Golden Sun from the Journal of William Henry

By Grady Overstreet

The secret lay hidden in the sealed room for two hundred-fifty
years until the wall was breached in 1964. The two young men
were startled by what they found: a secret room containing a
dusty leather bound book crackling with age. Within its pages
were contained tales of war and peace, of love and death, of the
Cherokee, Catawba, and Shawnee: but most striking of all, it
told of the Catawba war Chief, Tahasha and his white-skinned
brother, the sachem of the Enoree, known to friend and foe
alike by his Indian name: Golden Sun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546233633

Grady Overstreet

Grady Overstreet was born in South Carolina and educated in Virginia and South Carolina. He enlisted in the United States Air Force shortly after graduation from high school. After his military service he settled in Santa Barbara, California where he worked as a geologic and civil engineering draftsman. His leisure time is spent biking and fishing on the central coast.

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GOLDEN SUN

FROM THE

JOURNAL OF

WILLIAM

HENRY

GRADY OVERSTREET

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© 2018 Grady Overstreet. 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 03/15/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-3364-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-3363-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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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

1     Charleston 1964

2     The Journal 1626-1672

3     The Mountains Of Blue 1652

4     The Bloody Ground 1652

5     Sano’s Village Spring 1661

6     The Englishman 1626

7     The Hunt 1627

8     Tyger River 1628

9     Revenge Of The Sailor 1634

10   Enoha’s House 1646

11   The River 1647

12   The Cabin 1647-1648

13   The Great River 1651

14   Yuchi Battle 1656

15   The Sickness Winter 1661

16   The Fever 1662

17   The Meeting 1662

18   The Medicine Man 1664

19   Late Spring 1666

20   Visit To Black Tongue 1666

21   Henry’s Weding 1666

22   The Parting Of Pain 1672

23   The Graves 1969

1

CHARLESTON

1964

T here are many strange happenings in one’s life. My strangest and also the most rewarding started on that Friday, July 10, 1964. I walked in the door of my mother’s home after completing my eight-hour shift at the mill. Mother said that Bob Dixon called and wanted me to return his call before I left for Charleston. He and I had plans for several fishing excursions along the Atlantic coast near Beaufort, South Carolina.

I rang the number he had given my mother and he answered the phone. Hello, Bob speaking.

Hi, Bob. What’s up? The trip still on?

Well, yes and no, he said. Something else has come up that might be more interesting than fishing.

The only thing more interesting than fishing that I know of is women, I said.

Well, how about the two-hundred-fifty-year-old stone house I just purchased? I checked out the old tax records and at one time it belonged to a gentleman by the name of Wilheim Stagg. He came down from Jamestown around 1670 and guess what? His wife’s maiden name was Rebecca Overstreet.

Well, since I was always studying records of my family tree, especially the Overstreet’s, this got me excited. The link from Jamestown, Virginia, to Augusta, Georgia, was still missing and I knew it had to do with South Carolina’s missing records.

Well, Bob, you got me there. Will try to make it to your place before midnight.

Leaving Whitmire, South Carolina about six p.m., I headed down the highway in my 48 Chevy. I got to Bob’s around eleven thirty and we decided to leave the talking till morning.

Next day he told me the story. A ninety-eight-year-old man by the name of Samuels had offered Bob the chance to buy this stone house provided he would never destroy it or sell the lot. The house was in an old section of Charleston, set back against an alley. The alley, it seems, was at one time the main street in this area. I visualized horses and carriages going by in my mind. It only excited me further.

Bob and I were of like mind since in our younger days we traced over hill and dale looking for Indian artifacts. Cornfields, cotton fields and any other place we might find them was our cup of tea.

Say, Bob, how much did this place soak you for? I asked.

Well, that is the best part. The house sets on two acres and Mr. Samuels sold it to me for four thousand bucks.

Four thousand bucks! You took advantage of that old man. The land alone would fetch much more than that.

I know, he said, but I have been carrying him around for the past two years and I have become like a grandson since he has no living kin–close ones, that is. But, as I said, he made me promise not to destroy the house or sell the property. Of course, I would never do that even without any promise. You know how I love old things. I plan to use it for my picture framing shop. It is not big enough to live in and has no running water, plumbing and so forth. Grandpa Samuels, that’s what I call him, gave me a riddle to go along with the house. He said, Never let a sleeping dog lie."

