Part 13

Twenty thousand purchasers of lands in the Everglades, backed by the power of American democracy, had _demanded_ their lands or the return of their good American dollars. The Federal Government, through Congress, exposed the crooked deals (the lands still being under water and unsurveyed) made by the vampire speculator, with the result that another survey was ordered and the Florida State government put sixty men into the Everglades at an expense of $40,000. The citizens paid for the survey and “800 square miles” still remain--unsurveyed! Less is known and, it can be said without fear of contradiction, less is “told” to the reading world of inquiries in this 20th century than was given to history four hundred years ago.

For best accounts touching the interior of the Everglades we must have recourse to historical documents. From French delineations upon old maps as well as from Spanish and English authorities, we learn that more than three hundred years ago Florida’s Everglade country was cut up by large rivers, extensive ponds, lagoons and lakes which connected with each other.

That the drainage of the Everglades was contemplated by the authorities of the Spanish government, is an established historical fact and as late as 1840, during the Seminole War, a canal was found large enough to float a large craft. This piece of engineering work is credited to the Spaniards, but owing to the treacherous straits of Florida’s coast, interior navigation was abandoned and the Spaniards and the Frenchman left the country to the intrepid and enterprising Indian, whose knowledge of the water world of the Glades was then, as is now, superior to his white engineering brother; for the Indian knows every foot of this interminable morass and travels through these uncharted waters in his “dugout” canoe, with no compass but the stars overhead, as he is guided by the whispering winds brought him from the Great Spirit.

CROSSING THE EVERGLADES BY AEROPLANE

A recent experience told by an aviator belonging to one of Uncle Sam’s flying squadrons and authorized by the War Department at Washington, graphically pictures a modern view of the Everglades, and illustrates, too, that the same hospitality extended by the Red Man to the bewildered Spaniards, as they landed on these wild and unexplored shores four centuries ago, may be found in the heart of the jungle and marsh wilderness of the Seminole camps today.

The airmen were attempting to “cross the Everglades” in order to make a shorter flight between the aviation fields of Florida. Encountering a storm, they were compelled to make a “forced landing” and headed for the nearest open space in the Big Cypress country, which proved to be soft muck, where the ship turned over on its back, wrecked and submerged in the black water.

The aviators wandered, hungry and exhausted, for two days, finally finding a camp inhabited by Seminole Indians. There they received a welcome, and food and shelter were given.

The Seminoles, lurking in their swamp-hedged wigwams, fear the intrusion of the white man, but like their ancient forbears they stand ever ready, with Samaritan-like kindness, to help the white brother in an hour of necessity. The airmen were later piloted by the red men through their hidden channels to a dredge-boat where aid was secured and they soon reached the Marine fields at Miami. With the help of the Indians, who made frequent trips to the base camps for equipments, the “fire ship of the clouds” was “launched”; the propeller took the air, droning a new tune to the silent Seminoles, who say “fire ships littly too much, to cross the West Wind of the Great Spirit.”

This aquatic jungle, whose secrets are known only to the Indian, has not changed since the day Columbus found a new world for Castile and Leon, as a brief extract from the airmen’s report verifies:

“The territory in which we made our landing is known as the Everglades (Big Cypress). Its sameness is appalling; just one small cypress hammock after another; water and mud everywhere; innumerable mosquitoes, alligators, water moccasins and black snakes. Here and there a hammock would be found with a rock base and on some of these bases Seminole Indians eke out an existence. The mosquitoes attacked us in hordes. We drank no water, for fear it might be infected with malaria germs or some other swamp fever, nor had any food been found.... We were compelled to spend the night again in the swamp, this time on ground covered with an inch or more of water, a maze of water and prairie ways, with treacherous under-currents and impregnable barriers.”

The solemn silence of this mysterious swamp is only broken by the splash of the Indian canoe, but here the Seminole lingers, giving a background of tragedy and romance to aboriginal America.

EVERGLADE GEYSER

Let the captain of an air ship rest his craft in mid-air and through his glasses gaze down upon this aquatic jungle. Near the centre of the Glades, according to public documents filed in Washington, is an immense spring rising from the earth, covering an extent of several acres and throwing up large quantities of water with great force, supplying the Everglades with torrential quantities of water.

With the sun’s rays glinting on this “Everglade Geyser,” with the evaporation caused by the intense heat of this tropical land, as it meets the cooling waters of some underground cavern, a grey mist is formed and hangs over the area. As the white, wandering clouds from the fathomless cavern meet the starry skies, the Seminole sees in this phenomenon of nature the “Breath of the Great Spirit.”

When the torrential rains, a characteristic of the Everglade country, come, flooding the entire area, the Queen of the Water Kingdom picks up the rippling waters as they course over the rock-bound bottom and like an elfish sprite hurls them into the lakes and rivers, where they dash relentlessly on until they reach the subterranean outlets.

