Amelia Island’S Golden Years, Silver Tears: An Historical Novel

By Maggie Carter-de Vries

The story takes up where Amelias Secrets left off; after the murder trial held in Jacksonville, Florida where the accused, great-great-grandson of President Thomas Jefferson, T. J. Eppes murderer of one of his best friends and father of six children walks out of the courtroom a free man.

He returns to Amelia Island there to carry on life as usual with his beautiful young bride Katie, expecting their first child, only to find life for her to be a daily trial by a jury of her peers; an impossible situation in the end.

Our protagonist John Whitner describes in detail not only their lives culminating in the great hurricane of 1898, which nearly devastates the island but through the lives of the Carnegies of Cumberland Island, Mrs. Leddy owner and operator of the Florida House Hotel and her only child Grace from age eight through her progression to adulthood, marriage, babies and widowhood at the young age of twenty one.

John, himself reveals his journey through all this, his relationship with Pauline; its ups and downs, a new woman in his life (or women) as well as his passion for photography in the many places he visits, Jekyl Island, Charleston, S. C. during the earthquake of 1886 and Chicagos Worlds fair of 1893.


Meticulous research and beautiful descriptions bring nineteenth century Amelia Island to life. With creative flair, Ms. Carter-de Vries uses the first person narrative of her storyteller, John Whitner, to recreate the turbulence of natural disasters and societys mores and make the past inhabitants of Amelia Island walk off the pages.

Whether youre a visitor to the island or a life-long resident, you will find much to enjoy in Carter-de Vries Golden Years, Silver Tears.

Karen White
New York Times bestselling author
THE TIME BETWEEN, NAL/Penguin Publishing Group June 2013

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496908261

Maggie Carter-de Vries

Maggie’s writing spans genres including historical novels, short stories, ghost stories and poetry. Amelia Island’s Golden Years, Silver Tears is the sequel to Amelia’s Secrets, in the trilogy that captures the life of President Thomas Jefferson’s great-great-grandson and the history of Amelia Island, Florida, during and after the Golden Age. Born in Charleston, South Carolina, the second oldest in a family of six children, Maggie traveled extensively as an Army brat and as an adult. An entrepreneur in the true sense, she has owned several businesses, and at last her heart’s desire has been fulfilled by owning a bookstore, writing and fishing with her best buddy, grandson Andrew. She is presently working on the sequel to Amelia Island’s Golden Years, Silver Tears, is Group Leader of the Florida Writers Association, Amelia Island Chapter and is founder of the Local Authors Market Place.

Book preview

2014 Maggie Carter-de Vries. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/12/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0827-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0826-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Acknowledgments

I would like to express my gratitude to those who sought me out after my first novel, enthusiastic to share family history and stories for without their rich treasure trove this book would not have been possible.

I will be eternally grateful to Page Nichols, descendant of President Thomas Jefferson, who has spent countless hours sorting and documenting numerous pieces of correspondence between the Virginia and Florida Jefferson relations discovered in an old steamer trunk and sought me out to share those items pertaining to Thomas Jefferson Eppes, Jr.

I thank the staff at the Amelia Island Museum of History yet again who came through with countless files of names, places and people; the Nassau County Library and Claire Shephard (descendant of Ferdinand C. Suhrer).

I cannot envision having written this book without my superb copy editor, Beth Mansbridge of Mansbridge Editing & Transcription. Last but not least, a special and loving credit to my husband, Dutch, my computer guru for understanding the extensive and lonesome hours (again) while I hid away in my ivory tower to complete yet another novel.

Chapter 1

The Hurricane

1898

Gazing in wonderment at the horizon from a perch atop my chosen sand dune, I squint at the ocean waves which reflect the rising sun like jagged edges of many fractured mirrors. As dawn gives way to an angry red cauldron of clouds and winds exceeding any I have known for many a year, I am surprised to spy a fairy figure dancing among the frothy waves, her long blonde hair whipping furiously like the tail of a high-flying kite, arms outstretched, a mouth wide open in mirthful laughter that only she can hear above the roar of the pounding surf.

