The three weary paddlers sent their dugout skimming down the open
waterway toward the island. As they approached, Bill saw that Osceola
was steering for an encampment that covered about an acre, in a clump of
palmettoes near the water. He soon noticed that the dwellings were built
of six upright poles, three on a side, and had gabled roofs of palmetto
thatch. Later he was to learn that the floors were made of earth, and
the main articles of furniture were large tables which nearly filled the
interior. On these tables the Indians ate and slept. Usually there were
chests that held their clothing and tools and firearms. Barrels and
boxes for provisions and, in rare cases, a sewing machine, completed the
essentials. An old sheet or blanket is generally hung at one side of the
dwelling to keep out the wind and rain.
Soon the inhabitants of this colony began to crowd to the waterside,
waving friendly greetings. A few of the men were dressed in store
clothes, but most of them seemed to have an antipathy for trousers. The
habits of the Seminole are so amphibious, they are in and out of the
water all day long, so that they invariably prefer bare legs. The
majority were costumed in the old Seminole manner, in knee-length tunics
of banded red and yellow, tied with a sash at the waist. The heads of
the braves were covered with red bandanna turbans.
The squaws were easily recognizable by their long calico dresses of blue
or brown, gaily striped in red and yellow, and they all wore long
strings of small beads, usually turquoise and crimson. Silver coins
beaten into various designs decorated their head-dresses, and were worn
as bracelets and necklets. The elder children were dressed exactly like
their parents. The younger ones wore what nature had given them and
nothing more.
The canoe drew closer to the bank. Osceola stood up in his place and
shouted some words in a strange tongue. Immediately there came a change
in the demeanor of the waiting Seminoles. The mild curiosity in the
arrival of strangers, turned to shouts of jubilation as they recognized
their Chief. The braves rushed into the shallow water, and raised the
dugout with its occupants to their shoulders. Amid cries of welcome the
men carried their heavy burden up the bank and into the center of the
village.
Here Osceola made them a short speech. There was much handshaking, in
which both Bill and Sam participated. Meanwhile, the women rushed off to
a circular shed nearby where the cooking for the camp was done. There
was a great clattering of pots and pans by the fire, from which logs
radiated like the spokes of a wheel, and soon the appetizing odor of
food was wafted to the tired travelers’ nostrils.
“My people understand and speak English readily enough,” Osceola told
his friends. “But they like me to speak to them in the mother tongue.
I’ve informed them that you are my friends, that we are weary and hungry
and in need of sleep. Come now, we can make ourselves comfortable while
the women prepare us a meal.”
“An’ whatever it is they’s fixin’, it sure do smell good—yes, mighty
fine to _dis_ heah chile!”
Sam grinned at Bill happily as they followed their host toward a
dwelling somewhat larger and apart from the rest.
“Some of dem squaws sure is grand women,” chortled Sam, hobbling along
in high glee at Bill’s side. “Dis is what I likes, Marse Bill—good
eatin’s plenty of it, and a fine, strong woman to cook an’ work for
you.” He waved at a two hundred pounder, and when the squaw waved back,
he deliberately closed one rolling black eye in a wink.
“Why, you old rascal!” Bill broke into a shout of laughter. “I thought
you told me you had a wife and family somewhere!”
Sam shook his woolly pate in mock pathos. “Done had, Marse Bill, done
had. My ole woman b’leeve I’m dead years ago. If she’s alive she’s
married, dat am certain. Liza were a sure goodlooker an’ a fine cook—an’
dat kind never am neglected—not for long anyhow.”
“Take my advice and stop flirting with the Seminole squaws, just the
same, or some brave will bounce a tomahawk off that skull of yours.”
Sam spread his palms upward in a gesture of apology. “’Tain’t my fault,
Marse Bill, really it ain’t.”
“Whose then?”
“It’s de wimmen, Marse Bill.”
“How do you make that out?”
Sam chuckled and brought his head near Bill’s.
“They’s always a-botherin’ the goodlookin’ men,” he whispered.
Osceola, who had the ears of a cat, turned and winked at the old darkey.
“Well, that lets you out, Sam,” he laughed. “Come inside my house, and
rest. Tomorrow or the next day, there is work to be done. After that you
can come back here, Sam, and loaf for the rest of your life. And if you
still want a squaw to look after you, I’ll see about it.”
Osceola’s house was in reality no different from the other shelters in
the camp, except that it was larger, and more solidly constructed. They
entered, and Osceola swung himself onto the central table, and the other
two followed suit. A semi-circle of Seminole warriors squatted on the
ground a few yards distant and talked together in low tones.
Presently two women came in, carrying a large kettle that swung on a
stick between them. They placed this on the table, and from its open
mouth protruded a single large spoon.
“When in Rome, you know—” smiled Osceola. “Help yourselves—take some,
Bill, and pass it on. If you must have knife and fork and plate, they
can be produced, but when I am with my people I like to conform to their
customs. Hope you don’t mind.”
“The community spoon for me, old top,” and Bill reached for it. “Is this
the national dish?”
“I reckon so. It’s a meat stew thickened with vegetables and meal. You
ought to find it pretty good.”
“I do,” sighed Bill, blowing on a piece of hot meat. “This is the best
grub I’ve tasted for a month of Sundays.”
“An’ could you all please hurry up an’ pass dat spoon,” Sam broke in
eagerly. “My mouf sure am waterin’ for dat stew and my stummick he say
‘hasten, brother, hasten’!”
All three enjoyed the feast immensely and it is to be feared that as the
stew grew cooler, fingers were quite as often in use as the common
spoon. Although it was still broad daylight when they found the bottom
of the pot, they turned in, on the table, and slept like logs, rolled up
in blankets, until morning.
The early sun came streaming in through the open front of Osceola’s
house. It shone in Bill’s face and woke him. He stretched, yawned and
sat up. The young chief and Sam were going through the same motions at
opposite ends of the table.
“Morning, men!” he saluted them, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Am I
still dreaming, Osceola, or has your village grown during the night?
There seem to be three or four times as many people around.”
The chief swung off his table bed. “There are probably five times as
many,” he answered. “The villages of my people are small, but there are
many of them. Last night, while we slept, signal fires flashed the news
of my return. Come along, and let’s get a wash before breakfast.
Afterward, there will be a big pow-wow. I am going to put my plan up to
the warriors. You can do likewise.”
“But I can’t speak Seminole,” Bill reminded him as they started toward
the shore.
“Don’t worry, this conference will be held in English. You see,” he
explained, “our villages only run to a few families because an island
can support only a few people. Over there, beyond those trees, you will
find a clearing where our crops are raised; corn, squashes, sweet
potatoes, sugar-cane and so on. As you may have noticed, chickens and
razor-back hogs run about wild.”
“Oh, yes, and in all the big cities of Florida, too,” said Bill with a
straight face. Then they both roared with laughter at Sam’s perplexed
frown.
“Humph! You tryin’ to joke dis nigger,” the darkey rolled his eyes, “but
dat’s over my head, suh, over my head!”
“You think it is now, but you’ll see!” warned Bill with a twinkling
grin. Then he joined Osceola in his morning ablutions.
An hour after breakfast, the men of the tribe gathered in the open space
between the shore and the village. They sat in a wide circle on the
ground, with their squaws and children in the background. Bill and Sam,
led by Osceola, were escorted to places in the center of this group. The
young chief lighted a long pipe of tobacco, took a puff of the pungent
smoke and passed it to his white friend. Bill choked over the pipe, then
handed it to Sam. From the old negro it went the round of the braves.
When the pipe was laid aside, a deep silence fell over the gathering,
broken only by the raucous call of birds in the treetops, or the sudden
splash of a leaping fish. This lasted for fully ten minutes, then
Osceola arose and with quiet dignity began to speak. This time he used
English, and in simple words, but with the art of the born story-teller
that seems inherent in all tribes of North American Indians, he told the
tale of his disappearance from the village.
First he spoke of his capture by the Martinengo gang, and how he had
been taken to Shell Island. Then came his trip by plane with other
prisoners to the gold diggings in the Cypress Swamp. In graphic language
he told of his slavedom and of the pitiless cruelty of his taskmasters.
Outwardly calm, the warriors of his tribe sat listening with faces
devoid of all expression. Yet if one looked closely, one saw clenched
fists and tightened muscles, and could realize that this stoic behavior
was but a poise that was part and parcel of their tribal training.
Actually these Seminoles resented keenly the insult which had been
placed upon their young chief. Sometime in the future their deeds would
prove their loyalty—now, he must not be interrupted, he had more to
tell.
Osceola then went on to describe the coming of Bill, the feeling of the
overseer, their subsequent escape and the crash of the amphibian.
“My white brother who sits beside me here,” he concluded, “downed the
man who struck me, thereby risking not only death for his act, but the
terrible torture of the lash. He is an officer in the White Father’s
great navy, a flyer of airplanes, a person of importance among his own
people; yet he did that for a Seminole he had known less than a day.
Without his knowledge of flying, escape from the Great Cypress would
have been impossible: and again, when death at the hands of those
gangsters stared us in the face aboard the flying ship, he arranged for
the safety of this black man and myself while he stayed behind to battle
with them. That is why I take him by the hand now and thank him in the
name of the once-great Seminole nation!”
“How! how!” chanted the warriors, while Osceola bent down and grasped
Bill’s hand.
“Now,” he continued, his thrilling tones chaining the eyes of his
audience to him, “what are we going to do? Are we going to sit quietly
on our islands, and let these devils incarnate continue to enslave our
brothers and other defenseless people? Have we become women now that the
number of our braves is small? Have we forgotten the deeds of our heroes
in the past? Are we content to stand aside, content to let this scum
from the big cities offer insult day by day to our once proud nation?
Answer me—are we men—or something more pitiful than the weakest of
women?”
“We are men!!” shouted the braves, a hundred hands beating the air while
their voices rang resonantly in the stillness. “Lead us, Great Chief. We
will follow!”
“Good. Go to your homes now. Come back here on the third day from this.
Let every man come armed for battle and let him come with food that will
last for a week. Go now my brothers, warriors of the Great Seminole
Nation—I have spoken.”
Without a word, the men got to their feet, collected their wives and
children, and launched their dugout canoes.
“Now let’s hear your plan of campaign,” suggested Bill, as he and
Osceola stood watching the departing flotilla. “That was some speech you
made just now, even though you did lay it on a bit thick about me. I’m
keen to know exactly what you intend to do, now that you’ve got your
little army in back of you.”