(This is the introductory story of Clifton Anderson’s arrival in the Kettle Creek area. Clifton and Cross Toed John are both fictional characters. Their friendship would lead them to share many adventures and near escapes along the Southern frontier of what would one day be the state of Georgia.)
The young woodsman stood as if frozen. Only his eyes slowly moved, sweeping his surroundings with intense scrutiny. The reason for his motionless posture stood in the center of the clearing before him. Actually, there were three reasons there. Three Creek warriors slowly walked across the center of the clearing from his left to his right. The one in the middle appeared somewhat older and was intently listening as one of the younger men seemed to be explaining something very important, if his rapid hand gestures meant anything.
Clifton stood shielded from their sight behind a thin screen of hanging wild grape vines strung up and almost overwhelming a smallish pine tree fighting for life among its much taller brothers. That and the thick palmetto bushes forming the fringe of the clearing were enough, as long as no one stared too intently at him. And as long as he didn’t move and thereby draw their attention.
Even as he stood motionless, Clifton‘s gaze began to register the fact that the clearing was one of hard packed ground. There was little grass there. The ground was stained reddish in places. Though he had never seen such a place before, Clifton knew he was looking on one of the Creek ceremonial dancing grounds the settlers along the frontier told stories of. This one was located on a very high bluff along the small river southern frontier folks called the Satilla.
Suddenly, the three men stopped and turned quickly, looking towards the far side of the clearing which extended up to the very edge of the bluff. A couple of white egrets had loudly risen from the nearby river, obviously disturbed. Quickly, the men ran across the clearing crouching down as they reached the far edge, finally dropping down onto their stomachs to ease carefully up to the rim where they carefully looked over.
After a moment or two of stillness, they began to back away slowly. Once well away from the rim, they rose and ran quickly across the clearing disappearing into the pine forest. At once Clifton began backing away from the clearing. Turning, he ran in a crouch towards the rim of the bluff being sure to stay low and away from the clearing’s fringe.
Once near the rim, he dropped to his knees and crawled up to look carefully over. Now he understood the Indians’ behavior! Standing in the shallow river below stood something he had never thought he would see. Down below, four large beasts drank long from the slowly moving waters. Their massive heads sprouted short curved horns. They slowly swished their short tails as if trying to drive away the ever present insects of the region. Clifton slowly let out his breath in a somewhat controlled gasp as the surprise almost got the best of him. Below him stood four buffalo!
Clifton had heard stories of buffalo occasionally being seen in the Cherokee lands far to the north. But it was rare. Never had he heard of them being this far south. Suddenly, all four beasts lifted their heavy looking heads and sniffed the slowly wafting breeze dancing across the tops of the palmettos. Almost in unison, they turned and ran off upriver, headed northwest as if they feared an attack. Clifton supposed that the Creeks had attempted a flanking move on the animals. He lay still to observe what they might do next.
But it wasn’t Indians which emerged from the palmetto thickets across the river and walked out onto the sandbar! A full grown male panther walked out! Lifting his nose he seemed to be catching the air currents as he slowly stepped towards the water. It was obvious that he had not been aware of the buffalo. Clifton realized that the wind down on the river’s edges was blowing from the big cat’s direction towards the retreating buffalo. They were now out of sight and out of sound. The big cat seemed unaware that he had spooked anything. Suddenly, the three Creek Indian hunters stepped out of the concealment of a reed filled slough, their gazes directed upriver as they hoped to catch sight of the buffalo. Only when the big cat snarled angrily and reluctantly turned from his anticipated drink to trot back towards the concealment of the riverbank did his presence register on the surprised hunters. With a final glance and snarl, the big cat moved into his cover. The three men stood motionless for a few moments. Then, realizing all was lost, they retreated from sight back up the dry slough.
Clifton retreated from the rim and then turned eastward headed downriver. He had thoughts of putting some distance between himself and the Indians. He wasn’t as concerned about the big cat, knowing that given the chance, the cat would avoid him. He had heard that somewhere south of the river some settlers were starting a couple of new settlements on the edge of the giant swamp called the Okefenokee. He had thoughts of drifting that direction. “Buffalo!” he whispered to himself ,”Who’d a thought that those animals would come this far south? Bet I’ll never see such as that again!”
A mile or so downriver, he found a shallow area linking two offset sandbars at a place where the river made one of its many snaking curves. Soon he came upon a well used trail which seemed inviting and showed signs of wagon tracks. Silently, he walked on. From time to time he thought of the Indians and slowly shifted his hand to his long knife while tightening his grip on his rifle. The birds were singing all around the area and he was sure the Indians were far behind him now.
A couple of hours later the trail-weary young man stood quietly beneath the shade of an old oak tree. His eyes watched the scene ahead of him, his mind taking it in piece by piece. Clifton Anderson was naturally shy. He was in no hurry to walk up to the gathering of folks he was watching until he could decide what had excited them so much. This caution was born of experience. One could never be too careful along the southern frontier.
