Rick’s
Blog: Special Edition
THE
RUTLAND MULE MATTER
Author's reading at the
Writers
of Central Florida or Thereabouts…
Stardust Video & Coffee, Orlando, Florida
MARCH
9, 2016
A
very special thanks to the Writers
of Central Florida or Thereabouts, as well as the kind folks at Stardust Video & Coffee, for providing
authors an opportunity to take to the stage and promote their work, as in my
case, a reading from my Central Florida mystery-history Novel, The Rutland Mule Matter.
First,
setting the stage:
In 1927, then retired
Rollins College President &
historian, William F. Blackman, published, ‘History of Orange County’, long
considered a bible with regard to the story of 19th Century Central
Florida. Blackman however stated that very little was known of the region prior
to 1870. Blackman did record that a William W. Woodruff had been the Orange
County representative at Florida’s Secession Convention of January, 1861.
Blackman also mentioned Woodruff was one of seven delegates to vote against
the State’s Secession. Blackman did not, however, mention the name Rutland.
A dozen years earlier, Clarence
E. Howard published Early Settlers of
Orange County, and included a biography of William W. Woodruff. Howard described Woodruff’s long mule-ride from Mellonville to Gainesville, and of then boarding a
train for his final leg to Tallahassee.
Howard too reported of Woodruff voting against Florida’s
Secession, and mentioned the name Rutland
– but only once! Woodruff’s wife, said Howard, lived at Rutland’s Ferry prior to their marriage.
William W. Woodruff did in fact oppose Florida’s Secession, but
there were two Orange County residents who served as delegates. Both men
voted NO! The second opposing vote had
been cast by Isaac N. Rutland. Five
years later, at War’s end, Rutland,
the father of four young children, was dead!
A year after Rutland’s death, Isaac’s Widow, with help from a Massachusetts
Navy Officer by the name of Lincoln,
was able to get her Mule returned.
The Mule, stored at the
Quartermaster’s stable, in Jacksonville, Florida, was shipped, by the Navy,
down the St. Johns River to Mellonville.
By 1870, four
orphan Rutland children had been sent to live with their grandmother in
Georgia, but by 1880, two of the four siblings, a son Othman, and a daughter Sarah, had returned to Orange County,
Florida.
Now, everything stated thus far is
historically accurate, with some information coming from a government file, created
in 1865, labeled, ‘The
Rutland Mule Matter.’
Isaac N.
Rutland has been mentioned, from time to time, since Blackman’s
history, but until now, next to nothing was ever known of the man, or his family!
An Orange County politician vanished. I feel certain the man’s
son, Othman Rutland, would have
wanted to find out what happened to his father. And that brings us to my Novel,
The Rutland Mule Matter, named for
that 150 year old Provost Marshals file folder.
A Central Florida mystery! Central Florida history! This Novel focuses not only on the father,
but on Isaac’s family as well. A brother and sister, then 19th
Century American Paradise pioneers themselves, begin a search for answers
during the 1880s. During this search,
a nervous Othman Rutland travels to
the North, twice.
This reading is of Othman Rutland’s first journey, north to
Columbus, Ohio, where he hopes to confront, face-to-face, a retired Civil War Union
Colonel.
And one final note, every individual mentioned in this
reading was a true-life individual!
The
Reading, Page 83:
Chapter Seven
Representative Harris
Thursday, July 12, 1888
Excuse my sloppy handwriting, as
this is a first attempt at writing onboard a moving train. I want to update my
diary before memory of events fade, but each time I go to write, the train
jerks, and my pen slides across the paper. I found a seat in the lounge car though,
beside a small table, and I intend to sit here until all my thoughts have been
penned.
Sitting on the floor, between my
feet, is a box of fresh oranges, Ezekiel’s ‘ingenious’ plan, concocted last
fall while convincing me I needed to make this trip.
Already this train has taken me
further north than I’ve ever been in my life. Before now, five or six miles
north of the Florida line was the farthest, but a few moments ago, a conductor
came through the car announcing we were arriving at Brunswick.
The further north I travel, the
more apprehensive I’m becoming about traveling to the land of Yankees. For now
though, I need to get back to writing.
Stewart’s
Homestead last October:
Following dinner at the Stewarts,
we all decided to take a breather. Obviously not wanting to discuss my father,
Uncle Matt escaped to his rocker on his front porch. The ladies moved to the
living room, while Ezekiel and I, we exited out the back door, searching for
fresh air in the woods out behind Stewart’s home.
A part of me was still looking
for where our cabin once stood. I followed a dirt trail leading down into a shallow
hollow, and as I searched, Ezekiel shared his opinion of Uncle Matt’s
reluctance to discuss my father.
