Part 6

History, romance and poetry have held up the characteristics of the red man to our gaze from childhood. And while treachery may be a distinguishing feature of the Indian nature, yet the lowest one of them has some conception of honor when fairly approached. History shows that all through the Seminole war, misrepresentations and dishonorable schemes were practiced against them by the whites. Almost universal sympathy goes out to this remnant of people who fought so bravely and so persistently for the land of their birth, for their homes, for the burial place of their kindred. As their traditions tell them of the oppression their people suffered as they wandered in the wilderness thrice forty years, who can tell the secret of their hearts? To do this, it would be necessary to become, for the time, an Indian, to put ourselves in his place--and what white man has ever done this? Ask the waters of Tohopeliga, or the winds that waft across Okeechobee. To the elements are whispered the heart throbs of these red fawns of the forest. The present Florida Indians are descendants of that invincible tribe who were never conquered by the force of arms. Refusing in 1842 to accompany their people to the mysterious West, they ceased to exist save for themselves. Finding refuge in the almost inaccessible Everglades, they were for a time almost lost to the historian. They have no legal existence, and hence no rights that a white man is bound, by law, to respect. There are no Indian troubles in Florida at present, but every few months a cry comes from hungry land-grabbers, or from trappers and hunters, that the Seminoles are killing off the deer and plume birds. The changing conditions in the lower peninsular country will eventually lead up to difficulties; and “Where shall we locate the Indians?” becomes a serious problem.

The Florida _Times-Union_ editorially says:

All the murderous, cut-throat, unkempt and squalid Indians in the United States whom the Government fears are provided with reservations and such luxuries as they never before had in their lives, but the Seminoles of Florida, the finest specimens of Indian manhood in this country, clean in body, pure in morals, and as brave as the lion that roams the desert, with whom so many treaties have been wantonly broken, are being driven farther and farther into the Everglades and their hunting grounds confiscated to the land grabbers. Is this justice?

Should the whites drive off the Seminoles, and thus approve their greed for land by taking the possessions the Indians now occupy, what good would it do them? Internal improvement companies, by their franchises, would sooner or later take the blood-stained acres from them. Let settlers in Florida, or in any part of the country, turn over their accounts and see how many acres have been credited to them, either from the State or from the general Government, without the equivalent of homesteading or for cash. The “Western” style of disposing of the Indian’s inheritance must not be followed in fair Florida. It seems hard that these natives who ask no aid of our nation, should be forced to the wall by the march of civilization. To the Western Indians, under the protection of the Government, and supplied in a large measure by the taxes which civilization pays, pages are devoted by philanthropists for the betterment of their condition. The rights of the Seminoles of Florida should be defended. The day is not far distant when they must be made to go to the reservation in Arkansas or to lands set apart for them in Florida. To remove them from their tropical homes to the chilling blasts of the Indian Territory would be an act of cruelty and wholly unnecessary. Those of us who have enjoyed life in this land of the palm, this land of the balmy air and life-giving sunshine, reveling in the eternal bloom of the flowers and the ceaseless song of the birds, can well picture the struggle it would cost the patient Seminole to be forced to a cold western land. No, fair Florida, the ancestors of these proud people were forced to the country of the setting sun silent and dejected. But, with the spirit of Osceola, if they must perish, it will be here--here upon the land of their birth, upon the graves of their kindred. The lands they now occupy are of little value to the white race and might be made a safe reserve for them--forever. Cowboys who hunt upon the Okeechobee plains, say the Indians are peaceably disposed and friendly, and have never yet disturbed or threatened. They are certainly not foot-sore for the warpath and are fearful of doing anything to arouse the whites. “Indian no fight,” is the answer to the questioner. They have sense enough to know that if war should come again it would mean extermination for them; and their love for the “Flower Land” is so deep that the thought of exile would cost a struggle they dare not attempt. Yet, feeble remnant that they are, with the same heroic blood coursing their veins that inspired their ancestors and made them almost invulnerable, the present Seminole would choose to die rather than submit to removal. And in their swampy fastnesses, they could maintain a contest that would cost us thousands of dollars and many precious lives.

OUR DUTY TO THESE WARDS OF THE NATION.

Under the present status the Seminoles are prosperous, happy and contented. But the vanguard of civilization is marching on, and thinking, friendly minds must solve the question of the protection for this remnant of a tribe we have dispossessed of their natural rights. Dwellers of every land, from Scandinavia to the Congo have a Christian welcome to our shores. The slums of Europe pour in upon us to fill our almshouses and to be supported by our taxes. We have during the past quarter century contributed more than $50,000,000 to the education of the freedmen, yet except in individual cases, the improvement is scarcely noticeable.

