Then images rushed her. They struck like a mugger lurching from a dark alley, inflicting vile atrocities in an instant; images not of her father, but of her mother. Sitting alone. Waiting and waiting, as she had done for so many years. Waiting for him to come home. Waiting alone in her room. Crying in the dark night when she thought Fawn was sleeping. Waiting.
Fawn saw her mother’s funeral: a crushing memory of the casket being lowered, of the scant number of people watching, mostly disconnected, aloof. Few close friends. No relatives. Few people crying, but Fawn had cried. Cried until it hurt. Until she was physically exhausted. Her father off to the side, as stoic as ever.
His own tragic demise almost seemed like poetic justice. Yet somewhere, deep down, screaming in the recesses of her mind, she was confused. Something did not feel right. Dammit, it hurt to hate him so. It was frustrating. She wondered for the hundredth time why she could not just move on. The man was dead, for Chrissakes!
“No!” Fawn suddenly screamed. “No! No! No!” The sound of her words settled quickly. The floor before her momentarily wavered. She looked at the disgusting box and felt her stomach roll.
Then she pushed the cigar box beneath the bed, rose—unsteadily at first—and walked downstairs. She eventually fell asleep on the couch watching a black and white movie.
Restless dreams permeated her sleep.
CHAPTER 4
Elizabeth Courtland and her family grew up four houses away from Mike Roberson and his parents on Blanchet Street, the house where Fawn now resided. When Mike was young, Elizabeth frequently babysat for the Robersons. She and Mike had remained close throughout the years. Like Mike, Elizabeth had inherited her parent’s home following her mother’s passing and had remained a lifelong resident of Amelia Island.
Now, at age 56, Elizabeth Courtland was an invalid, stricken with multiple sclerosis over a decade ago. Partially immobilized and frequently needing the assistance of a wheelchair, Mike checked on the woman at least once a week to bring groceries or other necessities.
Although frail from sickness, Elizabeth carried herself with inner pride, speaking sharply and authoritatively, but never ostentatiously, on virtually any subject. As the years passed, her memory seemed to strengthen, inversely to the rate her body was deteriorating.
A little more than a month ago, Mike had taken Elizabeth to a doctor’s appointment. They returned to find her home had been broken into. Very little was taken; primarily costume jewelry, although one of the spare bedrooms was in shambles. An acoustic guitar, which had once belonged to Elizabeth’s father, had been smashed to pieces, along with a mirror. It was very disconcerting to Elizabeth, and Mike had increased his visits to three or four times a week, calling in between times to ensure she was okay.
With Mike out of town in training the next couple weeks, Fawn had gladly consented to visit Elizabeth. She had met the woman only once but had found her to be extremely intelligent and a pleasant conversationalist, balancing an air of informality with unpretentious grace.
On Saturday morning, Fawn arrived at Elizabeth’s house a little before ten o’clock. She was greeted by Elizabeth’s warm smile as the woman adeptly negotiated the wheelchair, leading Fawn toward the back of the house.
The two passed through a foyer and into a white hallway. Fawn paused to eye a painting above a portable serving tray. It was a picture of a conch shell: rudimentary artwork, at best.
“You like it?” Elizabeth asked, noticing Fawn’s gaze.
“Well, it’s interesting.”
“You don’t have to be polite, dear. It’s an eyesore, but it’s been in the family since the house was built in 1860. It’s an original by one of my ancestors; unfortunately, one with not much artistic talent.”
Fawn smiled awkwardly.
Elizabeth led her into the den where she came to a stop near the couch. The woman folded her delicate hands in her lap. The debilitating sickness over the last decade had aged Elizabeth well beyond her years. Thin, long, gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail, framing a thin, fair face. She was adorned primly in a long paisley dress, which reached her bare feet. Large, round glasses concealed deep, green eyes.
“Is there anything I can get for you, Ms. Courtland?” Fawn asked, feeling unusually tentative.
“No, I’m fine, but can you stay a moment, dear?” Elizabeth asked. “I’d like to talk. Oh, and by the way, congratulations on the story. It was articulate and precise,” she added, pointing to the folded newspaper on the end table, “although it must have been extremely traumatic finding that poor man’s body.”
