blessed by victory, as a continuance of the bloody war for five years
proved that the God of justice was not wholly on the white man’s
side. The stain on our national honor will last as long as we have a
history. Osceola with the other chiefs was confined for a short time
in St. Augustine, but the daring savage was too valuable a prize to
trust on Florida territory, and he was taken to Fort Moultrie where
he died January 30, 1838, at the age of thirty-four years.
It is related that Osceola on being questioned as to why he did not
make his escape, as did some of the other chiefs from Fort Marion,
replied, “I have done nothing to be ashamed of; it is for those to
feel shame who entrapped me.” Chas. H. Coe, in his Red Patriots says,
“If the painter of the world-famed picture, Christ before Pilate,
should seek in American history a subject worthy of his brush, we
should commend to him, Osceola, before General Jessup. Osceola, the
despised Seminole, a captive and in chains; Jessup, in all the pomp
and circumstances of an American Major-General; Osceola, who had
“done nothing to be ashamed of,” calmly confronting his captor, who
cowers under the steady gaze of a brave and honorable man!”
But such is the Irony of Fate. Osceola, the free son of the forest,
fettered by the chains of Injustice, was destined to eat out his
heart in a musty dungeon.
Thoroughly and thrillingly dramatic was the death scene of the noble
Osceola as given by Dr. Weedon his attending surgeon. Confinement no
doubt hastened his death, and his proud spirit sank under the doom
of prison life. He seemed to feel the approach of death, and about
half an hour before the summons came he signified by signs--he could
not speak--that he wished to see the chiefs and officers of the post.
Making known that he wished his full dress, which he wore in time of
war, it was brought him, and rising from his bed he dressed himself
in the insignia of a chief. Exhausted by these efforts the swelling
heart of the tempest-tossed frame subsided into stillest melancholy.
With the death sweat already upon his brow, Osceola lay down a few
minutes to recover his strength. Then, rising as before, with gloom
dispelled, and a face agleam with smiles, the young warrior reached
forth his hand and in dead silence bade each and all the officers
and chiefs a last farewell. By his couch knelt his two wives and his
little children. With the same oppressive silence he tenderly shook
hands with these loved ones. Then signifying his wish to be lowered
on his bed, with slow hand he drew from his war belt his scalping
knife which he firmly grasped in his right hand, laying it across
the other on his breast. In another moment he smiled away his last
breath, without a struggle or a groan. In that death chamber there
was not one tearless eye. Friends and foes alike wept over the dying
chief. Osceola died as he lived--a hero among men.
OSCEOLA--PATRIOT AND WARRIOR,
DIED, JAN. 30,--1838.
Such is the inscription, that marks the grave of the hero of the
Seminoles.
Even at this writing, it is a melancholy satisfaction to know that
the great Indian leader was buried with the honor and respect due so
worthy a foe.
A detachment of the United States troops followed by the medical
men and many private citizens, together with all the chiefs, and
warriors, women and children of the garrison in a body, escorted the
remains to the grave, which was located near the entrance to Fort
Moultrie, Charleston Harbor. A military salute was fired over the
grave and as the sound reverberated over the dark waters of the bay,
Justice and Patriotism, must have pointed with fingers of scorn to
our great Nation, yet with tender pity, said “Osceola--the Rising
Sun, may the Great Spirit avenge you, keep you, love you and cherish
you,--the Defender of your country.”
THE HIDDEN WAR CAMP.
Wild Cat and Cohadjo were allowed to remain in old Fort Marion the
prison at St. Augustine, Florida. Wild Cat feigned sickness and was
permitted, under guard, to go to the woods to obtain some roots;
with these he reduced his size until he was able to crawl through
an aperture that admitted light into the cell. Letting himself down
by ropes made of the bedding, a distance of fifty feet, he made his
escape, joined his tribe and once more rallied his forces against
our army. Latter day critics have questioned the correctness of
this bit of written history. Last winter, during the height of the
season, the Ponce de Leon guests enjoyed a unique entertainment. A
wealthy tourist made a wager of one hundred dollars that “Wild Cat
never could have made his escape through the little window in the old
castle.” Sergeant Brown accepted the wager and himself performed the
feat, to the great delight of the excited spectators.
[Illustration:
_Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology._
OSCEOLA
A copy from Catlin’s painting.]
