Saucer in the Dunes

22 Nathan Edward Phillips

Excerpt copied by Kurtis Michael Powell

From The History of Laurens County Volume 1

Source unknown is believed to have been written as an interpretation of NEP's diary by Albert Robinson, a living heir.

Nathan Edward Phillips achingly removed his feet from the stirrups and climbed to the loamy ground. His horse stammered for a few seconds, free of his burden, then walked a few paces to the broad, shallow, and fast-running stream beside them and began drinking. Nathan's back ached from riding along the old Indian trails ducking overgrowth, the spreading tree and briar branches, the honeysuckle, sweet-smelling and in the full bloom of white and gold, and the tangle of God awful poison ivy he had heard called 'thunder-wood' from a trading post owner a few days before.

Wildlife was still abundant here, even more so than in the back woods of Virginia. Nathan had lost track of the numbers of deer, had seen several small packs of wild pigs, the first armadillo he had come across, and even stopped and made a sketch in his notebook. He had even seen a few wild horses, but they had European shapes and gallop. He figured they had likely been abandoned by settlers or lost by traders or thieves. But there were foxes and muskrats, beavers in the swampy areas he had passed around, and, much to his amazement, wild turkey. That may have been what pleased him the most. He had taken up turkey hunting back in Virginia and admired them for their strange beauty and intelligence.

Having left Savannah nine days earlier, it had not been an easy trip. The area was still unsettled save a few hunter cabins and the occasional farmer, but even that had been a few days before. The land was tree filled and unremarkable, but he was finally coming to just the type of land Uncle Albert had in mind for his orchards. So far, there was every gut indication that this was the property. He just needed some tangible evidence, and with a bit of time and patience, this could be eked out of the wilderness. No matter, this would be the camp for the night, maybe the next day too, he was still unsure.

He untethered the pack from the second horse, let it fall to the ground in a loud thumping heap, and then led the second horse to the creek to drink. Nathan returned to the canvas-covered pack piled on the ground and began wrestling a leather satchel just visible. Succeeding, he opened it, pulled out a map, sat back on the canvas, and unfolded it.

Yes, yes, indeed, this was the same creek Albert had marked. He had intersected it the previous day and had followed it for miles, and nearly every turn Albert had detailed exceptionally well. Yes, indeed, indeed. This should be his land. If he were not standing on it that instant, he would be at the latest, tomorrow, no later. Perhaps even today, but he felt too weary of pressing on. There was something about that creek, though, that kept nagging at him. The darkness was pressing, so it was better to camp for at least one more night. The excitement would be enough to carry him over until the next day.

Little did he know, Nathan was on the path very near that traveled by his Uncle Albert many years earlier. Albert had staked and claimed seven hundred and sixty-five acres and had left survey markers at each boundary. Albert even built a small cabin he lived in for a couple of years while clearing the land and planning and planting his orchards. According to his diary, it seemed to be a pleasant stay. Nathan kept the diary close and leafed through it at night by firelight.

Albert Kellar spent only five years working his land when he must have been injured sometime before the winter of the fifth, around 1830. His leg had to be amputated from the knee down, and his body was filled with strange holes as if someone had taken an apple corer to him. He could not tell the trappers, who saw the chimney smoke from a distance and luckily happened upon his cabin and saw the scribbling message begging for help nailed to the cabin door.

Both trappers gave statements that in the area in and around Albert's cabin, the air was often filled with the sounds of some machinery and seemed to be coming from underground; at times, the ground even vibrated. No further testimony as to whether the trapper's statements could ever be verified.

Albert lived out his remaining years back home in Richmond, never entirely returning to himself after the ordeal. After he was healed, he began scribbling pages and pages of stories, which he carefully poked holes in and bound together with leather shoe laces; stories so horrible, so macabre every publisher he sent them to sent them back with a letter of explanation of their decision to decline as well as a plea for him to seek help, if not from a doctor, from a minister.

When Nathan graduated from the University of Virginia, Albert thought it fit to give him the deed to the Georgia property. Since the deed had been recently checked to be sure of its validity, the governor's office in Augusta proved so, making it a gift worthy of giving. It would not be for the property, no. It would be for the adventure. Along with the deed came a map Albert, a skilled surveyor, had laboriously created in his years of solitude which contained the location of the property markers for the entire acreage as well as the location of the cabin and other points of importance, such as the small field where the mounds of pebble rock lay in a row of four between a twisted oak and a giant dogwood. The same said dogwood was noted to have been split in two by lightning but was still thriving years later.

Albert was told by two fur traders who frequented the area that the piles of stones were the Hessian soldiers' graves, and though they had seen them at different times, they could not remember their exact location. He seemed impressed with their knowledge but doubted the validity of the claim. Also marked on the map was the area where Albert had planted seedling plum and pecan trees. A small footbridge was near an old Indian fish trap in the creek. Small Ps in rows behind the cabin were marked as pecan trees. The large Ps identified the plums, and finally, the double Ps represented the Peaches.

Nathan walked back to the pack horse, still standing where his rope had dropped, pulled off a remaining brown linen roll, and tucked it under his arm. He then left the white spotted pack to drink, throwing his lead rope onto the saddle of his young stallion, then knotting it once around the horn. He squatted on the sand and gravel bank next to the horses and unrolled the bag's contents. There was a handheld brass compass inscribed by his uncle Albert, a small telescoping looking glass, a compass and a sextant, a leather-bound notebook with paper, yellowed at the end, and a small pistol.

He opened the map again wholly and carefully, this time holding it out before him, looking as far as he could to see if the stream pattern matched any more of the dark pencil etching notes on the papers. The exposed muddy bank to the right of the horses jutted out into the brook to form a rivulet; this, he was sure, matched a drawing. All about the map were marks of degrees. All he had to do was locate one fixed item; then, he could feel some peace and begin re-marking the property and building his new cabin. Walter trotted several yards downstream, then stopped in the waist-high grass shielding his eyes from the setting sun. From his vantage point, the wildly growing bush and scrub pines gave way in the distance to symmetrical rows. He smiled, glanced back at the two horses grazing in the tall grass, and jogged to the edge of what turned out to be an unkempt plum orchard.

Though growing out of control, the trees had fared well on their own, and he could only imagine how they had increased in size since they were planted. The dark purple trees were heavy with fruit; some had fallen to the ground where flies swarmed. He held the map out, stretching it out in front of him. He looked back to the horses who had begun wandering in his direction and decided to return for the cloth roll he left unfurled on the bank of the creek.

By nightfall, he had located the cabin's remains and cleared it out enough to camp inside. The roof or most of t had fallen in, but it did not matter to Walter. He spread his tent out on the dirt floor. For the first time in weeks, he felt relaxed, exhausted from his long journey and the hours of hard work he put in immediately, but relaxed in that he had a place and a purpose and that he had found the place he had been thinking about since he read the diaries his great uncle gave him as a kid.