Part 10

Seminole children are on the whole very much like other children, some bright, some good, some perverse, all exceedingly human. With the discipline already instilled into their natures, and education, first for the heart, and then for the mind, added, success would be assured. A Seminole luxury which serves as a target as well as food, is the fruit of the climbing pumpkin vine, which is often seen among the branches of the trees. When wanted a well-directed rifle ball cuts the stem and the pumpkin drops to the ground. This was the sport enjoyed by the troops during the Seminole war.

The absence of all earthenware is noticeable in a Seminole camp. The Seminoles say, “Long time ago,” their race made earthen pots, but white man’s kettle “heap good,” and they have long since ceased to work in clay. All through Florida pieces of pottery are found in the sand mounds. In the pine forests where the land is good for cultivation, broken pottery is frequently dug up out of the ground. These forests have grown over this land evidently since it was cultivated by former races. The pottery found in parts of Florida, is said by those having made a study of the subject to resemble the Aztec pottery to some extent.

One of the peculiarities of the Seminole man is the number of shirts and handkerchiefs he wears at one time. An instance is related where a white man in company with Billy Ham went out deer hunting. Emerging suddenly from the thick forest, some deer were observed feeding on the Savannah in front of them. The Indian was dressed in the bright colors of his race, and stealthily slipping back into the shadows of the tree, he began to remove shirt after shirt and untie handkerchiefs from around his neck. As each article was removed, the Indian became less conspicuous. After divesting himself of six or eight shirts and eight or ten handkerchiefs, the Indian and his costume now blended with the surrounding objects. His dusky form was in perfect symphony with the dead leaves and grasses, through which he silently crept toward his prey. The Indian prefers to make sure of his game by creeping upon it. He can advance to within a few feet of a deer. The deer, while feeding, is always on the alert for an enemy. If it sees nothing moving it will not be alarmed. This is where the strategy of the Indian comes in. He stops just before the animal raises its head. The lifting of the head is always preceded by a movement of the tail, hence the cunning Seminole watches the tail and knows when to be still.

ALLIGATOR HUNTING.

At this point, a detailed account of an alligator hunt with the Seminoles may prove interesting to the huntsman who may scan these pages.

Some tourists hire the Indians who frequent civilization to guide them in hunts, but it is poor Lo’s idea to show the white man his hunting; and he will take him around and around, always keeping out of sight of game, with a cunning that would do credit to a Connecticut Yankee.

Possessing that talisman, friendship and confidence of the Seminole chiefs, our hunter arranged for his first alligator hunt. To simplify the account of the tenderfoot’s experience, we give it as related to the writer.

“Taking the little steamer Roseada at Kissimmee City, a two days’ ride landed us at Basinger, where I was met by an ox-cart, driven and owned by the Seminoles. A ride of forty miles, slow but sure, took us to the Indian village. Here I was met by dogs, pickaninnies, squaws and braves. With time limited and eager for the hunt for big game, I rested but a few hours and then announced myself ready to _hi-e-pus_ (go).

“In a cypress canoe, poled by Chief Tom Tiger Tail, we turned our boat toward the interior of the Everglades, and for three days traveled over as wild and weird a land as Stanley ever explored in Darkest Africa.

“Poling through water lilies, tall grass and overhanging branches, frequently getting stuck in the shallow water and marsh, all gave more zest to the square mile than a hundred hunts in the North could.

“Reaching the objective point of our trip, the chief tied up the canoe, and after a hearty repast, we were ready for the alligator hunt. No game laws obstructed our progress, no sign boards read, ‘No Trespassing,’ and soon we were equipped for the night’s hunt.