But, Bob, I said, it seems that old saying was ‘Let a sleeping dog lie,’ not what you said.

Yes, Bob said. That’s the way I remember it, but Grandpa grinned when he said it and that is what he meant. He said before his father painted it many years ago, the riddle was written on the inside back wall with what he thought was original paint.

You think this Wilheim Stagg put it there? I asked.

Yes, at least Grandpa thought it was there around seventeen hundred when his great-great-great-grandfather bought the place.

We began to survey the place inside and out. There was a small four foot by five foot cellar in the middle of the room with iron doors that opened upward. The rest of the floor, ceiling and walls were a cement plaster or seemed so. There was nothing in the cellar. Its walls and bottom were of very old-looking red brick. We closed the iron doors and tried to think of what we were missing.

Do you think Mr. Samuels knows what the riddle means? I asked.

Bob shrugged. Maybe, but I don’t think he ever was sure; just a guess, I would say.

I looked around the room and as I did, a thought came to me. How big is this room, Bob?

Well, I have my tape in the truck. Let’s measure it," he said.

We measured the room and it was twenty-five feet by fifteen feet. We then went outside and measured the width. It measured seventeen feet.

Well, that makes the walls about a foot thick, I said.

Next we checked the length. His twenty-five-foot tape ran out well before we reached the end.

That’s strange, Bob said, How can that be? We must be ten feet from the back wall.

We are more like twelve feet, I said.

The back wall can’t be that thick, can it? he asked.

I think we may have figured out the riddle, Bob, old boy. Something is bad wrong here.

A missing room, he said. Do you think someone is buried in there?

What did Wilheim do for a living? I asked.

Well, he and his wife had a store or shop, whatever they called it in those days. He also was a printer of some small-town paper. You don’t think it was his print shop, do you? he asked.

Could be, Bob. Guess you will have to make the decision to find out by going through the back inside wall.

What if there is a body in there. What will I do with it? he asked.

I don’t really think it holds a body, but I do think maybe it was his print shop, I said.

Why would he seal up his shop? That would make no sense at all, he said.

It might if he didn’t want anyone touching his printing equipment or other things after he died, I said.

That stirred Bob and he said, Two-hundred-fifty-year-old printer equipment. That would make my day, I’d say.

Might make your year but don’t be too sure. I was only making a guess.

Bob took some tools from his tool box and we went inside. First we chiseled the cement plaster away in an area about a foot across some three feet above the floor. About two inches deep, we hit a red brick wall and then we slowly worked upon the mortar between the bricks. After an hour or so, we had bricks cleared from the square-foot area.

Bob went to his truck and returned with a three-cell flashlight. He pointed it through the hole. He gasped and the light fell from his hand. I caught it before it hit the floor.

He seemed in a state of shock but then he said, Grady, look through the hole.

Expecting the worst, I pointed the light through and gasped myself. The shop seemed totally intact. There were old things everywhere.

Bob looked at me and laughed. It is wonderful, isn’t it? he said.

We both sat upon the floor. The biggest find we ever had was behind that brick wall. It was sheer exhilaration and we were both suddenly drained.

We sat there for ten minutes or more and slowly rising, I said to Bob, Let’s go and get a good breakfast at Cannon’s Cafe and then come back later in the afternoon and go on through the wall. It’s getting pretty damn hot. I had hardly noticed until now.

Yeah, that sounds like a great idea. I’ve been sweating like a pig but in all the excitement, I hardly noticed myself.

As we drove the three miles or so to the cafe, we discussed our plans concerning the late afternoon.

Well, said Bob, I think the best approach would be to clear a good-size hole, maybe even take most of the wall down. I’d like to keep portions on both sides for use in my frame shop. Then we could itemize what we find and list it. I have a ledger at my pad. We can use it for inventory.

After a hearty breakfast, we drove to Bob’s apartment and got our swimsuits and headed to the beach.

We returned around three to his pad, showered, grabbed our dirty work clothes and headed back to the old stone house.