Men and women are sacrificing their lives for the heathen of other lands. Is not the Seminole, this remnant of a long-persecuted people, as worthy of consideration as the oppressed Cuban or the half-naked Filipino?

Christianity is donating millions of money to this end, while our own “wards,” too many of them, are yet living in the dark superstitions of their fathers.

It is possible it will take time and patience before any shining results are apparent. Not until confidence is restored will the embittered Seminole yield to the overtures of our Government. In an educational sense the older Indians will not be benefited, except through the influence of their children. The logic of events demands absorption of this people into our National life, not as Indians, but as American citizens; and the sooner they can be induced to accept lands from the Government, and education for the youth, the sooner will the civilization of the Seminole cease to be a theory. The permanent duty of the hour is to prepare the rising generation for the new order of events that must come. Because these bands of the Seminoles are prouder, more invincible than the old Saxons, because they are savages, yet heroes many of them, all the good of life should not be withheld from them. It has taken years of labor to obtain the shining of even the few rays of light that relieve the gloom of the heathen countries of the Orient. It would be unreasonable to expect the offspring of savages to attain in a short time to anything like the thrift of a Nation like ours. Yet, with a few years of humane treatment, unviolated pledges, with Christian and patriotic examples set before them, this little band of Florida Indians would become worthy representatives of this fair land.

Were any future danger to threaten the United States, the Seminoles would be found to be brave allies. The pledge to General Worth by this remnant of hostiles, who, in 1842, refused to emigrate with the rest of their tribe, temporarily agreeing “to confine themselves to certain limits and abstain from all aggressions upon their white neighbors,” seems to be held sacred by their descendants. The question was put to Billy Bowlegs, one of the most intelligent of the present Indians, as to what his people would do were the whites to encroach, and take the clearings of his tribe are now occupying, “Would Indian fight?” The young brave replied with downcast face, “Indian no fight, Indian no kill, Indian go.” Pursuing the subject further, “but, Billy, by and by, may be one year, five years, may be, white man go, take all your land, take Okeechobee, then where will Indians go?” With the same bowed head, the answer came low and soft, “Me don’t know--Indian go.” Then to test his idea of an ally, the question was asked, “What would Seminole Indians do, Billy, if the Spaniards from across the big salt water would come to fight the white people of Florida?” Quickly and with spirit came the answer, “Indians help white man to fight.” Unless action be taken, there will come a time, when, leaving no trace behind them, the Seminole shall pass out of the world. He shall go, like the mist.

We cannot undo the past, but the future is in the hands of the people. In Canada there are over 100,000 Indians. They are called the Indian subjects of His Majesty; all held amenable to the law and protected by it. Statistics show that on one side of the line the nation has spent millions of money in Indian wars, while on the other, with the same greedy Anglo-Saxon race, not one dollar has been spent, and there has never been a massacre.

The caustic remark that the only good Indian is a dead Indian might apply to the savage Apache; but when one has studied the home life of the Seminoles, observed their domestic felicity, from which many white men might take example, noted their peaceful, contented character, he can only see in them an attractive race, and worthy the proud lineage they claim. Surely if ever the strong were bound to aid the weak, we are bound to help them, to treat them as human beings, possessed of human rights, and deserving the protection of American law. This without doubt, they will be willing to accept, when our nation by kind, courteous and honorable means secures their lost confidence; and when our National Christianity shall take measures to make our land for them a home where they may dwell in peace and safety.

CHIEF TALLAHASSEE.

Almost four hundred years have passed since that fair April day when Ponce de Leon anchored on the verdant shores of Florida. Since the Spanish cavalier planted the silken flag of Spain upon her soil, Florida has been surrounded by a halo of romance and tragedy. Between the time of her discovery and to-day, what marvelous scenes have been witnessed upon her fair plains and along the borders of her wild, dark rivers.

The ancient race who greeted the old Castilian has vanished and, save in the little band of Seminoles secreted in the mysterious and weird wilderness of the Everglades, no trace of the red man is visible. A description of a type of this fragment of a people will enable the reader to form a better conception of the tribe as a whole; and no name is more worthy to place in these pages than that of Tallahassee.

The old chieftain in appearance is noble and intellectual, and there is that in his look and bearing which at once pronounces him something more than the mere leader of a savage tribe. While his silvered head marks the cycle of many years, in his attire of scarlet and white, embraced by the traditional brightly beaded sash, he exhibits a dignified and patriarchial bearing. His countenance, while indeed mellowed with the cares of four-score years and ten, is kindly, and shows a conquered spirit. The lineaments of noble features are traceable in the broad forehead, the firm, thin lips, and eyes that might pierce the rays of the sun. Tallahassee shows no resentment to the whites, yet he believes that they have treated the Indian badly.

It may seem strange to talk of gentlemanliness in an untutored savage, but the demeanor of this Seminole chief must dignify any family in the land. But that face! Heaven forbid that any native of free America should wear so sad, almost heartbroken an expression as that which seams poor Tallahassee’s face. No child could look upon it without being impressed by its mournful pathos. The very history of the tribe is carved there.

When Osceola, with his compatriots, went on the warpath, Tallahassee was a small boy, and remembers well when his father and a few companions were surrounded and killed by the soldiers near Tallahassee, the capital of the State. Chipco, the chief of the tribe, was Tallahassee’s uncle; he escaped from the soldiers, and made his way to the Everglades where he lived to be nearly one hundred years old. Rosa, the sister of Tallahassee, became his squaw. They were childless, and at Chipco’s death, Tallahassee inherited the title, but as a reward for bravery displayed in saving his life on two occasions, Chipco had made him chief years before he died.

There is no trace of a revengeful spirit in either word or manner when Tallahassee speaks of his father’s tragic death, but with the stoicism of a philosopher, he seems to have accepted it as one of the cruel fortunes of war, and has nobly “buried the tomahawk.” Tallahassee is no stern warrior with blood-stained hands, but wears worthily the dignities of his ancestral station, and in many ways might be imitated with profit by his more cultured pale-faced brother. He is a true type of the “noble red man,” and in any other walk of life would have risen to eminence. Of all the Seminoles, Tallahassee is the most friendly to the whites. With the inborn courtesy that is native to all true greatness, this untutored Indian will welcome you to his wigwam and with royal grace dispense the hospitalities at his command. Few enter his presence, and none leave it without this mental tribute to his high character. The old chief is treated with care and consideration, and a homage is paid to him by the younger members of the tribe. Among the Seminoles, when a member of the tribe becomes too old for usefulness or self-help, it becomes the duty of the young men to contribute their share to his support. They are taught to do this more as an honor than as a burden.

As the years pass, more pathetic grows the life of the hereditary chieftain.

A few years ago, after numerous invitations, Tallahassee was persuaded to leave his swamp home to make a visit to the home of the writer. The old patriarch was accompanied by Billy Bowlegs, who showed the tenderest care for him. With one horse between them they traveled from the Everglades to Bassinger, the terminus of the steamboat line to Kissimmee. Then they boarded the steamer Roseada, arriving at Kissimmee after two days’ river travel. They attracted much attention and were the recipients of many small presents from sympathetic friends. They were both in full costume, the old chief wearing the regalia of his rank, sashes of bead work and red beaded leggins. On reaching the home of their host, they immediately began unpacking the bundle they carried, which indicated they had been preparing for many moons back for this eventful visit. Numerous garments, new and fanciful, were carefully withdrawn. The next morning being the Sabbath, they dressed with greatest care for the Sunday School and church services, which they enjoyed to the fullest. Knowing the famous chieftain would attend service, the church was crowded and at the close of the services parents with their children crowded around the old chieftain eager to shake hands with him; and with a pleasant beam of gratitude in his eyes, he received these greetings of the white friends.

It is a pleasing fact that Tallahassee, a savage and the representative of an almost destitute people, received a homage and as kindly a greeting as was ever accorded to any visitor to the little city of Kissimmee. However adverse a man may be to the Florida Indian in general, if he looks into the history of the Seminoles of Florida, he not only becomes friendly, but eager to see justice meted out to them.

As Tallahassee bade “good-bye,” he said, “Me no more come to Kissimmee City--old too much.” He had come as an ambassador of his tribe to tell his white friends the history of his race, and as memory went back to the olden days of bloodshed and accounts of home after home wrested from his people, he trembled with suppressed emotion. Anguish, interblended with the mournful pathos of his face, made a picture too sad to look upon. It was a period of agonizing struggle for this gallant, but conquered Seminole.

Sad and prophetic were his farewell words, for a short time after he reached his swamp home, he was taken with violent pains in his head, and as Billy Bowlegs reported it, “Pain three days--pain go,--Tallahassee blind _ojus_” (heap). The old chieftain, though totally blind and physically helpless, rules his band with the same stoic will of days long ago, when he carried them to the wilderness and wrenched them from the white man’s bullets and Uncle Sam’s bloodhounds.[4]

INCREASING.