This woman-child is skimpily attired in white diaphanous pantaloons, a silky, long, red kimono, a short matching chemise and dainty slippers. She appears to have not a care in the world as to who may be watching her cavorting on the beach so wantonly.

Slowly edging a little higher—with a gentle pull on the reins—I am cautious that my horse and I are not seen. I reach into the satchel for my ever-present bird-watching spyglass to get a better look at the heavenly creature. As she comes into focus I am shocked to discover the newlywed bride of Mr. Harrison, they being the Strathmore Hotel’s recent arrivals from New York.

What is she doing out here so early in the morning, and by herself? I ask myself. I mount and cautiously make my exit, hoping not to be discovered spying on another man’s wife. I surely am not in the mood to be called out to a duel!

Shaking my head in wonder as I head for another of my favorite bird-watching spots along Main Beach, I cannot help but think of yet another free spirit who would dare such a freedom of the moment. Pauline, my girl, if you were here, you would be right out there with her singing a duet, dancing the can-can, kicking your legs high, laughing and be damned to protocol. Chuckling, I continue trotting my horse farther along the shore.

Thoughts of times gone by darken my day as quickly as the clouds overhead cover the newly risen sun, while the wind quickens the speed of the sand thrown into spinning funnels. Sheets of stinging salt spray traversing the beach drench me into an awareness of a chilling foreboding. I feel I must return to find the fairy lady, to warn her to seek safety. For this, I fear, is no ordinary storm. The water has grown angry, dark and lashing at the shore. It now rises, reaching out to engulf a white, pristine beach with its hungry jowls, each wave more ravenous than the one before. Turning back I can no longer see the hotel as I face into a headwind. My skittish horse bolts for the dunes rather than remain on the treacherous beach, and I can only hang on sideways, slip-sliding and bouncing as the mad dash for refuge is finally attained near Egan’s Creek.

Whoa, damn you, whoa, I yell at my black stallion, Ferdinand. I named him after my friend who was murdered back in 1884 by T.J. Eppes, great-great-grandson of President Thomas Jefferson, over an incident concerning his beautiful young bride. I swear you are determined to drag me all the way back into Fernandina! I continue hollering at him, trying unsuccessfully to disentangle my right foot from the stirrup. However, the frightened beast continues his headlong flight away from the howling winds—until he brakes to an abrupt stop at the now-swollen banks of the creek and unceremoniously dumps me. My foot at last untangles, but at a dear cost; I can’t stand on it. No matter how hard I try, the pain is excruciating, shooting sharp jolts through my entire body with each step.

A backward look tells me returning on the route we came is not an option, so finding a way to climb back onto my horse and crossing the creek is a must. Calming him as best I can while at the same time hoisting myself from his left side, I swing my injured leg over the saddle, nearly passing out from the pain. After two futile attempts, at last it is done.

My best bet is where rail passengers cross over the creek at Main Beach, near the Strathmore Hotel. Sure enough, a railroad car and engine are there, as well as soldiers from the Army hospital unit. Stationed on the beach in the aftermath of the Spanish-American War, they are assisting frightened beach vacationers aboard as I arrive. Young children cling to their mothers, crying.

This will be the first of many trips to evacuate folks, John Ferreira shouts to me over the noise of the engine, the storm and screaming people. The new National Weather Bureau’s hurricane warning network established by President McKinley this summer has duly sounded an alert.

He is assisting Mrs. Baltzell and her children aboard. I feel helpless as I lean toward him attempting to explain about my foot. However, he cuts me short, sending me along the beach to each house, to warn people to evacuate.

Arriving at the Strathmore, I encounter the Harrisons on the verandah engaged in a heated argument with the manager. Mr. Harrison’s luggage is piled in a jumble beside the door and he is pleading desperately with his bride to Come along with me, please don’t stay here, it is too dangerous. To which she laughs merrily as she twirls in the wind, arms outstretched akin to a maestro. Oh, no, I must stay here and dance on the beach in the wind. The manager is staying. He says it is safe. You go ahead to the Egmont, I will come later, she says, playfully planting a noisy kiss on his cheek.

As other guests gather on the verandah to depart, the manager explains that they will only be allowed to take a very small bag with them in the carriage, and the rest will be sent after the storm abates. The winds by now have reached at least 55 mph and the beach has narrowed as the water rises higher and higher, foaming like an old rabid dog nipping at the wooden building.