Throughout the rest of the day we carefully removed brick after brick until we had removed most of what Bob had wanted. We then cleaned up the broken cement, swept the floor and after locking up for the night, we returned to his place for a good shower.

After eating a large supper at the Fish House, we returned for a well-deserved sleep. Off and on during the night we would awaken and discuss what we thought we had found.

Next morning after going to the cafe for an early breakfast, we drove to the stone house and began our inventory.

Bob handled the items and I listed them in the book as he called them out. This took until noon and luckily, this had been an overcast day, otherwise the heat would have run us out before that.

The list was larger than we could have imagined. Wilheim had stuffed that fifteen foot by ten foot area with every conceivable item.

Bob offered me quite a lot of the booty, which I would take home with me. He gave me all the books and written material. I was to read it over and copy anything that pertained to his new house or frame shop, I should say.

We spent the next three days sea fishing off the coast and Thursday, I returned home to my mothers in Whitmire.

Over the next three weeks, mostly on weekends, I looked over the treasure. It was fascinating reading and looking over the other items Bob had given me.

There was an old flintlock rifle with the name William Henry Overstreet engraved in the stock. It was a beautiful gun and although well used, I could tell that it had been made by an excellent gunsmith. His name was etched in a small area on the underside of the barrel. (I would like to track down the maker if it is possible some day). There was a diary of Wilheim Stagg, a journal of William Henry Overstreet and many printed sheets which I assumed came off of Wilheim’s printing press. The most unusual item was a leather pouch which had been tied with a piece of paper around it. It said the property of James Caleb. Inside, Bob and I had found two gold Spanish coins, a red stone, a beautiful blue arrowhead, a round clay pottery piece which may represent the sun and a very strange form of a pocket knife.

I had given Bob one of the gold pieces since he collected coins, and also since he had given me all of the items that were rightfully his.

The red stone I would take to a friend who worked in precious stones. It possibly could be a ruby. If so, it was a good one.

There was a strange piece of wood about one inch in diameter with a faded piece of leather wrapped around it. As I unrolled the leather, the inside revealed a very unusual map printed in a red ink upon the surface. Studying it carefully, I realized it was a portion of the Carolina area showing many of the rivers and some smaller streams. It was quite pretty with the designs representing villages, towns and several animals here and there. At the bottom was the name William Henry Overstreet, 1670.

Hopefully, there would be mention of it in the journal or maybe in the diary. Laying the map aside, I next picked up the journal and began to skim through it. I turned next to the diary of Wilheim and studied it for several hours.

He married William Henry’s father’s adopted daughter Rebecca in Jamestown and later moved to the new Charles Town in the Carolina. He mentioned asking Henry to write of his many trips to the back country in the colonies so that he could use excerpts in his small paper which he printed on his printing press.

He then noted that Henry had written all the high points of his life into the journal. This must be the journal I now had in my possession.

Later years he mentioned James Caleb, born to Henry and Ree in the year of 1672 and later still, that another son William was born and returned to London as a young man for schooling. He apparently stayed there and ran the English side of his father’s trading ventures. His brother, James Caleb, seemed to trade alongside his father Henry.

Wilheim mentioned that Henry and Ree took several trips abroad to England for business and to see their son, William.

It was time, I thought, to begin reading the journal of one William Henry Overstreet.

Three weekends passed, and one Saturday morning in early fall, I drove to the Enoree River to hunt for squirrels. I took the journal along in case I had time to read. Arriving just after daylight, I decided to read instead of hunt. I took the journal along with my .22 rifle and found a sloping bank near the river.

It was a comfortable spot with pine needles at least a foot thick to lie upon. I positioned myself and began to read.

2

THE JOURNAL

1626-1672

T his is the journal of one William Henry Overstreet, who at the request of my friend and relation, Wilheim Stagg, did begin on this date of July 3, 1673 of our Lord, with pen in hand, write and begin to write all that I have seen and heard in the upcountry of the Carolina. This being the animals, people, especial mentioned, the Catawba and Cherokee, their chiefs, women, villages, and most of all, my friend the Great Sachem of all the rivers, the one called Golden Sun and his brother, Tahasha, Great Chief of the Catawba.

In these first lines I pen, I shall attempt to retrace the steps I took to the upcountry along the creeks and