“With a bullseye lantern attached to my cap, I took my seat in the bow, while Tiger Tail, standing in the stern, propelled the canoe with long, dextrous strokes. Reaching a deep bayou, where the Seminoles kill hundreds of alligators each year, I was directed to throw the light quietly over the water, and the presence of the saurian would be revealed by the reflection. Silently, slowly, our canoe cleaved the dark waters. Truly, the scene was worthy the pencil of a Doré. A moonless sky, a wild expanse of bleak water, a canoe propelled by a savage, splendid and careless in his unconscious grace, and as silent as the oarsman of the River Styx. Soon the dismal solitude was broken by our entrance into the alligator haunt. With stealthy glide through the still, dark water, we were soon aware of being near a very large ’gator--the two balls of fire shining in the darkness told the tale. Without a ripple the Indian glided his canoe within ten feet of the monster, and a shot between the eyes from a .38 Winchester blew the top of his head into small pieces. Before the reptile could flounder out of reach, the carcass was grabbed and pulled into the canoe by Tom Tiger, and the spinal cord was severed with an axe to prevent any future trouble.

“At the first approach of our light the alligators gazed at it in the most fatuous manner, allowing the boat to approach within a very close position; but after one of their number had been slain they commenced a vibrating roaring, playing see-saw with their heads and tails and slowly rolling forth their feelings in deep, thundering tones. To me, there seemed to be 500 alligators in that body of black water that night, and each and every one seemed to turn his burning eyes on my little searchlight--and they shone like stars. I could easily tell a big fellow by noticing if his glaring balls were close together or far apart. After killing four or five I called out ‘Enough!’ The picture was growing too gruesome. The quivering mass of reptiles in our canoe made me think longingly of home. ‘Ungah’ (all right) from the Indian reassured me, and the canoe was turned toward camp. During the evening the Indian chief had killed an eleven foot ’gator, and so lifeless did it seem when dragged into the canoe that it was not considered necessary to cut the neck and back. The extraordinary vitality of an alligator keeps it from dying for some time, the nerves often living for several hours after the head has been severed. Our canoe was loaded to the water’s edge, with the large saurian in the bottom. Presently a low breathing greeted my ears; soon it grew louder, and a faint motion could be felt in the boat. Still I remained passive, the Indian poling through the deep, tortuous stream. I had instinctively drawn my feet up, when the great mouth, which was toward me, opened and began snapping angrily. His body began to writhe and twist and wriggle, which set all the other alligators in motion. The situation was growing critical and dangerous, when Captain Tom, perceiving the trouble, came to the rescue with his axe and none too soon, for the huge saurian began lashing his tail from side to side, and had the Indian been less skillful in handling the canoe we certainly would have been turned overboard. With the hideous cargo silenced, the Indian always cool and nerveless, looked up and with a humorous twinkle in his eye said, ‘White man ’fraid _ojus_’ (heap).”

BEAR HUNTING WITH THE SEMINOLES.

Under the head of American Sport, the following story of a “Bear Hunt with the Seminole Indians,” appeared in the columns of the _Asian Sporting Newspaper_ of Calcutta, India.

The story had been accepted from the pen of the writer by Forest and Stream Publishing Company of New York, and because our British hunters of lion and elephant fame had appreciated an American hunt sufficient to scissor it (neither giving credit to the author nor to the American journal), the story is here appended:

“Hunting the black bear in Florida is a sport to which few are introduced. This bear is not fierce nor dangerous, but still he is big game, and a bear hunt is always full of incident and excitement. About ten miles from Kissimmee, is a cypress swamp--it is an aquatic jungle full of fallen trees, brush, vines and tangled undergrowth, all darkened by the dense shadows of the tall cypress trees, and full of moccasins and alligators. Running through the swamp is a chain of islands. Here is a field for sportsmen, and here live unmolested a whole colony of the bruin family. Hunters hear their growls, and numerous fresh tracks show where the night marauders have entered the hommock, where they feast on wild honey, huckleberries, the cabbage of the palmetto and the wild orange. They seldom come out to expose themselves during the day, hence they are rarely captured, and in consequence are on the increase. Settlers frequently report depredations on their hogs; but bruin is safe in his swamp home, for without dogs trained to hunting bear, even if he were surprised, he would quickly make his escape into the jungle.

