I am Grey Eyes a story of old Florida

By Bill Ryan

Grey Eyes and his companion Black Sandy were written about by then British Governor of Florida in 1767. They organized a great cattle drive from Georgia of some 500 cows intended to feed the arriving Minorcan settlers. Grey Eyes and his group of 25 Indian boys were credited by Governor Grant in finding a route through the difficult Florida swamps and wild county. This routing may have followed ancient Indian pathways to become the Old Kings Road. The Kings Road in Florida existed from the American Revolution right up to 1914 and was the prime entry way to Florida before modern roads were built.
This is researched historical fiction by author Bill Ryan who also wrote "The Search for Old Kings Road", "Bulow Gold", "Osceola His Capture and Seminole Legends" stories of the rich and little known early history of Florida. Author Ryan uses the first person story to permit the characters to speak for themselves. Grey Eyes covers the rich and often violent story of early Florida.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Ryan
• Release date: May 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476389172

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

I am Grey Eyes

A story of old Florida

By William P. Ryan

The King’s road extended from Colerain Ga. , to Jacksonville (Cow Ford), to St. Augustine, through what is now Flagler County Florida, and then to New Smyrna on Florida’s Atlantic Coast. It was built by the British prior to the American Revolution and remained the main entryway into Florida right up to the 20th Century. Some say that parts of this historic roadway were located and used by a Seminole Indian Grey Eyes accompanied by 25 Indian boys and his best friend Black Sandy in a historic cattle drive.

I am Grey Eyes

Copyright 2012

William P. Ryan

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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This is a work of fiction. Names, events and times are as accurate

as much as I can make them, but no representation is made that

this is a true historical account

"Sometimes a story told can say more than just the facts" – Grey Eyes

Table of Contents

Cover

Start

Copyright

Preface

Chapter 1 We find Grey Eyes

Chapter 2 Living with the Spanish

Chapter 3 The cattle drive

Chapter 4 Blazing a trail

Chapter 5 We find the herd

Chapter 6 Important talk

Chapter 7 An ancient Indian

Chapter 8 Looking for the route

Chapter 9 Our crossing begins

Chapter 10 Meet the stores keeper

Chapter 11 A strange Indian

Chapter 12 Spanish cows

Chapter 13 Almost there

Chapter 14 Death in the sea

Chapter 15 We are gone

Chapter 16 Singing Bird

Chapter 17 The Three Sisters

Chapter 18 Pellicer tale

Chapter 19 The Spanish return

Chapter 20 Slave catchers

Chapter 21 Moultrie Creek treaty

Chapter 22 Three sisters again

Chapter 23 Yaha-Hajo visits

Chapter 24 Bulowville abandoned

Chapter 25 Black Sandy

Chapter 26 My sons appear

Chapter 27 Silver speaks

Chapter 28 A Black Seminole story

Chapter 29 The waking dream

References

Author

Preface

The veil between what is real, what is unknown, and what we like to think of as our existence is very thin. I have a physicist friend, Gus Prince, who tried to teach me what reality and matter are, but I ended up confused.

You see a movement in the corner of your eye, look and it is gone; you awake from that all too real dream. Have you ever felt there is a presence in your life, it is there for a second, and then it vanishes? A random thought appears and you wonder from whence it came. Some words appear on a page and you don’t recall writing them. You rarely glimpse the reality that can be. I think the telling of stories is our invention that tries to pin down what we believe is real. I like to tell stories. I apologize for moving some dates, and inventing a few characters. Most of those I am wrote about did live. I have used their names when I knew them. Grey Eyes existed. His story is as true to the events of the times as I could make it.

It began when I researched Old Kings Road, the ancient highway that once ran between Georgia and the Atlantic coastline of Florida. It was a story that needed telling again. Old Kings kept coming back no matter what I did. Black Sandy and Grey Eyes would appear as I read more of the old documents.