With Spanish influence still being felt from the southern reaches, occasional Indian predations here and there, and the often talked of, but seldom seen, groups of evil worthless sorts from the southern coastal areas, a man could easily be accused of things he had not done. The settlers of the southern frontier tended to be good folks, of good stock, but when rumors flew, reason would sometimes fly away from normally stable minds. It paid to be careful as rumors were flying about of recent Indian killings out in the Mississippi territory. News only recently had come of a massacre of settlers at a fort called Fort Mims out in the western region of the Creek Indian lands. This was rumored to be a result of English agents encouraging and arming the Indians.
That bunch over there was a bit upset over something and Clifton felt it wise to move slowly. Since he stood at the opening of the trail into the clearing, he couldn’t very well turn and leave without causing someone to think that he might be up to no good. He therefore, began to slowly walk onwards towards the Kettle Creek community, as it was known. The few buildings were located near a crossing of a creek known as Kettle Creek, hence its name. The few buildings scattered around here and there included a meeting house, at least four cabins, and what looked to be a trading post type of store. It was in front of this modest post, the crowd had gathered. It was obvious to Clifton that the numbers of people here were greater than the numbers of buildings would account for. “Some of these folks must be farmers from nearby,” he thought, as he walked up slowly.
“It was a panther, I know it was!” exclaimed one excited man of medium age. “Well, it could’ve been a bear!” retorted another. “Truth is, we don’t really know what it was”, an older man stated calmly but loud enough to be heard. The crowd quieted; through their actions they seemed to acknowledge his status as a leader among them. “It could have been a panther, it could have been a bear. I’m not sure what else it could have been, though we do have the occasional reddish colored wolf hereabouts,” he summed up. The members of the crowd muttered agreement here and there. “Regardless of what it was, old Billy didn’t have much chance to fight or run, it appears. Let’s get what’s left of him buried, and then we can decide what course of action needs to be taken. It’s too hot to let Billy’s remains lay out any longer.” This, the crowd wholeheartedly agreed to. It was obvious to Clifton that this Billy fellow had been dead a little while and the heat was probably beginning to make his remains unbearable to be around.
Still unnoticed by most, Clifton eased up into the shade of the store’s front porch area and leaned against the wall listening. Sam, the store’s owner, had noticed him. As the crowd began to drift off towards the meeting house, he walked over and greeted Clifton. A few greetings and introductory comments told both men all they each needed to know. Clifton was a drifting hunter and adventurer. A typical single young frontiersman of the time. Drifting here and there, looking for a place to maybe settle in and a wife to settle with.
A young man from solid hard working church going folks of the Savannah area, Clifton had left home after his parents passed away from fever. His older brother inherited the small cabin and the hundred or so acres of farmland just south of the Savannah River. After a year or so passed, his brother had taken a wife. Her husband had also died of fever and left her alone with two small children. It quickly became apparent that there wasn’t much room in the small cabin for another grown sized man. The little cabin had needed an additional room added to accommodate the children and extra furniture, but once that work was finished, Clifton said his goodbyes and hit the trail.
He had decided to head westward. He drifted southwest following the trails of others who had gone before. It wasn’t long before he had crossed the old southern legal boundary of the state of Georgia, the Altamaha River. This put him in the, as yet largely unsettled Creek lands which extended down into Spanish Florida.
Now here he was, at Kettle Creek community, along the northwestern edge of the great Okefenokee Swamp. A community he would come to know well in the years to come. The years ahead would hold many adventures for Clifton along the nearby Satilla River and in and around the great swamp as well.
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“No one knows ‘xactly what it was, but poor Billy didn’t have much of a chance,” Sam commented. Clifton had entered the small store and decided to add a little coffee to his supply. While doing so, he questioned Sam, who was more than eager to talk about the new mysterious death. “Where was he found?” asked Clifton. “He was found floating in the creek yonder a little ways downstream towards the Satilla River. His body was hung up in some sweet gum trees and cypress knees,” answered Sam. “Sure is a mystery, he was tore up something bad.” The discussion chased almost all thoughts of his recent buffalo sighting from Clifton’s mind. “Besides,” he thought, “I’m new here. They would probably think I was lying if I told them.”
Leaving the store, Clifton encountered a few of the group as they slowly returned and short introductions were made all around. In the way of the frontier, the questions were simple and direct, as were the answers. It was the same story told countless times along the frontier… someone else drifting and looking for a better life and a place to settle and call their own. Clifton soon learned that the recently deceased Billy Boyd had no relatives living nearby. He had been newly arrived in the area and was thinking of settling just across the creek when he disappeared from his campsite near the crossing. It had been almost a week before he was accidently found by a hunter.