Until the white engineer finds ways and means to control subterranean flood gates, to control water forces whose source lies hundreds of miles away, or to toss away lightly the very God of Nature’s balance wheel, Everglade drainage in the heart of the Big Cypress must continue to be a stupendous operation.

The subject of the reclamation of this “The Least Known Wilderness of America” has been a “political football” for more than a score of years and has become a theme of nation-wide discussion. Until Florida populates her millions of tillable and untenanted acres, certainly she need not allure with tempting word pictures the problematical and uncertain Everglades.

Thousands of purchasers of lands in these tropical swamps--lands unsurveyed and submerged--still wait for the answer to the riddle of the Okee-cho-bee Sphinx, who alone holds fast the key to this “Egypt of America.”

Florida’s Everglade disaster, which was commercialized with land grabbers’ outfit in entering the Seminoles’ heritage, violated every humane and brotherly law of a commonwealth. The chaotic days that followed the Federal investigation, retarded the progress of the State fully a decade of years, and Florida, the land of singing birds, limpid waters and “golden apples,” learned the bitterness of the prophet’s rebuke when he said: _“Thou shouldst not have entered the Gate of my People in the day of their calamity nor have laid hands on their substance in the days of their distress_.”

SEMINOLE HISTORY REVIEWED

With the purchase of Florida from Spain in 1821 we read the death sentence of Seminole independence--a very Iliad of tragedy in American history. Prior to this, the Seminoles, as subjects of the Spanish crown, were permitted to become a nation to themselves, living and practicing the inalienable rights of independence, honor and kindliness.

For three-quarters of a century these dusky patriots prospered, owning cattle, slaves and plantations. Listen, and you may hear the tinkling bells of their little ponies as they traveled, caravan style, carrying their wares from village to village. Here, for a time, in the secluded fastnesses of the wilderness, these red aborigines lived happily because away from the white man’s power, but alas, we see a mocking travesty in our cherished ideals. Soon the alien speculator and “carpet-bagger,” with bullets and blood-hounds, entered the State, confiscating their well cultivated fields and destroying their wigwam homes. The staccato cry of “Move on--move on!” rang in the ears of this distracted, primitive people and, like sheep before the rout of grey timber wolves, the Seminoles were driven on into the more desolate regions of the great morass. Shattered hamlets and dull ashen camp fires blackened the once peaceful Indian country. Years of war and broken treaties followed, until the American Nation became the conquerors and thousands of Seminoles were forced to give up homes--life itself, and be exiled to a cold and unknown Western land.

The flame-lit reel makes a turn and we see, by the imperishable magic of the camera, a silent drama of Florida history. We see a little band of about one hundred Indians left in the Glade country in 1841. Expedition after expedition failed to corral these patriots, whose greatest crime (?) was love of country, kindred and reverence for the graves of their fathers. Like animals sorely stricken, creeping to their lair, these red mothers and little children followed the slow tread of the stoical braves and sought refuge in the secret recesses of their Glade country.

Among the archives of Government statistics, one record is enough to stir the sympathy and stimulate pity for the vanquished red dwellers of the Everglade country. The reel makes a turn and we read:

Record 5. “With 200 men we ascended Shark River into the Everglades. Here we met Captain Burke of Artillery, with 67 men. * * * Joining forces, we proceeded to Te-at-ka-hatch-ees, and discovered two Indians in a canoe. The Indians escaped, but we secured their packs, cooking utensils, provisions and their canoes. We followed them three days until the trail was lost. After destroying the growth of their fields, consisting of 50 to 60 acres of pumpkins, beans and peas, etc., we continued to sea.

Respectfully submitted, JOHN T. MCLAUGHLIN, Lieutenant Commanding Expedition.”

From the beginning of time, down through the long centuries, the conscience of man has awakened, in cycles, as it were, for the betterment and uplift of humanity.

A decade of years ago, a new spirit of quickening prevailed in America and a growing interest in Chief Osceola’s long neglected people became a nation-wide theme. Pressure from Maine to California was brought upon Florida’s state officials, and a rhythmic sympathy was felt for the destiny of the Seminole. The subject was presented to the Chief Executive and, under the beneficent ruling of the martyred McKinley, an expedition from the United States Government was sent into the trackless Everglades to select and survey lands for homes for the long persecuted native inhabitants. Belated justice seemed assured and in the year 1899 the Florida Legislature passed a bill granting the Seminoles a reservation of 835,000 acres.

This act was approved by the Governor, but between the time when President McKinley’s special government commission carefully selected these lands in 1898--an interval of less than a year--this particular tract disappeared (?) from the list of public domain _and went into private ownership_.