Without another word Mr. Harrison leaves his luggage where it sits, climbs aboard the carriage and without a backward glance is gone with the rest of the guests, leaving his wife of but three weeks to face the storm with the manager. As for me, I have others to warn and am on my way on my horse of a cowardly nature. I must continually urge him to be brave … keep going … as we head for Judge H. J. Baker’s and H. E. Dotterer’s summer cottages a short distance down the beach.

Judge Baker, along with his family, is keeping watch from the doorway as I arrive, and they agree to take his carriage down to Mr. Dotterer’s, load his family and then go on to the rescue point. The farther I attempt to ride, the more difficult it becomes to convince Ferdinand to continue. The storm rages on, winds increasing by the minute, and it becomes impossible to see. I find myself drifting either into the dunes or a wall of water where once lay a placid sea. After finally reaching the cottage of Judge Baker’s daughter, Nannie Hardee, I find I cannot continue and so retrace my way back to the rescue site.

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The train, burdened to the brim and with some people hanging off the sides, begins its final exodus from the treacherous beach. Straining with all its might it cannot make it across the swollen, rushing creek.

Get everyone off! John yells, cupping his hands over his mouth to be heard. We will have to make a run for the dunes and try to hole up there for the duration. There is no choice in the matter. We can’t stay here. We will die if we do!

At his words we grab the women and children by the hand and lead them into the largest dunes. We all dig in and hunker down, covering ourselves best as we can with coats, shirts, fallen palm fronds and whatever else, for hours against the driving winds and torrential rain.

Later I find that Nannie and her family spent the night at the cabin of Jimmy Drummond in the woods near Ft. Clinch, and that the recluse, Indian Joe, took folks into his shanty. A rare thing indeed, as he does not like anyone to enter his run-down shack filled with numerous venomous reptiles, the source of the snake oil from which he makes his living. Normally, people make an effort to steer well clear of him as well.

With morning comes an abatement of the winds, but not so the swollen creek. The ocean has calmed enough for rescue boats to come around looking for survivors as we crawl from our dune fortresses like drowned, albeit happy, little rats. Looking toward the Strathmore we are shocked from our happy exuberance in being rescued, into somber silence at the scene before us. Where once stood the proud hotel there stands but a small south end portion and not a soul is stirring there.

My God, I whisper under my breath, it is gone, all of it, and the beach cottages also.

From here I can see only one. The beach has the appearance of a slate wiped clean, ready for the next artist to draw upon it. I am now anxious to learn about the town of Fernandina. How has it fared through all this? I am not long in finding the answer when we arrive at the only dock left standing.

*

An article in next issue of the Florida Mirror states:

"Centre Street dock appeared to be in the midst of the pandemonium. This dock had a half-dozen houses on it, the Mallory Steamship office and four other houses occupied as restaurants and fish markets, and Kelley’s warehouse which was packed with hay, grain, flour and large quantities of canned goods. The FC&P ticket office, baggage room and storeroom also occupied space on this dock. When the hurricane and tidal wave struck this structure, there was not a piece of lumber left standing to mark the place where the dock stood. Cords of wood, bales of hay, barrels of flour and cased goods of many descriptions were washed up Centre and other streets, several barrels of flour floated as far as the jail yard. The tug Gladiator was picked up and placed securely on the bank between the pilings which once served as a support of the dock. The water invaded every building as high as Third Street …. As far as the eye can reach there can be nothing seen but one solid mass of lumber, logs and wreckage where the tracks of the FC&P were once located."

We are to later learn that 127 souls were lost and numerous folks injured all along the coast north to Brunswick, Georgia. Peter Armstrong, of the Pigeon Point section of Amelia Island, lost his wife and child. It’s a miracle these are our only losses. As to the loss of property, it is widespread.

The Mirror also reports:

The black population has suffered heavy losses; the A.M.E. Church on Beech Street was torn up into splinters. These people had just this past Friday paid $500 as their last installment and were congratulating themselves as being free of debt; the building cost $3,500. The Good Templar’s Hall and Benevolent Hall belonging to colored societies were both annihilated.