“Thank you. It was,” Fawn said. The Jacksonville News had published her article that morning. It was her first published piece of journalism, and it had brought immense satisfaction to see her name in the byline, although she wished the topic had been something more pleasant.
Fawn spied a picture on the end table. It was a black–and-white photograph in a gilt frame. Fawn recognized the woman as a young Elizabeth, maybe eleven or twelve. There was a boy next to her, perhaps five.
“That’s my brother and me. That picture was taken in the backyard in ’68.”
“Mike didn’t tell me you had family. Actually, Mike told me you had no living relatives.” The moment the words left her mouth she realized her stupidity.
“He’s gone, my dear; passed away in September 2001.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You had no way of knowing. Unlike our ancestor who did the hallway painting, Terrence was quite the artist. See that picture hanging over the TV? He did that.”
The painting was a lavish landscape of a hillside full of flowering plants and a vibrant blue stream. Bright colors shone everywhere. The sky sparkled, and the trees bloomed brilliantly. It reminded Fawn of a Thomas Kinkade painting; or possibly undiscovered property in Oz.
“Very nice,” Fawn remarked, regretting having made Elizabeth talk about her deceased brother.
Fawn took a seat on the couch, and Elizabeth fixed her in her gaze. Then she spoke softly. “Has Mike ever told you about my father, Lawrence Courtland?”
“No,” Fawn responded.
“Then I’m going to tell you something. Secrets. I need your assurance this will stay between us. At least until I say. This is something I haven’t told Mike, and I don’t want him to know. He’d think I was going senile.”
Fawn nodded cordially, uncertain where the conversation was going.
“In 1969, when I was 13 years old, my father fell into depression. Around the same time, there were several ghastly murders in the Northeast Florida area. The atrocities against the victims could only be explained as the handiwork of a madman. Somehow, evidence led to my father as the culprit. The locals needed a martyr. At least that’s what mother believed at the time.”
Fawn was unable to mask her surprise. “Your father was charged with murder?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Father was promptly convicted, found to be criminally insane, and placed in an institution. Three years after his incarceration, when I was 16, he begged to have me visit. Not mother, just me. I guess the psychiatrists thought it might do him good, so I met with him, separated by a glass wall, able to talk only through speakers.
“It was then, in 1972, for the first time, he confessed to me. Father had, indeed, murdered. Deep down inside, I had always sensed his guilt. Funny thing for a daughter to admit, isn’t it? But then father told me an incredible story; a story so bizarre, I was sure he had invented it. The years had given him time to fabricate a yarn that only a child would believe. Apparently, he thought that, at age 16, I was incredibly naïve. But I listened. I listened as he spoke. Every word became locked in my memory. As it turned out, it was the last time we talked in person. Father died from cancer two years later in 1974 while still incarcerated.”
Fawn remained attentive. She had no idea why Elizabeth was telling her this, but she was intr
igued nonetheless.
“During our conversation, Father told me that in 1969, months before the murders, he had been rummaging around our attic—the attic in this very house—and had come across an old trunk. It was a family trunk full of everyday items—clothes, doilies, hats, change purses, ticket stubs—most dating back to the turn of the 20th century. Obviously, the trunk hadn’t been opened in years, maybe decades. It was a time capsule of bygone days.
“Father became intrigued as he studied each item, feeling the history. He found a book published in the 1800s. He thumbed through the pages and came across an aged, unopened envelope, and a one-page telegram dated June 12, 1865.
“The envelope was addressed to Coyle Courtland in Amelia Island, Florida, from his mother Sarah Courtland in Charleston, South Carolina. Father opened it. Inside was a three-page-long letter, dated April 7, 1865. It was a confession letter of sorts, written by Sarah on her deathbed and mailed to Coyle just prior to her demise.”
“Courtland. Your ancestors,” Fawn nodded.