The bill, so inspiring in humanity, contained a clause in these days of Everglade jests called a “joker.” Like the eagle, as he sweeps down the lamb feeding at its mother’s side, so the spoils-taker, with “land grabbers’” outfit, swept down upon the inheritance of the red children of Florida, not only violating the sanctity of Florida’s citizenship but even gathering the crumbs that fell from Florida’s bounteous table, and the livid bar sinister of treachery again stained the escutcheon of Florida.

Years passed, when pressure was once more brought upon Florida’s inhumanity toward her native people, and the legislative body of 1913 passed a bill, unanimously providing 235,000 acres in the Everglades for the Seminoles. Alas! for the pathos of the story. On the very last day of the session, Governor Park Trammell, untouched by the needs of these long persecuted people, and in full sympathy and co-operation with the politicians’ strong anti-Indian feelings, vetoed the bill, not only denying the citizenry of Florida the inalienable right to uphold the dignity, honor and patriotism of Florida, but denying these oppressed natives as much as a spadeful of earth to cover their corpses. What mathematician can ever estimate the result of the power used by the Governor at this critical time? By this stroke of the pen, these aboriginal Americans again became the victims of a cowardly treason.

A great State like Florida, whose honor is far greater than her land possessions, need not vilify the history and lives of her native people; there has been much more than money involved in the handlings of the Everglade Country, and a handful of speculators, who said: “There is no land left for the Seminole--let him ‘make bricks without straw,’” found, as later records show, that a Florida democracy, quickened by the spirit of human kindness, checkmated the Everglade spoils-taker, whose fetish has been the dollar mark, and later through the Legislature gave to the native owners land upon which they may find peace and a refuge.

Again in 1915 an Indian bill was introduced, but certain active land speculators, known to be strongly opposed to the Seminoles having _any_ land in Florida, arrived at Florida’s capital on schedule time, and the bill, as per Seminole dialect, went into a “big sleep,” and the story of the Seminole came before the world as rivaling that of the “Man Without a Country.” And, throughout the country, the printed pages of journalism carried headlines which read: “Within the Bounds of America, ‘We Have a Little Belgium of Our Own.’”

At this point in Florida’s history, the white American heard, as it were, the Seminole’s wounded cry: “_Why have the lands of our fathers been taken from us?_” And as the dirge-like wail of the oppressed Seminole echoed and re-echoed through the solemn stillness of the mysterious Everglades, it was transmuted into a very symphony of sorrow. The mournful echoes of the cry of this stricken race, like ether waves, permeated every corner of America, until Democracy answered thus: “If this America of ours, by the furling and unfurling of her Star Spangled Banner, can say to the war-mad nations of Europe ‘_Touch not my people_,’ surely she will look into her galaxy of States and see to it that the banner of her own flowery Florida shall no longer be besmirched with a blot caused by the political profiteers of the State; and Humanity, dignifying brotherly kindness, challenged the white man’s hidden records and with uplifted hand pointed the way to a just solution of the Seminole’s rights.”

THE 1917 LAND BILL.

_The Climax of Twenty Years’ Struggle, When the Seminoles are Granted Homes in the Historic Stronghold of Their Ancestors._

Almost simultaneously with America’s entrance into the great European conflict, as the “Defender of Liberty, for the liberation of the oppressed nations,” the Florida Legislature convened. The hour had struck for the humanity of the whole world. We still feel the sobbing clutch in our throats, and we hear, as if but yesterday, the tread of our khaki-clad youths as they marched to the colors of liberty; we see the furling and unfurling of the Star Spangled Banner; the hearts of the American people wakened to the love of humanity; all these stood out like beacon lights in the springtime of 1917.

In Florida, like a star shining through a clouded sky, was the passage of the “Seminole Land Bill” without a dissenting vote, giving to the Florida Indians approximately 100,000 acres of land.

This was a fitting climax to the years of work by the Seminoles’ active white friends in Florida. The air had become vibrant all over the country for the betterment of Florida’s homeless aborigines.

The Indian Rights Association, national in its scope, had sent a special committee to the Seminole camps and learned the circumstances of Florida’s wards, reporting to the Government the true conditions. The camera pictures and search-light truths of this organization barred censorship.

Later, and just prior to the convening of the Legislature, a Congressional committee was sent by Congress to ascertain at first hand the real condition, as well as the legal status of the Seminoles, and the report of this committee gave official proof that “The Seminoles’ rights to lands in Florida were made a part of the transfer by the Spanish Government to the United States in 1821,” and that if justice were carried out as specified by the United States Government treaty rights of 1843 _all_ of the lands of Southeastern Florida (approximately 5,000,000 acres), belonged to the Seminoles.