Two days ago I was writing this in my small office that overlooks our back garden and a large wetland. Night was near. I spent the day researching, and reading some books about the Seminole Coacoochee (Wild Cat)

I glanced out my window. Two large grey eyes were looking back at me!

A huge cat was sitting outside on our stone pathway. It stared back at me.

It sat without moving, looking into my eyes. It had a lean and hungry look. The eyes reflected our window light. They were grey.

I called my wife Pat from the kitchen.

The cat (maybe it was a cougar or an exceptional wild cat) stood and paced back and forth. It walked to the door of our pool enclosure and sat looking thru the screen. It wanted to come in. I did not invite it. Then it appeared to shrug its shoulders, and walked slowly back into the dark wetland behind our home.

I wish I could have spoken to that cat.

Bill Ryan

Palm Coast Florida

December 22, 2007

Chapter 1 - We find Grey Eyes

It was some time after the Great War between the states. The professor rode a tiring horse of little consequence. He had purchased it for a high price in San Antonio Texas and rode it into Mexico crossing at what was called El Passo del Aguila by the Mexicans and Eagle Pass by the Texans. He followed the Mexican guide hired at the Texas trading post. The guide wore a dirty white shirt, a tattered wide straw hat and worn canvas pants. He sat loosely upon a large grey mule of some age that splashed across the shallow river. The guide was of short stature, the mule stood high and knew it was in charge.

The professor wore a broad white hat, a white linen shirt now yellowing with sweat, black trousers tucked into tall black boots and a wide belt hung with a colt revolver, sold to him at an outlandish price. He did not know how to use it, but it made him feel better. He was a tall man, a thin man with a beardless, sharp face and deep-set eyes. He was young, possibly only 28 years. His saddle bags were heavily packed. His horse was ‘a walker’ and easily kept up a steady pace following the unpredictable movements of the big mule.

"How far is Piedras Negras, the village you told me about? he asked in a low voice as his horse pulled up alongside. The Mexican smiled broadly, his face was dark from the sun, and his teeth were broken and stained. He spoke good English. Just a short way, I will take you to the old woman I told you about. Then she maybe can lead you to the old Indian. I can’t say you will find him, but I did hear stories that he was up there somewhere. The guide laughed again, even if this is only an old woman’s tale, you can enjoy a bit of Old Mexico as the food is excellent in Piedras Negras with some good Agave Tequila. I go only that far, but I know the old Indian woman can tell you about your Grey Eyes. "

As his horse plodded onward up the sun blasted trail, the professor thought about his long journey that had begun with his arrival in Indian Territory at Fort Smith and his many interviews with Florida Seminoles, and finally with a few elderly Black Seminole scouts who had been famous with the U. S. horse soldiers. What a story this would make, it would be a major book, he mused. When he returned East, he would have material that could grant him tenure in any of the Boston schools that had not taken his writings seriously. He was told the Mexican Seminoles departed after the Civil War. There were rumors some were still there. He was making the long, still dangerous trip down the Texas Road to discover the truth. He heard many stories in Indian Territory of Coacoochee, the Florida Seminole warrior, and John Horse, his the black Seminole partner, their escape to Mexico, their command of an army of displaced Florida Indians that fighting off the white raiders for many years. The army’s Black Seminole Scouts claimed to come from this fighting band of Seminoles. His saddle bag was now rich with filled notebooks. He could mine them out on his return. The West was now the thing, everyone was writing about it. Florida had an even richer story just waiting to be told. There were rumors of the wild colonial days, the big cattle drive, Old Kings highway, a black slave rebellion that no one seemed to know about, and the desperate Seminole Wars. Florida’s story was a great adventure that rivals that of the American West. He was the one to tell it. He was lucky to have fallen in with a group of regular army riding south down the Texas road as far as San Antonio so he had no fear of raiding Indians, there were plenty still about. Now he was close to getting what he needed for the book. He now was chasing a rumor about an ancient Indian called Grey Eyes, who might still to be found in the Old Mexico Provence of Coahuila.

