to go, but I did not have the courage to lose you. I have long recognized your restlessness, and need for adventure. I was the same at your age. My other son, he is different, more like your mother. But then, I know I am a selfish old man… so…

Papa, you have been a fine man all your life, and never selfish. But you are right. I feel I have no other choice. I am going. But I need you to go with me…

Then, even if it tears my heart into, I must give you my blessings, my son, and send you away. But your mother is here, and I still have two children at home who need me. We cannot all go.

They could stay with Rosa, Papa. She would care for her brother and sister like her own. And her very kind husband Nicholus, is so good… he would take such good care of them. They are old enough to be with their older sister awhile, and we could send for them when we have our own land. He spread his hands wide, expressing the desperation he felt, and continued. Imagine,…they are promising fifty acres of land, Papa! Each!

The old man stood slowly, and reached for a cracked earthen jar on the little shelf near his huge old bed. He began gathering a handful of money he had hidden there, and turned with it to Anastacio in both his huge old hands.

No, I can’t, Papa. I won’t…I will do alright…

Yes, Anastacio. Perhaps someday, if you send for me, I can come to you then. You have my blessing and my love, always. Now go……….. he said, firmly as he pressed his hidden savings into Anastacio’s hands. He quickly stepped