“Yes, Sarah Courtland had grown up just inland of Tampa, Florida, where her own parents had died of scarlet fever in the early 1830s when Sarah was a teenager. An only child, Sarah remarkably managed to live in the cabin built by her father and farm the nearby fields for money. In 1835, when a Seminole Indian ambushed Sarah while she worked outside, another warrior drove the attacker away, saving her from certain death. She came to love this brave warrior, an Indian named Asi Yahola, whose name was mispronounced by whites as Osceola.”
Fawn’s interest grew two-fold. Osceola was a household name in Florida. His legacy was taught in Florida grade schools. Neither born into nor elected chief, Osceola was, nevertheless, a leader of the Seminole Indian resistance when the U.S. government imposed Indian resettlement in the 1830s to what is now Oklahoma. Defiant and strong, Osceola led his people in the second Seminole War – a seven-year-long battle with Federal troops in the Florida swamplands. He was eventually captured, held briefly at Fort Marion, which is now the Castillo de San Marcos National Monument in St. Augustine, Florida, and later transported to a fort in Charleston, South Carolina, where he subsequently died in prison.
“Your ancestor, Sarah Courtland, became Osceola’s lover?” Fawn asked incredulously.
Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, Osceola and Sarah grew close. He would go off for days and then show up at her door unexpectedly and spend several nights with her. Of course, this was all kept secret. She couldn’t let anyone know of the Indian, just as he couldn’t let his people know of his relationship with a white woman.
“In 1835, Osceola fathered a child with Sarah. His name was Coyle. Coyle was only two years old when his father, Osceola, was imprisoned in late 1837. Osceola died in captivity in early 1838, so Coyle grew up with no recollection of his father. Sarah Courtland never told Coyle the truth about his father, fearing for his safety. Half-breed children were shunned by whites and frequently killed by Indians.”
The implication suddenly dawned on Fawn. “Your father…you…you’re direct descendents of Osceola,” Fawn said.
“Yes, Osceola was my great-great-great-great-grandfather.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “But there’s more. Are you familiar with the circumstances of Osceola’s death?”
“Well, as you said, he died in captivity. I know for a while he was held prisoner at Fort Marion, which is now Castillo de San Marcos National Monument in St. Augustine, Florida.”
“That’s right. Early in 1837, U.S. Army General Thomas Jesup gave the Seminoles a white cloth—the white flag of truce—instructing them to use it as a signal for diplomatic peace talks. Then, on October 27, General Jesup sent General Hernandez to meet Osceola under a white flag of truce 10 miles south of St. Augustine. After a brief conversation, Hernandez informed the Seminoles they were his prisoners. The Indians protested. They understood they would be free to leave. The vastly outnumbered Seminoles were forced to surrender without a fight.
“The citizens of Florida celebrated the capture of Osceola, but others around the country were outraged at General Jesup’s ruse of apprehending Osceola under the sacred white flag of truce.
“Nevertheless, Osceola, John Horse, Coacoochee, King Philip, and 16 other Indians were incarcerated inside one of the storerooms at Fort Marion. Virtually escape-proof, the cell had only one opening, a slotted window 15 feet high, blocked by two iron bars. Waiting for a dark, moonless night, the inmates managed to escape through the bars. They had feigned illness for days, starving themselves so they could fit through. One by one, the prisoners emerged and dropped down the rough outer wall of the fort to the moat. Osceola had been too ill to join the escape and remained behind with King Philip, who was near death.
“After the escape from Fort Marion, the army moved Osceola to Fort Moultrie, South Carolina. There, his health rapidly deteriorated. On January 30th, he died in his cell, attended by his family and U.S. Army officers.”
Elizabeth paused, taking a drink of water from a glass on the end table. Fawn leaned back on the couch, unsure where Elizabeth was going with the story. It was certainly fascinating to find out Elizabeth was a direct descendent of Osceola, and it would probably make a great story, but she had no idea why the woman would be relating this history. Fawn sensed there was something more; something Elizabeth had yet to convey.
Elizabeth continued. “While in captivity at Fort Marion in St. Augustine in 1837, Osceola befriended a U.S. Army physician, Dr. Frederick Weedon. When Osceola found out he was to be moved to Fort Moultrie in Charleston in December of that year, he requested, and was granted, that Dr. Weedon accompany him as his personal physician. Dr. Weedon attended to Osceola for two months before the Indian passed away.”