See, we are here, said the guide as their mounts came over a high rise on the well marked trail. It was starting to grow dark as they rode into the small town of Piedras Negras. He was led to the glowing oil lamps hanging on the front of an adobe cantina. He was promised a bed free of fleas and a good meal. The steaming dish with chili beans and meat tacos was as good as promised. The young girl serving did not speak English, but he had enough Spanish to get by. She brought him a wicker wrapped bottle of yellow colored Mescal to his bag. The local Tequila was terrible. When he retired for a restless night it was into a dark chamber without a door and only a stub of a flickering candle. He held his pistol close lying on his back trying to sleep on his rough pallet padded with a straw tick. The promise about fleas was not true.

The woman arrived in the morning. She was old. Her face had the tracks of age. Her dress was bright and clean hung with shining hammered coins. Her hair was braided Indian style and still had hints of its once black color. She was unusually tall, and looked as if she might have some Indian blood. When she spoke, the Professor was amazed as it was with good English, even perhaps a hint of Florida Cracker twang. Her manner was not Indian at all. You want to find the old one? she asked moving closer in order to see him. Her eyes were lightly veiled with white cataracts. He’s hard to find, and most times, he’s not there, but if you are real lucky he might appear for you. Take a bottle and that likely will bring him out, she laughed. Here sit, get out your notes, and I will give you how to get there, it’s a ways up north along the Rio San Rodrigo that feeds the Rio Grande. I can not go there, but if you follow my words exact, you might find him, she said and dictated instructions that he wrote down with care. The professor gave her three silver dollars. She stuffed them into a skin bag. Some say he is a supernatural, others say just real old, but there’s nothing to be feared from him, and maybe you will hear a good tale. My mother, she was called Margery, came from Florida. Mother told me much about the Seminoles, she was the wife of one. They are gone now. Most returned to Texas after the Civil War. I often spoke with Grey Eyes. My eyes too were grey in color when I was younger, now no more. The ancient one might still show up for you. She walked away with a stride unexpected in an old woman that ended the conversation. Tell him one of the sisters sent you, she said as her voice faded.

It was a hot, hard trip north to the Rio San Rodrigo in very rough country. The instructions of the old women were exact and the professor soon found the landmarks she gave. He would never have found this place without her. At mid day he saw the adobe, one room hut, hidden on the high side of a small, dry ravine. The crumbling building had no windows. A tattered skin hung in place of a door. There was no sign of life. The pole roof looked ready to fall in. He tied off the horse in a lean-too attached to the side for shade and pushed back the tattered skin. He could see nothing in the dark interior. A crude plank table, some chairs appeared as his eyes adjusted. The room remained too dark to see the back. His eyes were still dazzled by the bright Mexican sun. He heard a dry voice in the darkness.

Did you bring paper? An Indian knows when a white man comes to steal, he brings paper.

A figure moved toward the table, scraped back a chair and sat in the dim light. Here was an old Indian now becoming clear in the weak light from the doorway. He wore a faded, calico blouse, a thick string of colored beads and pierced ocean shells hung around his neck. Blackened deerskin trousers ended in cracked leather half boots. A wide Mexican belt held a polished silver buckle flashed light from the doorway, and cast reflections into the Professor’s eyes. The neck beads clicked like an insect when the old man shifted. A dusty, faded red cloth turban was wrapped around his head with a few straggling white hairs showing. Torn cloth leggings were loosely wrapped down to his boots. The old man sat silently looking at the professor who now took a seat opposite. A charred, blackened fire pit on one side with smoke hole in the roof could now be seen as the sign someone once lived here. There was a hint of a dark pallet in the back of the room. The shadowed room did not have the look of life. The floor showed no footprints in the wind blown sand and dry leaves. Light still did not penetrate well into the back. The hut looked abandoned. Insects buzzed in the thatch. Something clicked in a corner; the air had the bitter smell of dust.