Our soldiers fighting in an unexplored wilderness, along the dark
borders of swamp and morass, crawling many times on hands and knees
through the tangled matted underbrush, fighting these children of the
forest who knew every inch of their ground could hope for little less
than defeat. Even General Jessup in writing to the President said:
“We are attempting to remove the Indians when they are not in the way
of the white settlers, and when the greater portion of the country is
an unexplored wilderness, of the interior of which we are as ignorant
as of the interior of China.”
By way of illustrating the enormity of the task the government had
in subduing the Seminoles, it is only necessary to describe one of
the many Indian strongholds in the swamps of Florida. About ten
miles from Kissimmee, west by south, is a cypress swamp made by the
junction of the Davenport, Reedy and Bonnett creeks. 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. The
surface is covered with water, which, from appearance may be any
depth, from six inches to six feet; this infested with alligators
and moccasins would have been an unsurmountable barrier to the white
troops.
A few years ago when the Seminoles yet frequented this section for
trading purposes old settlers have seen them coming from the swamp
carrying bags of oranges. Interrogations received no answers and
white settlers year after year searched for the traditional orange
grove, but without success.
So difficult to penetrate and so dangerous to explore is the swamp
that it was not until fifty years after the Indians had left their
island home that a venturesome hunter, during a very dry season,
accidentally discovered the old Seminole camp. The Indian mound,
the broken pottery and the long hunted for sweet orange grove were
proofs of the old camp. The majestic orange trees laden with golden
fruit were an incentive to further research. With a surveyor working
his way, as guided by the point of the compass, this wonderland was
explored, and proved to be a complete chain of small hommocks or
islands running through from one side of the swamp to the other;
the topography of the marsh being such that a skirmish could take
place on one side of the jungle and an hour later, by means of the
secret route through the swamp, the Indians could be ready for an
attack on the other side, while for the troops to reach the same
point, by following the only road known to them, it would have
required nearly a day’s marching. The Indian trail is lost in the
almost impenetrable jungle; but the tomahawk blazes are perfectly
discernible. The Seminoles held the key to these mysterious islands
and in the heart of the great swamps they lived free from any danger
of surprise. This retreat must have been a grand rendezvous for
them, as its geographical position was almost central between the
principal forts. Lying between Fort Brooke (Tampa) and Fort King
(Ocala), within a distance of thirty miles from the scene of the Dade
massacre, about forty miles from Fort Mellon, the present site of
Sanford, the camp could have been reached in a few hours by Indian
runners after spying the movements of the troops at any of the forts.
The old government road, over which the soldiers passed in going from
Fort Brooke to Fort Mellon, passes so close to the old Indian camping
ground that all travel could have been watched by the keen-eyed
warriors.
WILD CAT AND GENERAL WORTH.
At this period of our national history we are unable to picture or
appreciate the condition of those slave days, when all blacks of
Southern States were regarded as the property of the whites. The
fear, the torture, the grief suffered by the negroes and half breeds,
who had been a people with the Seminoles almost one hundred years, is
beyond our conception. When Indian husbands were separated from wives
selected from the exiles, when children were torn from their homes
and carried to slavery, the vengeance of these persecuted people was
constantly alive. Persons of disreputable character--gamblers, horse
thieves--were employed as slave catchers and showed no mercy to the
helpless victim.
After the violation of the treaty at Tampa, and the capture of
Osceola and Wild Cat, under the sacred truce of the white flag, Wild
Cat became a most daring enemy to the troops, and kept his warriors
inspired to the most savage hostilities.
General Scott was now placed in command of the army, yet the same
harassing marches continued, and it was not until seven generals had
been defeated at the game of Indian warfare by the wily chieftains
that any sign of success was apparent.
Our government, discouraged at being unable to conquer the Indians
or protect the white settlers, again negotiated for peace, but using
a more powerful weapon than in former years, that of moral suasion.
Executive documents show that, all through the war, artifice and bad
faith were practiced upon the Indians. The government was astonished
that a few Indians and their negro allies could defy United States
troops. All efforts had failed, even to the horrible policy of
employing bloodhounds. To-day we shudder at the barbarity of such an
act, but official documents show how much the subject was discussed
by Congress and war authorities. A schooner was dispatched to Cuba
and returned with thirty-five bloodhounds--costing the Government one
hundred and fifty dollars apiece. They were speedily put upon the
scent of Indian scouting parties, but proved utterly inefficient.