It is generally believed that the Seminoles are dying off, and can last but a few years longer. On the contrary, they have large families of strong, healthy children, and the past ten years has shown a marked increase in their number. The strict law allowing no persons of like gens to marry is a reason why the tribe does not multiply still more rapidly. There are instances where eligible young men find great difficulty in getting wives because of the strictness governing the gens or consanguinity law. One chief has two daughters who find the same trouble in getting married because the men of their choice are too closely connected to them. Thus, a member of the Deer clan may not marry into the same clan, no difference how far removed the relationship may be. Relationship on the father’s side is not guarded against so strenuously, as the gens is all counted through the mother. Very often the law of marriage causes strange alliances--young men twenty years of age having old women for wives. From the best obtainable resources, there were in the year 1859, only one hundred and twelve Indians left in Florida. In 1880, by actual count, as reported by the Smithsonian Institute, the Seminoles of Florida numbered two hundred and eight. According to data gotten from the Indians themselves the tribe to-day numbers nearly six hundred. Of this number a great proportion are young children, or in the language of the chief as he made a numerical calculation of the members of the different families--“heap pikcanannies, pikcaninnies _ojus_” (plenty). The Seminoles are divided into four bands, who live in groups apart; each independent of the other, but in friendly relation. They are the Miami Indians, the Big Cypress band, the Talla-hassees and the Okeechobees. Since the death of Woxo-mic-co (Great Chief) five years ago, no one has been elected to fill his place, and it is doubtful if his office will ever be filled.

No event in the history of the Seminole tribe since the closing of the war has been more tragic than the slaughter of eight of the band, by the hand of Jim Jumper, a half-breed belonging to the tribe. The killing occurred in February, 1891. According to the Indians, the negro had bought some bad whiskey from a white trader, and it made him “crazy too much in his head”--doubtless delirium tremens. With his Winchester in his hand he started out. The first victim was his faithful squaw who happened to be close by. Rushing forward and through the camp and meeting the venerable Woxo-mic-co, head chief over all the tribe, who was on a visit to the Cow Creek band from his council lodge at Miami, the crazy half-breed sent a ball through the old chief’s head, killing him instantly. Old Tom Tiger, one of the landmarks of the Indian wars, hearing the firing, came to the rescue, but was shot down before he had time to interpose. Young Tiger, stepping out of the wigwam in time to see his father fall to the ground, with a blood-curdling war-whoop sprang upon the maniac and a hand-to-hand fight ensued; but he was at the wrong end of the rifle, and before he could wrest it from his antagonist, another report was followed by the death-cry of the brave, young Indian. The wildest panic ensued, the women and children huddling in their wigwams or fleeing to the woods. The murderer now rushed into the wigwam of his sister, and with his knife murdered her and her two little children, who were clinging to her dress in terror. Brandishing his knife, he started into the woods, where he was killed by a bullet from Billy Martin’s rifle. The wailing and the anguish in that camp can better be imagined than described. After the burial ceremony over the murdered victims, the body of the murderer was dragged far into the swamp, to be fed upon by the vultures. Thus passed away in less than half an hour eight innocent lives, victims to the demoralizing influence of the white man’s whiskey. The Indian village was broken up, the entire band moving away to escape the visitations of the spirits of the murdered ones.

On the death of Woxo-mic-co, four candidates for the position of Big Chief appeared, but five years have passed and yet no chief has been elected. In the old chieftain’s death the last vestige of Seminole war spirit is obliterated. Nowhere in their history is their determination to live at peace with their white neighbors more conclusively proven than in the abolition of the office of Great Chief, “Big Chief” and war councils, in their minds, being inseparable.

The authority of the sub-chiefs, who are leaders of the different bands, is purely personal; they cannot decree punishment--a jury or council alone can do this. The government is not harsh, and there is as much freedom as could be possible in these forest homes.

APPEARANCE AND DRESS.

In personal appearance, many a Seminole brave might be taken as a type of physical excellence. He is bright copper in color, is over six feet in height, his carriage is self-reliant, deliberate and strong. His step has all the lightness and elasticity that nature and practice can combine to produce, as lithe and soft as the tread of a tiger. The Yale, the Harvard or the Oxford student with years of training in the athletic school, would be but a novice in the art of grace, suppleness and mode of walking, as compared with this son of the forest. His features are regular, his eyes jet black and vigilant, always on the alert; his nose is straight but slightly broadened, his mouth firm as a stoic’s. The hair is cut close to the head, except the traditional scalplock of his fathers, which is plaited and generally concealed under the large turban that adorns his head.