“Of all game of the forest bear meat is the favorite dish of the Florida Indians; squaws, pickaninnies and dogs revel in it. With this knowledge, it was an easy matter to secure a party of Seminole chiefs and their trained dogs for a bear hunt. The auspicious day arrived. This picturesque hunting party came striding into Kissimmee as unconscious and statuesque as bronze figures of Mercury. The party was led by Chief Tom Tiger, following after in Indian file was old Chief Tallahassee, Doctor Tommy and Little Tiger, while trailing along by their sides were the formidable looking dogs. Dressed in their holiday attire, with new leggins and moccasins, bright calico shirts, a half-dozen red handkerchiefs around their necks, crowned with the immense red turban, the emblem of their race, with knives and cartridges in their belts and Winchesters at their sides, the Indians attracted as much attention as a Presidential party.

“If ever men deserved the name of Nimrods, it is these sons of the Everglades. Even Little Tiger, a boy of twelve, with his fine rifle, could put to shame many a skilled marksman. But on to the chase. The souls of the red men seemed to leap into them at the thought of the sport after bear, while the hounds barked gleefully, so with hasty preparations our hunting party started for the Reedy Creek jungle. At this point we will turn the story over to the tenderfoot, that the reader may better follow the chase.

“As we reached the hommock, which has been for years a veritable elysium for the bears, the dogs seemed to become possessed of a very spirit of unrest; soon they struck a trail. ‘Lo-co-see ojus’ (bear plenty), exclaimed Captain Tom Tiger, as he observed the numerous cabbage palms with their buds freshly torn out, as well as the conduct of his dogs, and with a word of command to the hounds, he started. The rest of us followed, till we struck a marsh heavily timbered with cypress, which grew so close that sun’s rays could not reach the earth. It made a dark, damp and dangerous ground to enter. The dogs were now running with broad scent, heads well up and throats wide open. If ever there was a sound sweet to the hunter’s ears, it was the baying of five hounds close on bruins trail. With nerves on a tension we rushed along, with gun carried at ready. On swept the riot. The Indians yelled as only Indians can, and the tenderfoot brought up the rear. A hunt in a Florida jungle, pulling through soft mud, climbing over logs, pushing through vines, sprawling on hands and knees through the tangled, matted undergrowth, expecting or fearing each step we would strike a moccasin, are the penalties paid for the romantic, adventurous hunt with a Seminole Indian. At last the supreme moment arrived; the leading dog had reached the bear, and soon the five dogs and the bear were having a vigorous rough and tumble fight. We were in good hearing distance, but traveling was very difficult, and our progress was slow. The Indians’ cry, ‘Yo-ho-ee-hee, Yo-ho-ee-hee!’ to the hounds, made them fight furiously, so much so that bruin broke from cover and started on the chase just before we reached shooting distance. Further into the woods the chase led. Soon the sound of the pursuing dogs ceased, much to our surprise. We appealed to the nearest Indian for an explanation. ‘Lo-co-see (bear) climb tree,’ was the brief reply, and later, when we reached the dogs, they were running wildly around on the bank of a dark creek. We were again at a loss to comprehend the situation, until we were shown by the Indians a leaning tree, the top of which reached to the further side of the creek, over which bruin had safely passed. ‘Lo-co-see-hiepus’ (bear gone).