The public believed the hounds were to trail Indians, but reports
show their use was to capture negro slaves. The Seminoles were a
species of game to which Cuban hounds were unaccustomed and they
refused to form acquaintance with the new and strange objects. The
Indians had a secret peculiarly their own of throwing the dogs off
the scent, and the experiment, to close the war thus, proved a
failure and served no other purpose than to reflect dishonor on our
nation.
Wild Cat, after his escape from prison, was a terrible and
unrelenting foe. Occupying with light canoes the miry, shallow
creeks, and matted brakes upon their border, he was unapproachable.
A flag was sent him by General Worth, but, remembering well another
flag which had meant betrayal, capture and chains, the daring hero
fired upon it and refused to meet the general. In the summer of 1841,
General Worth’s command captured the little daughter of Wild Cat
and held her for ransom. The little girl,--his only child--was the
idol of the old warrior’s heart. On learning of her capture, Wild
Cat relented, and, once more guarded by the white flag, was conveyed
to General Worth’s camp. History gives an interesting account of
the old chief’s approach. His little daughter, on seeing him, ran
to meet him, presenting him with musket balls and powder, which she
had in some way obtained from the soldiers. So much overcome was the
fearless savage on meeting his child that the dignified bearing
so carefully practiced by all Indians gave way to the most tender
emotions.
The moral suasion, the humanity of General Worth made a friend of
Wild Cat, and he yielded to the stipulations.
The speech of the old chieftain, because it breathes the same
sentiment of the Seminoles of to-day, we give below. Addressing
General Worth, he said:
“The whites dealt unjustly with me. I came to them when they deceived
me. I loved the land I was upon. My body is made of its sands. The
Great Spirit gave me legs to walk over it, eyes to see it, hands to
aid myself, a head with which I think. The sun which shines warm and
bright brings forth our crops, and the moon brings back spirits of
our warriors, our fathers, our wives, and our children. The white man
comes, he grows pale and sickly; why can we not live in peace? They
steal our horses and cattle, cheat us and take our lands. They may
shoot us, chain our hands and feet, _but the red man’s heart will be
free_. I have come to you in peace, and have taken you by the hand. I
will sleep in your camp, though your soldiers stand around me thick
as pine trees. I am done. When we know each other better, I will say
more.”
Through the gentleness and humanity of the “gallant Worth,” Wild Cat
at this meeting agreed to emigrate with his people. He was permitted
to leave the camp for this purpose. By some contradictory order,
while on his way to his warriors, he was captured by one of our
commands, put in chains and transported to New Orleans.
When General Worth learned of this violation of his pledge he felt
the honor of our country had again been betrayed, and acting on his
own discretion sent a trusty officer to New Orleans for the return of
Wild Cat. General Worth by this act not only showed the nobility of
his own character, but proved that the savage heart can be touched
with kindness and is always keenly alive to honor and faithful
pledges. Moreover the justice of the act had much to do with the
successful turning of the war.
When the ship which brought the chief reached Tampa General Worth was
there to meet it and publicly apologized to the brave old warrior for
the mistake that had been made. Our gallant commander had proven his
humane heart, although at expense of both time and money. Through the
policy of General Worth, the whole character of the war was changed.
On the 31st of July, 1841, Wild Cat’s entire band was encamped at
Tampa, ready to be transported to their new homes.
The original idea of re-enslaving the fugitives was abandoned.
General Worth and Wild Cat now became the most ardent friends, the
general consulting with the famous chieftain until every arrangement
for the removal was perfected. Seeing a chief of such prominence
yield to emigration, band after band gave up the fight and joined
their friends at Tampa. From the time of Wild Cat’s removal in the
fall of 1841, until August, 1843, small bands of Indians continued
to emigrate. General Worth now advised the withdrawal of the troops.
A few small bands throughout the State refused to move, signed
terms of peace, however, by which they were to confine themselves
“to the southern portion of the Peninsula and abstain from all acts
of aggression upon their white neighbors.” As vessel after vessel
anchored in Tampa Bay to carry these wronged and persecuted people
to their distant homes, the cruelty of the undertaking was apparent
to the most callous heart. With lingering looks the Seminoles saw
the loved scenes of their childhood fade away. The wails and anguish
of those heart-broken people, as the ships left the shores, touched
the hearts of the most hardened sailor. They were leaving the graves
of their fathers, their happy hunting grounds, beautiful flowery
Florida. But it is the destiny of the Indian. Among that band there
was not one voluntary exile. Poets and artists picture the gloom, the
breaking hearts of the French leaving Acadia; at a later day the same
sad scenes were witnessed on the Florida coast, but it was not until
years after that a philanthropist gave to the world an intimation
of the melancholy picture of these poor struggling, long hunted
Seminoles leaving the shores of their native lands.