“Folks around here have a difficult time discussing the war.” My
brother-in-law reminded me of things I already knew, like the huge price
Central Florida had paid in lives lost during the war. “We are stirring up memories others would prefer not revisit.”
He was right. Talk of father
probably did touch raw nerves.
We hadn’t gone far on the path
when our conversation was cut short. We had arrived at a small cemetery.
Thirty feet square or so and
surrounded by a waist-high iron fence, the tiny cemetery looked to contain
about a dozen or so graves. It was clearly an old burial ground, yet regularly
maintained. Each grave was marked by a small white cross. The crosses were
engraved with only initials, and nearly all ended with the letter ‘S’.
In this largely unkempt
wilderness, within a stone’s throw of the Stewart family home, hiding in the
midst of wild palmetto bushes and prickly scrub oaks, was this tiny oasis, set
out in honor of family members.
Ezekiel and I impulsively stopped
to pay our respects, standing with hands folded in prayer while not saying a
word for the longest time. As I viewed each marker, I couldn’t help but wonder
if one had been placed here for my mother.
We stood there in total silence
until suddenly a piercing screech caused us to leap out of our skin. But then I
immediately realized the source of that scream had been me, reacting to someone
unexpectedly touching my left shoulder. Neither Ezekiel nor I had heard my Aunt
Ella approach from behind.
My aunt waited while we each
planted our feet back on the ground, and she then pointed me in the direction
of that cross I had been searching.
“Your mother’s marker is that one, on the far right!”
I didn’t say a word, I couldn’t.
I stared down at the worn cross, a stick in the ground, a weathered marker
having three barely noticeable initials – M.
M. R.
Aunt Ella then pointed to a small
cluster of crosses atop a mound. “That
group,” Aunt Ella paused while Ezekiel and I inspected the crosses, each
engraved as well with only initials. “They
are in memory of your Uncle’s two brothers, and others killed during that awful
war. We don’t even know where they are buried.”
Aunt Ella continued, although
doing so was obviously a struggle. “J C S
is Jonathan Clay Stewart, two years younger than your Uncle. Jonathan was the
Orange County Sheriff before going off to war. He died a few months after
arriving in Virginia. P B S is Philemon Bryan Stewart. Bryan was an even
younger brother of your Uncle Matt. K H is for Kedar Hawthorne, your Uncle
Matt’s brother-in-law, husband of his youngest sister. They were all casualties
of that war.”
Aunt Ella was tearing up, yet
insisted on continuing. “A P M, Angus P. Malloy,
my sister Sarah’s husband. So many of
our loved ones lost during such a horrible war.” My aunt needn’t say
anything more, although I did have a question for her.
“Angus, he was Duncan’s father?” My aunt nodded her head, confirming
my suspicion that Duncan was the son of Angus & Sarah Mallory.
I clarified for Ezekiel. “Grandma took Duncan in after the war, and
Duncan, Sarah and I lived together up in Georgia. Duncan returned to Orange
County with us.”
I hugged my Aunt Ella while she
cried, Ezekiel stood by silently, keeping his head bowed.
Then, wiping away her own tears,
Aunt Ella looked at me, and confessed. “I
should have never said anything about your father. Othman, please do not think
badly of your Uncle, he has such a difficult time even today dealing with so
much tragedy and loss.” I hugged Aunt Ella tighter.
I don’t recall how long we stood
there in total silence, all three of us, staring at the Stewart family
cemetery. We stood there for a sufficient length of time though for me to
realize others were still enduring the pain caused by a terrible war.
I made amends with my Aunt that
very afternoon, and later, I made amends with my Uncle Matthew Stewart.
We bid farewell to Aunt Ella and
Uncle Matthew soon after, and I again hugged my aunt, thanked her not only for
a delightful afternoon, but for sharing their painful losses as well.
Ezekiel and I slowly packed
babies and ladies onboard, pausing again and again as Aunt Ella insisted on
more baby hugs and kisses. Ready to mount up myself, it was Uncle Matt who then
stopped me.
After first shaking my hand, he
hugged me, something my uncle never did before, and he then slipped me an
envelope, while whispering, “Wait until
you are back at Vick’s before opening this. Understand, your aunt and me, we
made a promise to your mother. And one more thing Othman, tell Miles I’m proud
of him. I’m proud of you both!”
He wiped his eyes, I wiped mine,
and then the Vick and Rutland families departed Stewart’s homestead.
In conclusion,
The
Rutland Mule Matter is available at Bookmark it Orlando, 3201 Corrine
Drive, Orlando, FL; Winter Garden Heritage Foundation, in historic Winter
Garden, FL; and Amazon.com. To order online through Amazon click on my Author page:
