Recent research on the first
settlers of St. James Santee Parish has uncovered interesting information about
the French Protestant refugees who sailed up the Santee River in January, 1687
and established a settlement on a 25 foot high limestone bluff about 25 miles
from the mouth of the river.
Even more exciting for the Parish
and the congregation is the identity of the person for whom the parish was
named. Congregants and historians have
long pondered the identity of St. James Santee and we can now say with
certainty and assurance who he was and give a brief biography of his life.
As is true for a number of the
early French Protestant immigrants, it is often difficult to find documentation
for their lives, beyond a few mentions in deeds and other documents. However, recent excavations of an Indian
settlement located in the wilds of Hell Hole Swamp have yielded tantalizing
clues as to the life and death of an eighteenth century man who until this
discovery had been hidden in the mists of time.
We will begin with what was known before the startling discovery in
Hell-hole Swamp.
Stories about descendants of the
first European explorers to establish a foothold in Carolina have long abounded
– stories centered around a cabin boy who was part of the garrison left at
Charlesfort (located on what is now known as the Parris Island Marine Corps
Facility near Beaufort, SC) when Jean Ribaut returned to France in 1562. All that was known of this young lad, named
Jacques and aged about 14 years when his compatriots set sail for France the
following year in a makeshift boat, is that he had been sent to stay with
Native Americans near Charlesfort, in an effort by the desperate French
garrison to remain on friendly terms with the neighboring tribes who were being
influenced by Spanish conquistadors, notably Hernando de Manrique de Rojas who
commanded the Spanish force in Cuba.
With Jacques was another young French Protestant boy named Henri.
The two young French Protestants,
whose surnames have never been found, had been with the Native American tribe
for about two weeks when he and several young tribesmen were sent inland to
undergo cleansing rituals pursuant to their being accepted as full adult
members of the tribe. A few days after
the young men had left the settlement, word arrived that that they should
return to Charlesfort, but by that time even the most valued Native American
scouts could not find their trail – a heavy rain had washed out all trace of it
and what was left of the French garrison set sail without its youngest members.
Later that year Hernando de Manrique de Rojas commanded the Spanish ships which
were sent to destroy the remains of Charlesfort. In this they succeeded and reports of the
expedition include one passage which refers to their discovery and apprehension
of a young French boy whom they found living near the fort. He was taken by the Spaniards and his fate is
unknown. The Spanish records make no
mention of his name or of another European boy.
Until the recent discovery of a worn dispatch
case in a shell midden on a small knoll in the depths of Hell-hole Swamp the
above is all that was known of young Jacques, abandoned in the wilds of
pre-Colonial Carolina before the land even bore that name. The notes and memoir contained in the
dispatch case have changed that and its discovery adds immensely to the early
history of South Carolina. The existence of the shell midden was
long-suspected, but was only discovered by hunters last fall. Its excavation is on-going, under utmost
secrecy to protect the delicate nature of the work, but the contents of the
dispatch case have been shared with the Parish of St. James Santee due to the
details and their intimate connection with the history of this place.
The aforesaid dispatch case
contained, wrapped in well-greased bearskin, a small notebook written in
French. With it were found several
letters which offer corroboration of the story which follows. The quotes from the notebook and letters have
been carefully transcribed and are as accurate as such items can be under the
circumstance. Future study may help with
some of the more obscure passages, but in the interest of public disclosure it
is imperative that this finding be made known now.
The notebook found in the dispatch
case includes entries made by several different hands beginning with a short
entry dated “Fall, possibly October, 1563,” evidently written by someone in a
state of great emotion, as its contents show the writer must have been. The entry, translated from the French, is as
follows. “Henri was taken by Spanish
soldiers last week – I watched, but could do nothing to save him – they burned
the fort, what remained of it and left with Henri. I am alone here, except for
my native companions, on whom I now depend for my life.”