“Three hours’ tramping through the swamp and hot sun had taken all the enthusiasm out of us, and we were ready to play quits, but the stalwart red men had defiance in their faces as they said, ‘Big lo-co-see; fight heap; Indian kill lo-co-see to-day.’ Away to the left the brown legs of little Tiger Tom could be seen twinkling through the foliage; he had found some fresh tracks of a cub, and in his eagerness to capture a baby bear he proved a similar nature to his little pale-faced brother. But the stern hunters had no time for a cub, and soon started for old bruin, who by this time had crossed the marsh and gotten into a tree on the opposite bank, and by this trickery put the creek behind him. This did not daunt a Seminole Indian. Wading the shallow part of the creek, with water to the armpits, again cooled our ardor, but safety depended on not losing sight of the Indians, as we were miles in the swamp, and with no hope of finding our way out without the guidance of our red pilots. At last the bear was driven to a small island and surrounded, the island covered with tall grass and weeds hiding both dogs and bear. The dogs grew furious, and several times forced the bear to stand and fight, and such a battle as it was; the dogs didn’t hesitate to take hold of old bruin, and as a result were badly lacerated from the blows of her powerful paw. We closed in and our game was in a trap. The Indians were in their future heaven; but the tenderfoot was getting very shy of being hugged. Bruin, now finding herself cornered, made a break for the open, and as she emerged from the tall grass, with the dogs at her heels, she met the stalwart figure of Tom Tiger. Rising on her hind legs, with open arms, she made one dash for him, when stepping back, in a cool and deliberate manner, he pulled the trigger of his ‘scatter’ gun and emptied both barrels into the bear’s side. This ended the chase, and a happier set of Indians the world never saw. Immediately they drew their knives and commenced skinning the bear. As the skin adheres very tenaciously it should be taken off at once, as it then comes off much easier; besides, it is difficult to scrape away all the fatty tissue after it cools, and wherever any remains it rots the pelt.

“The Indians’ method of educating their dogs for hunting bear is well worth knowing. They take the gall of the bear and thoroughly saturate the nostrils of the young dog. This is excruciating pain to the dogs, and they howl and whine for hours; but it makes ‘bear dogs’ out of them, perfect on the trail, and this is the point with the Indian.

“The huge carcass of bruin was divided and each Indian carried a load to camp. A fire was soon built, and a huge chunk of bear meat was thrown on the coals. All night long they cooked and ate, the tenderfoot getting into his hammock beneath the bough of the oaks. We rested and dreamed--the flicker from the camp-fire, the Indians moving to and fro, the silence occasionally broken by their low, soft voices, and ever and anon in this wakeful slumber came the half-dreaming thought, ‘Betty and me killed the bear!’”

CHIEF TOM TIGER (MIC-CO TUSTENUGGEE).

It is a number of years now, that Tom Tiger, chieftain, reached Kissimmee after a ride of 160 miles. Tall, straight and muscular, he proved himself a worthy descendant of the royal Tustenuggee. Dressed in the regalia of a chief, and mounted on a raw boned horse, he might have been mistaken for a sheik of the Arabian desert. He had come on a friendly visit incidentally, but to tell his white friend his trouble over a horse which had been procured under a fraudulent pretense, by a white trader. The story is a long one, but suffice to say proceedings were instituted and with the result that Captain Tom Tiger, Seminole chieftain, was the first Florida Indian that ever stood up in a white man’s court, making, as the spectators remarked, the most imposing picture they had ever witnessed.

The tall, magnificent looking savage, with uplifted hand, took the oath on the holy Book, with a perfect understanding of its meaning.

The case was prosecuted by the Society, “Friends of the Florida Seminoles,” and achieved notoriety for being the first case in Florida in which a Seminole sought the protection of the court. It was told that the State’s Attorney made the most thrilling speech of his life as he pleaded for the barbarian of the swamp. The Indian never swerved under the strongest cross-examination, but told the story simply and direct. The status of the case was this: The white man was to return the horse at the end of two moons, binding the promise by writing. The argument was written on a cartridge box; a terrific rain storm came; the box was soaked in water, and the writing made illegible. Because Tom could not read, he could not make oath as to what was written on the box, the white man testifying he had bought the horse. On this simple technicality the case was lost and the white man escaped the penitentiary.

Like many of his race, Tom had a love for Wy-o-mee (whiskey), and was not averse to taking it. In speaking of a saloonkeeper he would say, “Captain, good man, five Indians go in saloon, five drinks give ’im. No money take,” but when Tom was asked to drink no whiskey in Kissimmee, he promised, “un-gah” (all right). A day or two after, the white friend stepped out of his office, and looking back saw the tall form of Tom just passing into the saloon--headed by three cowboys. Tom returned to the office, and his friend chided him for going to the saloon. “Whiskey, me no take ’em, lemonade, me take, cowboys wy-o-mee take.” The white friend’s trust had not been betrayed.