You are some kind of a scriber? the old Indian asked in a dry voice that was soft and hard to hear, almost a whisper. I know you have some Mescal, pour me some, and we shall talk, he said extending an encrusted yellow clay cup. The professor opened his saddle bag, pulled out the bottle and filled the cup to the brim. It was drained in one pull. The old man coughed and spat on the floor. The professor reached in his bag again, pulled out his ink bottle, pen and opened his journal. He began to explain why he was here, but the old man just gestured for a refill, and began talking as if the reason for the white man’s presence was of no matter. After the second drink, the soft voice grew stronger.

"I was once called Grey Eyes. Now I am much an old man and grey all over. You see us Indians do not age too well I think. As we age, we begin to shrivel up and turn into a prune, then we vanish. I don’t see as well as I once did, but once these eyes were clear, grey as the northern winter sky. My mind is clear. It’s strange, I can recall when I was a little boy and now I can’t remember when I last ate. Memories just come and go now like the signs of a distant storm when the sky flashes up red, and then goes away.

I was told that grey eyes run in my family, my mother was of the Alachua people who were of the group of Cow Keeper. The whites call us Seminoles, but then they called us Creeks too. That was not our real name either. The whites can’t speak the Indian real names because our names come from Mother Earth. The whites are too far from the Mother to hear or understand what she says. Cow Keeper hated the whites, especially the Spanish, he killed a lot of them. But my father came south to St. Augustine and its Indian Town, because he was a hunter. My mother had a story that we once came from a tribe of ‘white Indians’ that ruled the lands far to the north.

When I was young my steel colored eyes were the shade of a winter sky. My mother told me this was important because I would be able to see both the present, the future and the past. I did not believe this. I thought my father (who had normal dark Indian eyes) had some big secret that I could never understand. I always wanted to. As I grew older, I could link things up. I would hear one thing, see another, and suddenly the whole story was in front of me. I knew. Stories would connect for me, the present, the future and the past would flow and I knew. I told good stories for I knew what the right of a tale was. Now my one eye is much milk now, and the rising sun dazzles me. My teeth are gone, most of my hair, I still hear well but sometimes don’t understand. Now I wonder if I am still here.

I am still Grey Eyes.

My mother was proud of our clan, we were of the Eagle. She would spend the long winter evenings telling us stories of when we once held the lands near the great sea that runs down the middle of The Mother Earth. I and my sisters were little empty bowls, waiting to be filled with the tales of our ancestors, and how this earth was formed and why we were called ‘The Real People’. The fire pit would flicker as dark came. Mother would speak of our ancestor spirits.

She told us that some members of our Clan are born with the power of the grey eye. This magic had sailed across the great sea with the white men. She believed our ancestors had light skin, spoke the words of the English book, and had the grey eyes of a winter day that looked from their faces. We had stolen some of the white man’s power. In our old ones, the grey eye would appear again and again. It was a sign of great knowledge, and the skill to see both the past and the future. My mother said I should be very proud of these winter eyes. She said I would see great happenings. She told us we could move between what was before and what was yet to come. I had never seen an ancestor, did not know what one was, so I did not believe. At our campfire stories she told the tale of this ‘Lost Colony,’ that the white men held in their own written stories. When we were little she told us that we must always keep our story a secret, never tell the white man of our powers, otherwise he might again try to steal our power secret.

Many of our clan often look more like white men than other Indians. Some even have straw color hair with their grey eyes. As the fires flickered low in St. Augustine’s Indian Town, and the evening bright star rose in the sky, my Mother said our story is told by each mother in the clan to their eldest daughter. She told me to remember it too. It was a long, long time ago. I recall the dim fire coals popping and flickering more clearly than my mother’s face. I remember the smell of tanned deer hide, the sharp wood smoke, and the blinking stars in the dark nights as we drew in her every word. Now I do not recall now what my sister looked like. Why did I just tell you this? I can see you don’t believe it. The Spirits in the world are a lot stranger than any white can know or believe. Sometime a story told can say more of truth than just the facts. Do you come here to steal my secret? I have a secret and a magic.