Fawn was even more baffled about where Elizabeth was going with this story. The older woman must have read Fawn’s confusion.
“I promise you, dear, this will all tie together. I ask your indulgence just a bit longer,” Elizabeth said. Her eyes seemed to have dulled somewhat as the story pushed along.
Fawn nodded with a half smile, contemplating ways to end the conversation and be on her way.
“That’s when the story turns bizarre,” Elizabeth said, her expression bland. “In a moment alone with Osceola’s body while it lay in the coffin just after death, Dr. Weedon did something completely unexpected: he secretly severed the head of the Indian, his friend, and took it back to his home in St. Augustine, Florida.”
Fawn gave Elizabeth a puzzled look. She had never heard this and briefly wondered if Elizabeth was toying with her.
Again, Elizabeth must have read Fawn’s expression. “I assure you, my dear, it’s all true. After Dr. Weedon severed the head, he sealed the casket, and Osceola was buried near Fort Moultrie in South Carolina where his grave remains today.”
Fawn spoke. “So what became of Osceola’s head?”
“Dr. Weedon embalmed it, using some special concoction he derived from local plants. Then he kept it inside his office, sometimes in his house. It was said that when his sons misbehaved, he would hang the head on their bedpost as a form of punishment.”
“Father of the year,” Fawn remarked, crinkling her face.
Elizabeth forced a smile. “The Indian’s skull was eventually sealed inside an airtight glass container and given to Dr. Weedon’s son-in-law, who was a doctor in New York. Several years later, the skull was passed to Valentine Mott, a New York physician, who displayed it in his Surgical and Pathological Museum. In 1865, it was lost in a fire when the New York museum burned to the ground.”
1865. Popular date, Fawn thought, considering 1865 was the date on the letter from Sarah to the son she and Osceola conceived. Her interest piqued a notch higher.
“The unopened letter my father found in our attic was a confession from Sarah Courtland to her son, Coyle, who lived on Amelia Island. In it, she divulged the true nature of Coyle’s ancestry as Osceola’s so
n. She promised Osceola prior to his death that she would one day tell Coyle of his father and of his Indian heritage.
“In addition to her confession regarding his father, in the letter, Sarah also told Coyle of Osceola’s last request: a request that had been ignored by the officials in South Carolina upon the infamous Indian’s death. Osceola’s wish was to have his remains buried in Florida. In the letter, she pleaded for her son to honor his father’s last request. She asked Coyle to obtain the skull of Osceola, housed in a museum in New York, and exhume the remains of Osceola from the gravesite near Fort Moultrie. Once Coyle had the head and body, he was to take the bones to Florida. There, they were to be placed in a specific location, although Father never elaborated on where when we spoke that day at the institution.”
“Well, we know this final request didn’t happen,” Fawn remarked. “You mentioned Osceola is still interred near Fort Moultrie in Charleston, South Carolina.”
“It wasn’t for lack of effort,” Elizabeth agreed. “Recall that, along with the envelope, my father found a telegram dated June 12, 1865, tucked away in the pages of the same book discovered in the attic. The telegram was sent from Coyle in New York to his wife in Florida. Its message was brief. It said: In New York. On my way home with a promise. Love, Coyle. Reading between the lines, this is an indication Coyle arrived in New York where Osceola’s head was on display in the museum.”
Fawn interjected. “But you said the envelope from Sarah to Coyle was sealed when your father found it in 1969. Coyle obviously didn’t read the letter from Sarah. How would he have known Osceola was his father, or about his mother’s dying request to obtain the skull and the body of Osceola, if he never opened the envelope?”
“Father had thought this through,” Elizabeth continued, “and had come up with a probable solution. Coyle Courtland fought as a Confederate soldier in the Civil War. He was attached to the Florida Volunteer Infantry, eventually earning the rank of captain. Near the war’s end, Coyle’s regiment was fighting in North Carolina. When Lee surrendered to Grant at the Appomattox Courthouse on April 9, 1865, many Confederates continued to fight, finally laying down their arms in late April.
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