In all, the Mirror tallies damages well over two hundred fifty thousand dollars throughout Fernandina and Amelia Beach, and concludes: This storm is without parallel in the history of Fernandina. None of our citizens had any storm or wind clause in their policies, which fact makes their loss so heavy.

Amelia Beach suffered significant damage and most of its buildings were swept away. The Strathmore Hotel, the pavilions, the picturesque cottages at Amelia Beach now exist only in memory — all were sacrificed to the storm’s fury, the Mirror reports.

On Cumberland Island, the pilot boat Maud Helen was cast up on a twenty-foot bluff, a dramatic sign of the hurricane’s powerful storm surge.

*

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Rubbing at my tired eyes to better see the scene before me does not help. The town is a jumble of lumber strewn here and there, piles of it! Buildings are without roofs and there is a ship slap-dab in the middle of Centre Street, all the way up to Third! Working my way through the mess, I hobble as best as I can to the Florida House Hotel and almost fall to my knees in relief to find it virtually untouched save for minor damage such as shutters and tree limbs blown down.

Entering, I find Miss Annie and her sister, Charlotte Grace Powers, busily preparing dinner as if it is an ordinary day.

Looking up from the biscuit dough she is kneading, Miss Annie gives me a quick once-over, then asks, Where in heavens have you been? You look a fright!

Staring down at my muddied trousers and ruined boots, I laugh uncontrollably, much to her consternation.

Here, she orders, pulling out a chair for me to sit.

Charlotte hurries to pour a steaming cup of coffee laced with a strong helping of Irish whiskey. The hot liquid and strong whiskey are what the doctor ordered and the last thing I remember, before waking up in an equally hot bath in my room upstairs, with Joseph Higgins grinning down at me as he pours steaming water over my head.

Jesus, Joseph and Mary, I sputter, but he pokes fun all the while he is torturing my beaten, tired body with soapy rag and water.

Doc Palmer is on his way to fix that maimed foot, so you best be gettin’ cleaned up and into some clothes.

His strong, wiry arms reach behind my back to lift me from the tin tub, right into one of Miss Annie’s fluffy towels.

In my nightshirt, I hobble over to my bed as I relay the story of my harrowing experience of barely escaping the storm. He tells how the townspeople did the same, gathering in the strongest brick buildings, praying all night as the winds lifted the roof off the Egmont Hotel and threw it into the street and sent boards right through trees like toothpicks. It picked up docks and ships like little toys and threw them down Centre and Broome Streets three blocks inland.

I pray I don’t live long enough to ever see such a sight again. He shivers, staring out my window at the mess of tree limbs, porch rockers and miscellaneous other items of debris tossed in the street by the wicked storm.

Whereupon at that moment Doc comes lumbering, out of breath, banging at the open doorway. His rotund face is sweating profusely from the exertion of climbing the steep stairs, coupled with the long hours of tending so many injured and dying due to the storm.

I would have sent young Doc Horsey to tend you had I known it was only your foot, he grumbles good-naturedly while examining the injured appendage.

I, on the other hand, am happy to see my old friend regardless of the torture he is putting me through, the feeling and turning of my foot first one way, then another.

It appears to be a severe sprain and would have been better had you broken it. He explains this as he applies a noxious-smelling poultice and wrap. An ample dose of laudanum and elevation of the foot will aid your sleep tonight. Be sure to see me tomorrow afternoon at my office. Now I must continue my rounds of the injured. He wearily dons his overcoat, picks up his medical bag and is gone.

The glowing fire and laudanum soon have me comfortable; my foot no longer aches, my head is full of delightful images and the hurricane a thing of the future as I slip into days gone by.

Chapter 2

1884–1886

I’m not going to the party, T.J., Katie wails pitifully. Tears mar her beautiful face. Everyone looks at me as if I have committed some horrible, indecent act, when all I did was tell the truth! Why, just yesterday I was shopping and Mrs. Clay crossed to the other side of the street when she saw me coming.

The delicate, lace-trimmed handkerchief balled in her hand is useless in the renewed onslaught of tears.

