WAYCROSS

magazine

The Call of the Satilla

By Clint Bowman

You know you should’ve left here and stayed

away for a while, John,” Clifton spoke quietly so
his voice wouldn’t carry very far through the still
woods along the Satilla. Even so, the barking
squirrel off in the denser brush hushed his warn-
ing call almost immediately. Both men tightened
their grips on their rifles. Cross-Toed John slowly
shifted his position as he slightly turned to be
able to watch the brush behind them. The two
long-time friends were no strangers to being
stalked in the South Georgia woods of the south-
ern frontier.  Each knew what to do. 

They were kneeling inside a slightly circled clump of waist high

palmetto bushes. The bushes had taken on their fall colors along
the edges but still were heavily green. Clifton watched eastward
along the river, slowly sweeping his gaze from the river around to
his right. John swept his gaze from his left around to the western
run of the river towards which he had now positioned himself to
face. Neither worried much about the river itself. No one could
approach from that side without making plenty of noise.

After what seemed a long few minutes John responded, ”I

know. But I had to come tell you ‘bout that.” The “that” he referred
to was the news he had just shared with Clifton. A band of Indi-
ans, called Seminoles by the locals, had moved northwards out
of northern Florida and been easing up around the western edge
of the Okefenokee. Cross-Toed John had seen them south of
Waresborough almost a week ago.  The warriors had been taking
careful precautions to avoid being seen by the local hunters and
farmers. When John had headed over to the Kettle Creek com-
munity to warn his friend, he had been met with a barely dis-
guised sense of discomfort on the part of the usual folks there.

Though John had been coming and going through the area for

close to twenty years, he keenly felt the uncomfortable attitude
around the community. He had stepped into the general store
there to ask about news of Clifton and to buy some more coffee
which he was fond of. The store keeper waited on him quickly
and then quietly suggested that he leave soon. He stated as he
walked away from John, that there had been an Indian attack
down near the Carter community and folks were nervous.

Feeling it smarter to heed the suggestion and move quickly on

down the trail than to stay and seek more information, John left.
He soon found Clifton along the river with his feet propped up on
one log and his back against another, fishing pole in hand. Or
rather “at hand.” The pole had been lying across Clifton while he
snoozed with a piece of a green branch dangling from his mouth.
John’s sudden appearance had caused Clifton a bit of a surprise
and his pole, as a good sized catfish had taken that opportunity
to drag it into the water and quickly out of reach.

Now the two friends were here kneeling motionless as they

waited for some sign of who was hiding nearby. It had been a

good sized doe crashing towards them through the brush which
had warned the two. Their conversation had ceased immediately
as they moved quickly with no spoken command or urging, as if
one were a shadow of the other, into their concealed position.

Their many years of traveling together and fighting together

had served them well now. The doe barely veered away from
them as it ran. This was immediately followed by the warning
bark of the squirrel. That served as a confirmation to the two
woodsmen. Someone was coming, trying to hide as they ap-
proached. Fortunately, they had startled the deer and ruined
their chance of surprising the two friends.

The fall sun was dropping slowly and here on the edge of the

woods along the river the darkness would come quicker than out
on the not too distant sandbars. The air would cool quicker here
also.  The Satilla was famous for its gleaming white sandbars. At
almost every turn of the river, one would be located beckoning
any traveler to stop off to camp and fish a while. But now, the two
friends were too preoccupied to be tempted by the call of the
Satilla. Silently, Clifton wished for a small fire and a bit of coffee.
Still, the two waited motionlessly. From time to time one or the
other would slowly shift a hand to his belt to loosen his knife in its
sheath, the only perceptible bit of nervousness to be seen about
the two men. 

Time stretched on. The two still waited. Knowing their lower

bodies were concealed behind the palmetto bushes, they would
occasionally stretch a leg slowly out to keep the blood flow mov-
ing in case swift action were to be required. John had once told
Clifton that he had known a Creek Indian who crouched too long
in one position as he tried to outwait a Cherokee who had been
camped up somewhere north of the Altamaha River. The Chero-
kee had a horse, and the Creek wanted it and planned to steal it.
The Cherokee took too long to settle down that evening around
his fire and the Creek, who had actually snuck up very close to
the camp, suddenly got a bad cramp in his leg. The pain of the
cramp caused the one to leap up, where he then soon caught a
musket ball fired from the old British-made musket carried by the
Cherokee. The Creek died a few days later after suffering for a
good bit. What became of the Cherokee and his horse, John