The next entry is dated “Summer
1567, possibly August,” and reads as follows,
I have kept track as best I could of the years, but the
months and days escape me – I estimate them by examination of vegetation and
stages of the moon, things I scarcely noticed until my stay here. I write because I have heard news which
should distress me, but which comes as a relief in some way. Until now, I have not seen the need for
writing – now I thank my Lord that I was taught my letters by my loving parents
and continued my learning by keeping the ship’s log for our Captain and writing
letters for the crew members. Several months past, spies from the Westoes were
captured – I know because I was with the party which captured them. I learned that a French fort built leagues
south of this place some years past, the news kept from me until now for fear I
would try to escape to them, was attacked by Spanish forces some two years past
and the French garrison massacred. The Spanish then rebuilt the fort and
another one, both of which were recently, not two moons past, attacked and
destroyed by a French fleet, identified by me as the Westoe captives described
the flags, colors and armor. Having
passed some four years with this tribe and being now held in regard and esteem
by them, having married by their custom and now being father of two young
children, I have cast my lot here and find myself strangely relieved to have
escaped the need to decide between my former life and this one now afforded me
– and at peace. I have not abandoned the
faith taught me by my dear parents, nor shall I abandon my heritage. I have somewhat learned the language of my
new people, but I speak French to my wife who has learned a little of it and I
will continue to do so with my children. My Bible affords me great solace and
is the only item I have left from my former life. Until this incident, I did not see the need
for writing, but I now understand that, if not in my time here, at some time in
the future this story may bring solace to others.
My first son, named Henri for my lost former companion,
was born a year previous in the fall of 1566.
He came to being in the settlement camp of the Cassiqe of Kiawah with
whom we have friendly relations.
Spring, 1568 - my second son, named Jacques, was born in
our settlement some seven days journey north of Charlesfort from where we moved
when the Spanish began building a fort there.
It is part of the land traversed by the Kiawah and Sewee in their
movements during the year.
Autumn, 1570 – my daughter, named Isabella for my mother,
was born. Both she and my first-born son
Henri died some months later, before the real cold began. They were accorded
the rites according to the custom of my tribe, their bones now placed in jars
beneath the soil of my new land. I said
prayers over them as best I could in my native language.
1581 – my wife died in the hottest part of the year. She was a true Christian, although not
baptized as such. My son Jacques is now
about the age I was when I left my family in Languedoc and sailed for this
land. He is ready to become a man
according to the custom of our people. I
have taught him my native language as best I can and to write and read from the
book of Holy Scriptures which I have had with me since I left France. serves us well.
1591 – my grandson Jacques was born – he has the same red
hair of my grandfather and my son Henri.
1594 – the birth of my granddaughter Isa.
There
are more entries in the same hand until the following entry, “Spring 1601, my
father Jacques died this morning during our yearly gathering with the
Kiawah. My family is now settled north
of here on the banks of Bowat, south of Avendebaw, home of my dear wife and
birthplace of our son Jacques. I have
tried to continue the teachings of my father.
My daughter learns well, but Jacques is not as attentive.”
This
entry is followed by an entry which is thought to read as follows. “My first son, named Henri for the lost son
of my grandfather, was born during the great storm of 1635. He lived two days and followed his mother.
My second son, named Jacques for
my grandfather, my father and myself, was born during the coldest season in
1638.” These entries were both written
in a third hand, much less legible than the former two.
The third writer
made several more entries and then recorded that his father, Jacques, son of
Ribaut’s cabin boy, died during a hurricane in the year 1640, possibly during
the month of September, while his tribe was camped at a settlement some 15
miles inland from the mouth of the Santee River, as best as can be determined
from the sketchy notes and drawings in the notebook.
From other
entries, it appears that the third writer married at least twice, and possibly
three times and that his children were born and lived on the Santee. His entries continue until the final one in
his hand which is as follows, “In the year 1670 during the time when the trees
are greening and the wild turkeys raise their young, three large ships such as
brought my grandfather to this land, as was told to me when I was young,
entered the big Sewee waters. I saw them
with my son Jacques and my grandson Jacques.
They all spoke a different language than that taught me by my father and
grandfather, but there was one who answered me when I addressed him with the
words of my grandfather. They left to
live below us with the Kiawah tribe. We
remain with the Sewee, the tribe of my mothers.”
Following
this and entered in the fourth hand found in the notebook is, “I, Jacques of
the Sewee, record the death of my father, Jacques, during the time when the
river ran high between the great cold and the great heat in the year
1671.” The next entries appear to record
various excursions made to “a settlement begun by the new people near our Kiawah
allies.” The fourth writer includes descriptions of “waters full of the white
ones large vessels” and alludes to problems between the “white ones” and his
people.
Several pages of
the notebook are badly damaged at this point and will need to be conserved
before there is any hope of deciphering them, if that is even possible. The legible entries begin again with the
following, “1681, at the time the bear disappear before the deep cold comes, my
mother followed my father, my wife followed them and took with her my son and
daughter. I do not know who will be the
guardian of this story when I follow my wife and children. I am now some 46 years of age according to
the way my father taught me. I will try
to maintain contact with the white ones who speak my father’s language who
arrived in this land in a great warship two seasons past.”