Now, Katie darling, you must stop these dramatics immediately, Jeff says in a soothing voice, and reaches to stroke her long dark hair. This will make you sick and could possibly harm our unborn child. T.J. worriedly reacts to her shaking body held close to his own, all the while wondering what more he can do to make things better than he has already tried in the last few months. I know! How about a trip to the mountains for a change of scenery, and escape this god-awful heat? There is a place in Hendersonville, North Carolina, that would suit us nicely.

Pulling away while attempting to rub her eyes dry with the sodden cloth, she stares at him as if he has lost his mind. Surely you jest. She laughs hysterically, struggling awkwardly to stand, now leaning against the settee. I cannot travel in my condition. Turning sideways to give him full view of her advanced stage of pregnancy, she says, Furthermore, everyone in town will say ‘See, I told you she had a guilty part in all of it.’ And she cries anew.

Finally, Jeff has had enough of Katie’s hysterics and tears. Katherine Edna Shaylor Eppes! He thunders loud enough to rattle the doors and windows. I cannot believe you are the same woman who flaunted society, bold enough to go riding in your buggy alone and out dancing at the masquerade balls, also unescorted, while your husband, namely me, was out of town. Even having the audacity to dance with a young waiter at the Egmont Hotel for the whole town to see, and yet you tell me you won’t go to a simple little church party? I won’t have it! You hear me? Go wash your face, put on some of that rouge and powder from those little pots you have on your dressing table and let us leave as soon as possible. We will not be late.

Having said his piece, Jeff sits tapping his fingers on the arm of the now vacant settee, to await Katie’s appearance from her toiletry ritual. Damn, damn, damn, he mutters, hating himself for having spoken so roughly to the woman he so adores.

Standing abruptly to stare out the window toward St. Michael’s Church, he ponders the situation: Katie must be made to realize the importance of reestablishing our place in the society of Fernandina.

*

Reverend Thackara’s house is filled to capacity when Jeff and Katie make their entrance a sociably acceptable fifteen minutes late. A sudden hush in conversation nearly has Katie making a hasty exit. However, Jeff’s strong grip steers her directly toward their host, dead center in the main parlor. The lip and cheek rouge is more pronounced due to the sickly pallor of Katie’s usually glowing skin.

This gives more reason for the old busybody dowagers to gossip and talk, thinks the fuming woman as she tries graciously to block them out while accepting the Reverend’s hand in her own gloved one. She must make small talk for two hours while eating soggy cucumber sandwiches and drinking punch, meanwhile wishing she could go lie down in her darkened room and dream of life before all of this—before all the bad things. That is all she wants.

Grit your teeth, Katie girl, it will be over soon. She is surprised to hear a whisper in her ear and turns to find Pauline standing beside her, dressed, as to be expected, in the latest fashion. What a surprise to be given support and good advice from someone she has not considered to be anything other than a social friend.

Turning to embrace her like a drowning man grabs a life ring, Katie gushes, Oh, Pauline, you don’t know how happy I am to hear kind words spoken from a friend in my hour of need.

But Katie is taken aback by Pauline’s next words, again whispered between them: Mama sent me over to show an act of goodwill, so don’t be thinking we are bosom buddies. We never were. Smiling as if they were having a pleasant conversation, Pauline drives home the extent of her true feelings. This town has not been the same since you arrived and will not be the same again until it has seen the last of you.

Having spoken her mind, Pauline gives Katie a hug as instructed by Mama, plants a quick little fake kiss to each cheek and heads toward the food-laden table surrounded by a group of her peers.

Katie is left staring after her in open-mouthed surprise. Her eyes frantically search the suddenly stuffy room for T.J., to rescue her from another attack from some well-intended member of society. Unwelcome tears begin to trickle down her cheeks, making tracks in the carefully applied rouge. A hurried retreat out the side door, onto the porch, is her sole salvation.

Cool fall night air welcomes Katie as she drops unladylike, legs akimbo, into the nearest rocker. Her head bows in sorrow and shame at the failed attempt to please T.J. in his effort to retain their status in this disgusting town for which she does not give a whit. Yet he now claims it as his own since leaving Monticello, Florida, and he intends to remain. As evidence is the construction of their opulent home being built on the