Of the 100,000 acres granted by the Florida Legislature to the Indians, only about five per cent. is supposed to be tillable, but it is at this time the best available land, and the records of Florida for the calendar year of 1917 will go down into the long ages as being the most humane act ever done by a Tallahassee legislature, and the Flower State may look back upon a “Century’s Dishonor” with sorrow, yet with triumph, because she has rectified a long standing injustice and has given to the vanquished people of the Everglades a refuge, in this late hour of their direst necessity.

The reservation thus granted is the long worked for and century old home of the Seminoles--the stronghold occupied by their forefathers, situated on the Southwestern coast of Florida, near the “10,000 Islands,” including within its boundaries the beautiful, palm-fringed Shark and Harney rivers. Here many of the Indians are living today, cultivating the same hammocks from which their ancestors fled when hunted by the American expedition in 1841. Government records show that while Colonel Harney “with his marine boats and artillery and his entire force of 250 men were thrown out through this section to hunt the wily Seminoles” they came upon numerous villages, with their crude home belongings, and hundreds of acres of lima beans, pumpkins, bananas and other food products, but in every instance the camps had been recently abandoned by the Indians.

From the Gulf to the Atlantic, naught remained of Colonel Harney’s “trail” but the ashes of the wigwams, the devastated crops and the skeleton of an Indian scout here and there, lying beside his canoe where he had been attacked by the soldiers in a secreted channel in the tall saw-grass. After a fruitless search, the boats were recalled and the expedition given up. The Seminoles in their hidden recesses had made good use of their ancient signal codes.

Today, the Seminole stands upon the last sandy strip of his once vast domain, an honorable hyphenated Indian-American. With the horrors of the great European war as told to him, his instincts of liberty and freedom asserted themselves and he proved himself no “slacker” as he stood ready as a volunteer to defend his native America in the great war struggle.

The War Department at Washington, after seriously considering their application for scout duty and sharpshooting service, decided against the proffered aid.

An amusing incident, at this time, illustrates the Indian’s intense patriotism and when questioned by a white friend, as to fighting Germany, the Chieftain asked:

“You go? Yes, me go, shoot Germans like Hell. One hundred Indian men go. Indian shoot good. Indian want two Maxims,”--the Seminole’s idea of doing double service for peace and liberty. As Belgium and bleeding France stand by the colors today at every hearthstone in the land, crucified that liberty and democracy might be saved for the whole world, so the Seminole, through a century long invasion of his wigwam and his campfire by the Paleface, has come through the crucible, still true to the colors of the plumed knight of his race--the martyred Osceola--American patriots that we know would spend their last drop of blood freely and gladly in defense of their native land and sacred soil they have loved so long.

With the granting of the reservation in the Big Cypress by the State of Florida, the patient, long neglected native red people of the Everglades have had a new chapter written in their tragic life story book. Already the United States Government has come to the assistance of these Seminoles and under the supervision of the Special Florida Indian Commissioner, who, too, is an educated Seminole from the West, their lands are being fenced, the Seminole being encouraged to perform the labor, with the prospect of stocking this section with good cattle.

The Seminole is a natural stock raiser and will be allowed to buy cattle and pay for them at so much per year, using his own mark and brand. Together with the co-operative help of the Federal Government, the Southern Baptist Home Mission Board is planning to immediately enter the field with industrial and missionary workers--the teachers to be educated Oklahoma kinsmen of the Seminoles, who will in time make this people citizens worthy of the blood of their patriotic ancestry.

Can you, the friend of the down-trodden and the oppressed, not see the Seminole silhouetted against the burnished horizon, waiting for Opportunity to open her Pandora box and give him a chance with the people of America in a better civilization and Christianity?

Can you not hear the heart of the big forests throb a tribute of praise and the glittering waters ripple a melody of love for this touch of humanity--“For inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

A VISIT TO A SEMINOLE CAMP.

Would you visit a Seminole village in the heart of America’s Least Known Wilderness? Then let us draw the curtain and, turning the slide, look upon a vision of aboriginal life with its flame encircled background.

The view of this aquatic jungle has not changed since Spanish and English invasion four centuries ago. Of the 300,000 Americans found when Columbus landed on these wild and unexplored shores, the Florida Seminoles are the only remnant left who live the old, primitive life and practice the ceremonies of their royal, barbaric ancestors.

We see the palmetto thatched wigwams glistening in the red lights from the camp fire; tall trees are silhouetted against the sky, and we see the little children playing backward and forward, their little, brown legs twinkling through the shadows cast by the lurid flames. We hear the century-old lullabies, softly crooned by the mothers as they watch with careful eyes the toddling pappooses. Let us look again on this scene from aboriginal life and see the stoical braves, as they rearrange the “red wheel” camp fire and continuously add to the ever ready Sofka kettle some new ingredient, possibly fresh from the chase. The hunting dogs scent the savory odor, while the alert and watchful squaws glide in and out amid the shadows of the royal palms, which stand like sentinel warriors, crowned with feathery head-dresses that rustle in the breeze.