The Baker County Press - "From Out Of Our Past" By Gene Barber
THE STORY OF MARY ANN HICKS - Part I.
The exact time and place are obliterated by scores of years but sometime between 1818, and 1820, the Sparkman family (believed to be Luke Sparkman) of present day Charlton County, Georgia, had an unexpected addition to their number. They lived at the St. Marys River, just a short distance from Spanish Florida. Poorly manned the Florida Boundary was
crossed many times by the Sparkmans and their neighbors while hunting and fishing. There were even a few Florida families of American origin awaiting a formal change of government.
One can only imagine who the Sparkmans crossed the River to a recently abandoned Indian camp. Were they hunting or visiting, or was it curiosity that took them to the Indian campsite? There was no sign of the people who were being constantly harrassed by the American Government and its Soldiers. Had American or Spanish troops caused them to flee Southward to Alachua were they, as Osceola's mother Polly Ann Copinger who was living in this area, Remnants and refugees from their unhappy and disgruntled Red Stick Brothers, Hoping to avoid the Red Man's wrath?
Whatever the cause, the wretched little group who could find no peace had abandoned another home to the curious White Intruders. The camp nor the surrounding swampy woods offered further inlightenment on the little camp's former inhabitants.
One of the boys called to his Pa. Excitedly, he began yelling that he had found a baby. Unbelievingly, Mr. Sparkman walked over to the crude gallberry and palmetto shelter into which his son, on his knees, was staring. When he had pulled back the brush for a better look, there it was; a small brown face with staring shining black eyes surmounted by a shock of
straight black hair. Wrapped in a rugged blanket, it allowed itself to be removed from its cradle of skins without a sound.
"What is it, Pa, a boy or a girl?" the boys crowded around, shoving fora good view, while their Pa made a quick examination.
"It's a girl." Staring at the little Creek infant, he asked nobody in particular, "Now why do you recon they left this you'un behind? Watch out, boys, they'll be some of 'em still around."
As his eyes swept around the thick perimeter of scrub and the blackness of the swamp, he held the baby in his left arm, and reached for his rifle with his other hand. When a several minutes wait brought no Indians, he determined that he and the boys should cross the river back into Georgia.
But what to do with the child? He had no love for the Indians. He remembered too many of his family and neighbors who were left in quickly dug graves scattered in the pineland and swamp. Hadn't he said that all these sons of Satan should have their rains dashed out when they were first born in payment for the atrocities committed against so many white children?
But there were no recent Indian troubles, and they had been rather peaceable. And, this was a baby who was unaware of what or who she was, could he leave her here where he found her? Would her mammy find her before the wolves, bars, or cats did?
(to be continued)
[NOTE cwm - other parts not found]