In this Indian’s visit of a week, many chapters were revealed of the character and home life of this tribe. Savages, it is true, but honor, justice and religion shine forth in their tribal life.

During his absence, the squaws and pickaninnies watched the potato and corn patch, and cared for the hogs, surely worthy tribute to a domestic life.

In relating a tragedy of the forest, Capt. Tom seemed much affected. The chief, attracted by the cries of young birds, found that a rookery of the beautiful white heron had been completely destroyed by plume hunters, and the grounds strewn with the mutilated bodies of the parent birds. From the tall trees overhead the starving nestlings were spending their waning strength in calling for food. The pitiful scene touched the heart of the strong red man, and he paused in his journey to find food for the helpless birdlings. In relating the circumstance, the Indian said, “Little birds, cry, cry, all day. No water, no fish,” till the Indian boys caught minnows and daily climbed the lofty trees and fed and watered the young egrets, a tribute to the savage mind over the cruelty of the civilized and Christianized white man.

A few years ago, Florida was an ornithological Eden, the winter home of countless thousands of the migratory birds of the North American Continent; but alas, the blood thirsty greed of the Caucasian for gold is shown in the brutal extermination of the plumed egret, and “the passing of the snowy heron” is the price of human callousness. The Indian chief probably did not see in the fate of the innocent plume bird, a prophecy of the destiny of the Seminole.

The same forces are at work to-day to take from the helpless Seminole his home and happy hunting ground.

Tom Tiger made his last visit to Kissimmee during the Spanish-American war, and a touching and pleasing feature of the visit was the meeting between General Fitzhugh Lee and this Chieftain of the Seminoles.

The train bearing General Lee and staff stopped at Kissimmee, where crowds of citizens went to welcome the hero of the Southland. General Lee, dressed in his rank as U. S. general, Chief Tom Tiger in the regalia of a Seminole chieftain. The scene is indelibly impressed upon all who witnessed the meeting. The Indian chief with the Stars and Stripes in his hand, was introduced and shook hands with the great American soldier. In hearty tones General Lee responded, “I am glad to see you, Chief.”

Tom was told he must “yell” when the train came in. He understood and answered, “Me holler (ojus),” and he did, a genuine Seminole war cry, “Yo-he-ee-hee--Yo-ho-ee-hee!”

Driven and hunted, homeless and helpless, this Indian was a strong ally of the United States. “No fight white man,” meaning the people of the United States, “shoot Spaniards, ojus” (heap), was Tom’s reply when the attitude of the two countries was explained to him.

One by one the older Indians are passing away, and when word was received that Captain Tom Tiger had been killed by a stroke of lightning, the news was received with genuine sorrow. In his death, a fair, generous and faithful friend was gone. Captain Tom was building himself a dugout canoe on the edge of the cypress swamp, his family being with him at the time. Seeing an approaching storm, he sent them back to their wigwam. When he did not return, the Indians went to seek him and found his dead body. Other Indians turned the unfinished canoe into a mausoleum, and there rested his remains until an avaricious curio seeker sought it out and robbed it of the body of the chief. Considering the tender respect the Florida Indians have for their dead, and also the superstition that any desecrations of the bones bring dire calamities to the tribe, it is not surprising that this act of vandalism aroused the Seminoles to the highest pitch, and they were stirred as they have not been since the days of the Indian wars. The whites realized that unless they were pacified they were liable to give trouble.

Two of the leaders of the band visited the authorities at Fort Pierce, Florida, and the newspapers of that date give the following account, “Big Yankee steal bones of Tiger Tom, Indians Big Chief and best friend. Indians all fight. Kill white man ojus, bones no bring back by big white chiefs next moon.”

The matter was immediately taken up, and information filed by the State Attorney in the Circuit Court against the party, charging him with disturbing the grave of another and having in his possession a dead body. All over the United States the account was taken up by the press and looked upon as a matter of serious importance, as the Smithsonian Institution was credited with being behind the rapacious curio hunter.