There’s magic in stories. When I speak them, I too can again feel the sun in my face, I smell the meadows of grass, hear the waking birds. I am alive. I now feel very old, my bones ache, and the breath rattles in my chest. My time is done. I live now; feel the joy of youth as someone attends to my tale. Do I talk in a circle? All true story tellers do, if you want nothing but facts, go find one of the white man’s paper books, those are written by those who won, who can cast their story in black ink. I will speak to you truly from my heart of many things.

Mayhap I have been dust for hundreds of your years past. Who knows? As you now hear my story I will live again. Your own tale perhaps ended with the last stroke of the pen. You may soon be no more. None of us knew of the final sun set when our time ended. I am Grey Eyes and I have this curse of seeing. I am alive now when I tell my story to you. I do not ask that you believe, only that you listen and hear my heart.

Indian Town next to St. Sebastian’s River

In 1760 there was a war…some called it ‘the French and Indian war’…. We boys heard about the big war the French, Spanish and British were fighting, but that war never came down here. We used to play at being warriors, no Indian boy wanted to be the French, but few of us wanted to be Indians either. We would march up and down with sticks like muskets and pretend we were soldiers with their bright coats and big hobnailed boots. The Spanish had been living here in St. Augustine forever, some said almost 200 years. We lived well with the Spanish.

The Spanish had soldiers but they never did much, just marched up and down sometimes. There were black soldiers too, all dressed up in the brown soldier’s coats, with white linen shirts, white neck cloths and real stockings. The black soldiers would smile sometimes at us Indian boys, but you stayed away from the Spanish soldiers, you never knew what they might do. We got along with the black ones a lot better. The Spanish had slaves, there were a lot of free blacks too, run aways from the plantations up north. Sometimes the slave catchers would come to capture black families, ship them north, and sell them for silver. It didn’t pay for any Indian to get too close to these fellows. We didn’t see many catchers as the war went on. Black families kept appearing, looking for work, or food, or a place to stay. We didn’t have but a few blacks in Indian town, some were the property of the richer families, but they were more part of the family than a slave. We all depended on St. Augustine for just about everything we had. The slaves were just here, they were just part of our life.

I can’t say how old I am. Some say I was born sometime around 1752, well I guess I was about 15 years old as the whites figure things when I first met the British chief James Grant. Anyway, I was real young, but I thought I was a lot older and could do anything back then. I had a lot of friends too. An Indian boy was grown up at 15 years and nothing was impossible. We could dream of crossing the ocean, or being a hero on a great trip. My friends either had soft brown eyes, or black as a coal. They were a little nervous to look into mine, but nobody made fun of me. I was big for my age.

My friends are all gone now. I seem to recall some Mexican women, who once were very kind in feeding me. My teeth had left me, and I can’t chew their maize, but the tortillas soften up with some Mescal and they did taste good. I think that I recall that taste, but not much else. My memory of Florida is as sharp as the dawn, my brothers and sisters lived the bright days of being young. We lived in Indian Town which is what the whites called our village south of the Spanish town of St. Augustine, very near the anchor place of the big ships that came from far away. How I am in Mexico must be a story like one my mother would speak of when the sun was down and our hut was dark. Things happened so fast, the world just turned inside out. I am real old now, maybe I am the oldest thing around here. My memories come, and they go like flashes of lighting that I see sometimes in the clouds over these dry hills.

Grey Eyes then sat quietly, studying his visitor and thinking.

When did you come into this room? When did I start talking to you? Did you just appear? Or, are you some kind of a white man spirit? My clear eye sees a tall white man wearing a linen shirt stained with yellow sweat around the arms. He wears a broad Texan type of a hat. He is thin; his dusty black broadcloth suit is powdered with dust. He wears high expensive looking leather boots. He is looking back at me but, he is uneasy in this one room where I sit. Why would an old Indian make him nervous? His face is red and peeling from the sun. It’s hard to make out his face as the light dazzles met. I see that he has an open journal book, a pen and a small glass bottle that must hold ink. Strange, I do not recall him coming in here. He spoke to me, but I don’t remember clear what he said.