Taking his leave after a short while of listening to the various opinions being offered as to how Billy had met his demise, Clifton wondered towards Kettle Creek. On a whim almost, he turned to follow the creek’s flow downstream. Several curious eyes watched this. All of the watching men understood the lure of the mystery. If the truth had been told, every one of those watchers had been thinking about taking that walk. These were men of the frontier, adventurers and to some extent, wanderers.
Clifton checked his powder to be sure it was dry, and slowly drew his hand along his belted waist to his long knife. A man had to always be ready. With a practiced eye and sharp ears he tested the environment around him as he slowly wandered along the low bank of the creek. In the area here close to the community, the creek bank was a bit open and showed evidence of many men coming and going as they fished or hunted. Even so, Clifton watched carefully as he walked. Alligators and various snakes were bountiful in the region. He had no desire to walk up too close to any of them. He traveled slowly as the undergrowth thickened along the bank. It soon became too thick to allow for free passage along the water’s edge. Choosing an easier route a little further up the bank from the water, he discovered a narrow footpath which ran parallel to the creek.
With the sun dipping into the west and a growing darkness filling the woodland of oaks, sweet gums, and varied other types of trees, Clifton chose a camping spot with easy access to the creek’s cool waters. Soon a small but healthy fire was burning with two good sized perch staked over it to cook. The nearby coffee pot took time to build to a slow boil. Clifton leaned back against a good sized oak and listened to the far off echoing call of an owl. Here, the creek was wider than it had been at the Kettle Creek crossing. He knew that not too far away was the Satilla River into which this creek would empty.
With his rifle across his lap and his hand resting near the handle of his knife, Clifton’s hearing tested the evening’s sounds. Slowly, the coffee began to boil. Clifton batted one eye to discourage a noisy mosquito. Nearby a small red rat snake passed. Slowly he scouted the edge of the little camp, his tongue darting in and out as he hunted. A bat dipped quickly down out of the night sky and swung away just as quickly. To the east a bit of moon began to show through an opening in the branches of numerous trees. Across from his fire, a small branch seemed to sway slightly as if a passing wind current was disturbing it. Clifton’s slightly sleepy mind and slowly drifting eyes registered all of this. And slowly the thought came to the forefront of his mind… there was no wind!
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Clifton eyes shot back to the gently swaying branch, now it was stilled, slightly bent as it lay against the leg of the man who stood there silently watching the frontiersman. Clifton didn’t move. His eyes took in the young Indian who stood across the fire from him at the edge of the circle of flickering light. The young Creek warrior seemed to look deeply into Clifton’s eyes as the two men remained unmoving in the warm, still night. Then almost casually, the young Creek spoke. “Buenos tardes,” he said. Clifton, now slowly rising to his feet, heard the man’s Spanish but was unsure of the response he should make. However, sensing that the Indian was speaking a greeting, he answered,” Hello.”
“I am John,” the Creek said now in English. “I am Clifton,” answered the young frontiersman as he quickly glanced around. The Creek saw the glance and replied,” I am alone, no one else is here but us.” Clifton now slowly walked around the fire and extended his hand,” I am pleased to meet you.” With only a slight hesitation, the Creek warrior grasped the hand quickly but loosely and it was over.
Unknowingly, these two young men had begun a journey which would bind them tightly as friends for many years to come. They would fight against the forces of the frontier to defend each other and others. Their friendship would lead to many adventures and only lapse when the Seminole Indian war of the late 1830’s would cause them to have to drift apart.
With a nod, Clifton invited the young man to join him at the fire and the two began to talk, for there was a reason the young warrior had sought out the white man. He had come with news of what had happened to Billy Boyd on a muddy stretch of the bank of Kettle Creek.
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“So, that’s what happened? He fought a bear and lost then got half ate by a gator? You sure about this?” Sam asked as Clifton ended his explanation in front of the small post at Kettle Creek. “That’s what the Indian told me,” Clifton replied. “He even showed me the place where it happened. I found some bits of red cloth there where it was snagged in the briers. I saw plenty of tracks from the bear and what look like a man’s tracks. There is a big alligator sunning near there as well.”
“Well, I’ll be!” snorted Sam. “Who’d of thought it?”
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Clifton, walking slowly back down the creek path spotted the young Indian leaning against the old oak. As he approached, the young Indian smiled and said,” I know a very good fishing place on the river.” With that, he turned and walked down the path followed by Clifton, who had already begun to think that just maybe he had found the area he might want to call home. “Say,” he began, “How’d you learn to speak English and Spanish? You speak more languages than any white man I know.” John glanced back briefly and then began,” There used to be an old Spanish priest…”
Clifton, suddenly remembering, interrupted him. ”Do you know what a buffalo is?” he asked.
The End
