Runaway

“Tara—”

“In both knees! And I’ll scalp you and—”

“You’ll hush up before your voice carries any farther!” he warned her.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I think of you, just as loudly as I—”

“You’ll close your mouth, my love.”

“I—”

“I’ll close it for you.”

“How dare you—”

But he did dare, easily, his lips sealing her own, his tongue thrusting to fill her mouth, the force of his kiss robbing her of breath. When his lips parted from hers at last, she couldn’t quite grasp why she had been shouting. She inhaled raggedly and told him, “This is no way to carry on a conversation.”

A smile curled the left side of his mouth just slightly, and a speck of fire seemed to glimmer in his eyes. “We weren’t conversing.…”

I
have always wanted to do a series of books about Florida. It is much more than a place to me; it is home. In my own lifetime, I have watched drastic changes come to the state. No matter what those changes, it has always been a land of contrast, from the quiet peace of moss-draped oaks to the violence of ’gator-riddled swampland. Some people love it, some people hate it. Some swelter in the heat, and others dream of it during long winters in more northern climates. But to me, home is something like a close relative. I love it for all of the good—and the bad—that it entails, and I am delighted now to be embarking upon a series of books that will bring Florida through decades of change to our present day, the Florida that I know best.

Working on such a series seemed an easy prospect; I had heard so much about the state’s history all of my life. The problem there, of course, is half of what we hear is legend, a quarter is truth, another quarter downright lie, and it is amazing to realize that “knowing” about something can also make the research ten times harder. There was no difficulty finding the research books—the difficulty was in deciding which of the various historians’ versions about events from a different century were accurate. Also, just as any current movie is different to the eyes of each beholder, history is also different in the hands of those who actually lived it—often the Seminoles, quite naturally, saw events in a different light from the white soldiers, even when both were in exactly the same place at the same time.

Some of the widest differences in historical interpretation center on a man who is a main character in my first two books—the legendary Osceola, or Billy Powell, as he was first known, or Asi Yaholo, Black-Drink-Singer. A number of my research books suggest that the white man Powell was married to Osceola’s mother but was not his father, while others strongly argue that Powell was definitely his natural father. A study of his bones suggests a white heritage, though historians bemoan the fact that the war chief’s head was removed from his body at the time of his death. Were the skull and certain neck vertebrae only available now, research could be much more complete. Interestingly, study of Osceola’s bones has also suggested a percentage of black blood, which seems a fitting amalgam for the chief during the time period in which he was born. For my purposes, though I am well aware of the opposing arguments, I have represented Osceola as the natural son of a white man named Powell. Some historians have suggested that he could not speak English; due to the circumstances of his birth and his many relationships with the white man, I find this hard to believe. It would be more natural, I think, to believe that the chief could speak English—when he chose to do so. Whatever the truth of his birth, he rose to become a powerful force in a bitter war, and then to become legend. He was fierce, courageous, all too human in his failings, and at the very least a remarkable man.

There were many different Native American groups living in Florida at the time of the conflict. Some had moved south during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and become absorbed in the remnants of tribes decimated by European diseases and earlier warfare. Even to say that most were Creeks is confusing, since the term
Creek
comes from the very fact that they were peoples living along a creek. Osceola was born a “Creek,” but at the time of the conflict all American Indians living in Florida were referred to as Seminoles, and their language group or place of origin did not matter to the white military.

Even the term
Seminole
causes conflict, but again, I have read the many suggested definitions, and chosen that which seem most appropriate to me—
runaway
, from the Spanish term
cimarrón
.

I hope very much that you enjoy the book and feel a sense of the wild, raw, and exotic frontier that existed when fledgling Americans turned their eyes southward to a savage land, a fantastic paradise, a burning hell.

Welcome to my home. I hope you’ll stay with me awhile.

Heather Graham

The Great State of Florida

January 5, 1994

T
he day was beautiful, crisp and cool. It was, in fact, one of those late fall days in which it might seem that the landscape was an Eden. Nothing but nature’s beauty intruded upon the trails. Pines grew in abundance within the hammock, and their needles created a soft green carpet on the ground. Through the trail of trees the water of a clear spring glistened, and even at a distance the reflections of a multitude of wild orchids could be seen wavering just slightly upon the glassy surface of the crystal water. Cypress trees grew along the water, interspersed with strong oaks. Soft lime-green mosses clung to the dipping branches of the oaks, creating another wave of reflection and color upon the water. The air was perfect with its cooling kiss of fall. It was true that in summer the heat could become stifling, but even then the crystal water would be welcoming and cool, the dipping, leaf-laden branches of the trees would offer shade from the merciless heat of the sun.

Beyond the hammock the marshlands, rivers, and swamps swept around rich farmland. Some of it slightly rolling, most of it endlessly flat. Deep in the rivers ringed by the marsh, alligators lived and roamed, hunting the
exotic birds that dotted the deep-green and earth-toned landscape. A few wild buffalo still moved within the territory, while deer were in abundance along with rabbits, bears, and squirrels. Wild berries grew in the low brush, and coconut palms were scattered here and there. It was indeed an exotic Eden—with, of course, many a serpent to strike the unwary.