I am old beyond anything, said Grey Eyes again breaking the silence.

I once dressed much better than this, he said in a voice that was stronger, perhaps even younger sounding. I have memories floating in my mind from far ago, I do not always recall today or yesterday. One clear picture is that of Singing Bird, my beautiful wife of long ago, she now smiles at me with love as she braids her long black hair, I see her as it is now. I feel pain. Now fill this cup and help me to remember. I will tell you a story about old times in the Florida. We Indians tell stories to bring our ancestors and missing friends back to life so they can live again as we speak. I have some mysteries too, that perhaps you will learn of them as I tell you my tale. I will speak to you truly for I know of many things.

The ancient Indian learned forward so as to see his visitor better and began to speak in a clear voice that now sounded almost like that of a much younger man.

Chapter 2

Living with the Spanish in St. Augustine

"When I was a young boy the Spanish treated us good. My father was a hunter and he used to bring in deer that he sold in St. Augustine. The Florida deer were little things, but if you got a young one, it was real tasty, and brought a good price in St. Augustine. Meat was not a common thing back then. We kept a few Criolla breed cows that my father had brought in from some of the wild Spanish cows that were out in the palmettos, free for the taking. Well this is how I got to be real good with cows cause as a boy that was my job to keep them.

These were very bad cows too, small, with hides that colored like a sunset, white, black and yellow patterns. Those horns were knifes, they could hook you quick if you were not careful. As I grew up I learned how to herd them, how to get a lead cow in front and get the rest to follow where I wanted them to go.

My mother told me that these wild cows were brought over by the first Spanish, and some got away to grow up in the brush, and belonged to who ever could catch and herd them. Deer were getting scarce around St. Augustine. Once there had been many of these small Florida deer. I would pick off the big, fat ticks that dug into the cattle hides, and take a knife and dig out the big, round pus-full knobs from the screw worms, and the wasps that would plant their young into the cows. It took a lot of work for a little boy to care for those cows, but they were the most valuable thing we owned.

Those little Spanish cows were tough; they could eat almost anything and stayed alive in Florida. I guess in many ways they were much like us Indians, I don’t think we really wanted to come to hot Florida, but we did live here and we did real well too.

My mother kept a garden, and we ate corn, squash and beans. We dug up the fat oysters from the bay at low tide, and ate real well; our cows were for sale, and not for us to eat. Sometimes we ate raccoon, or a possum, and I could always catch fish in the river. We grew some Conti Hateka too, which made us bread, our Sofkee pot, and sweet deserts.

Only the Indians knew how to get the poison out, because it could kill you too. My mother and sisters would grind it into a powder then wash it carefully with lots of fresh water before drying and final grinding of what remained into flour. It needed lots of washing or you could get sick.

My mother had her special flat grind rocks for corn and Coontie flour. She would dry out deer meat strips and fish. The Spanish had some really hot peppers too, and my mother had a pepper bush in her garden to flavor our stew. She was a good cook.

I liked to eat.

We kept our cows in a community herd on a hammock south of Indian Town across the St. Sebastian’s River, bordered by the Matanzas River, and a marsh area rich in grass. The young boys cared for them, and helped to train our cow catcher dogs. An Indian town was always full of dogs, and the boys would train and work with them in driving and rounding up cattle. It just came natural to them. We also cut long, thin poles, tipped with a piece of leather, to drive a cow. So we were good with cattle, which were the most valuable thing we owned. Horses cost much money. We town Indians had few horses like the Spanish had, so we were good with a catcher dog and a pole, the cow would get the idea. The wild ones were terrible to drive, they went where they wanted to go, and I hated working them. If a cow