Other damaged
pages follow and then the entry, “The white ones have arrived on our land,
sailing up the Santee in a small vessel, they were first only 7 or 8, but more
followed – they have settled north of our main village and were fearful of us
until I met with them and hailed them in their tongue which is the language of
my fathers. They marveled at my red hair
and my knowledge of their language and customs, even more when I read my
fathers’ entries to them. They had heard
of Ribaut and the Spanish forts and told me many things I did not know. The have books like my Holy Scriptures and
were astonished when I showed them mine.
They invited me to join them in their settlement, called Jamestown, they
say it is the same as my name, but in another tongue and named for a great king
who lives beyond the great salt waters from where come the storms and which
bring the big ships. Our king, whom they
call Jeremie, was hesitant to trust them, but they have kept their word some
ten years now and have not ventured past the waters of Wambaw or encroached on
our settlement there. It is true that one of their elders, a man called Arnaud
Bruneau, for they have two names and I am known to them as James Santee,
requested permission to use the island located at the mouth of Santee for his
own – we were willing since there are many other island we can use to make our
salt and that is what he want to do – he said the land reminded him of his home
across the great waters. I have chosen
his son as the guardian of my family story and he assures me he will guard it
well.”
There are
several other entries, alluding to problems between the Native Americans and
the immigrants, but the writer was insistent that it was English settlers who
were causing problems, not the French Protestant immigrants. He mentioned his having rescued “my friend
Paul’s nephew Henri, a name in my family also, from being bitten by a large
alligator while the boy was playing in a pirogue which capsized near the mouth
of the Santee when he was with his uncle and grandfather. From other entries and from several of the
letters, written in good French, but signed with an as yet unidentified
anagram, it appears that Jacques Santee quickly became a good friend to the
French Protestant settlers on the Santee River, helping them learn the land and
how to hunt, as well as interceding for them when there were problems between
them and the local tribes.
The entries end
abruptly, but one very fragile letter written in French and dated Santee, 2 Apr
1699 provides at least a partial explanation of what became of Jacques
Santee. It, too, ends with the cryptic
anagram which has yet to be deciphered.
It reads, in part, “My good friend and fellow Christian, Jacques Santee,
has gone – his tribe is decimated and almost extinct – how I grieve for him and
them. He was a true Christian – amazing
to find him here when we arrived on these foreign shores – welcomed by him in
our native tongue, albeit a bit garbled and old-fashioned, and shown every
courtesy by him and his fellow, I cannot call them savages as do the English,
they were every bit as fine as we, better in some instances, especially the
last. Jacques Santee, a saintly man who
knew the Holy Evangelists better than I myself; who quoted them in his daily
life and had taught his fellow beings to honor them and fear the Lord, our
Saviour – what an incredible man to find here in these wilds. He taught me how to hunt the deer and wild
turkey, how to fashion a call to bring them close, how to tickle fish from the
sweet flowing rivers and creeks, to make and then use a small pirogue made from
the trees which rise in the swamps. He
laughed and wept with me – an older, wiser man than I who had seen much
hardship, who watched the young men of his tribe paddle down the Santee and
into what they know as the Great Waters, seeking redress for wrongs done them
by unscrupulous, greedy traders – and then his death at the hands of a Spanish
war party which happened on him while he was helping some of our elders harvest
salt flowers [fleur de sel] at the mouth of the Santee on Bruneau’s
Island. I did as he asked and buried his
journal and the letters he held dear, adding this to it, on the hummock we
happened upon one fall afternoon while hunting and musing on the mysteries of
life. I wrapped the whole in greased
bearskin to ward off the damp and sealed them inside the dispatch case I
brought with me from France. His body
was taken by the old women and children of his tribe to be ritually stored with
the bones of his family, of which he was the last remaining member. They gave me a lock of his hair – he wore it
long – a huge mane of red which reminded me of my neighbor’s son in Languedoc,
whose name escapes me at the moment. Jacques Santee – he taught us well and was
a true saint – holding fast to the beliefs passed down to him by his father
from his father and grandfather – a true Protestant and believer, untainted by
the heresies around him – he not only led me home through the dark and
treacherous swamps and poccosins we traversed, he conversed with me concerning
my thoughts and beliefs and held me fast to the true Religion, though his was
far stronger and more sure than my own.
I hope to honor his memory by persuading the elders to name our church
after him – and if we are able to work with the English and retain our beliefs
as members of the one, true Religion, to continue his memory in the name of
this land – St. James, Santee – they need not know it honors one they would
have called a savage, but whom I know to have been a Christian man, a saint as
we are all called to be.