INDIAN WARFARE.
There is something intensely sad in the history of the Indians who
were left in Florida at the close of the “seven years’ war.” Keeping
faith with their promise to abstain from all aggression on their
white neighbors, retiring to the uninhabited marshes of the Southern
Peninsula, they lived happy and contented for thirteen years. Then
came reports of outbreaks and the United States again opened military
tactics with the resolve to drive this brave and liberty loving
remnant from their last foothold on Florida soil.
According to the most authentic reports, the trouble was brought on
by some white engineers encamped near the border of the Big Cypress.
It was in the year 1855 and the United States was making a general
survey of Florida. Old Billy Bowlegs, recognized as the head of his
tribe, and living at peace with all the world, had a fine garden in
this swamp and in it were some magnificent banana plants, which were
the delight of the old Indian’s heart.
As the old warrior visited his garden early one morning, he
discovered some ruthless hand had ruined his garden. They were
deliberately cut and torn to pieces. Going to the engineers’ camp,
he accused the men of the outrage, when they insolently admitted it,
refusing to make amends, and saying that they wanted to “see old
Billy cut up.” _And they did!_
The government paid for it to the extent of several thousand dollars,
a number of lives and adding another dark page in the history of our
Nation.
No white man would have submitted to the outrage, neither did the
famous Chief. Summoning his braves early the next morning, the war
cry “Yo-ho-ee-hee,” was heard and Lieutenant Hartsuff and his men
were fired upon, some of them being wounded.
Like a flash of electricity the news encircled Florida, and Billy
Bowlegs became the target of many old muskets.
Then came the clamor of white settlers for the removal of the
“savages” and white guerrillas dressed and painted as Indians went
about the country robbing and murdering mail and express riders,
driving off stock, burning houses and committing other lawless deeds.
Old inhabitants tell of these depredations. But there was a reason
for such cowardly acts. The Government at Washington was perplexed
and, not grasping the fact that the raids were perpetrated by white
men, disguised as Indians, believing that military forces could
do nothing towards breaking up the warfare, designed the plan of
offering the sum of $100 to $500 for living Indians delivered at
Fort Brooke (Tampa) or at Fort Myers. After Governmental hunting for
three years, the white guerrillas still busy with their malicious
depredations, Old Billy Bowlegs, with his band of one hundred and
fifty persons, was induced to emigrate, but they went with sore
unwillingness, silent or weeping towards the land of the setting sun,
driven before the power of the white man, a group of broken-hearted
exiles.
INTERLUDE
‘DAT SEMINOLE TREATY DINNER.’
The author begs the indulgence of the reader in giving the following
dialect story of that historic Treaty Dinner, when our gallant
American General Worth made peace terms with the Indians in 1842.
The treaty was signed at Fort King, now the present site of Ocala,
Florida, and as one listens to the story of that eventful day, a
story complete in its setting as told by our old Bandanna Mammy, the
heart throbs and the pulse grows quicker--so vivid is the recital.
As the tale is related a most picturesque scene comes before the
mind, the garrison with its stack of arms, dusky warriors mingling
with American soldiery, glittering sunshine and singing birds, tables
spread under the great live oaks, joy on every countenance--the end
of the Seven Years’ War. Because this old ante-bellum slave is a
bright link, forging as it were, those olden days of warfare with the
present, a few words of her individuality must interest.
Martha Jane, for so she was christened full ninety-five years ago
when, a little shining black pickaninny, her birth was announced to
the mistress of the old Carter plantation, is the true type of the
old time loyal, quaintly courteous Bandanna Mammy of ante-bellum
days. Leaving Richmond about 1839, she was brought to Florida with a
shipload of slaves. Since that time her life has been a rugged and an
eventful one--a servant for the wealthy, nursing the sick, sold again
and again, hired out, and, since freedom, working for her daily bread.
This white haired relic of Old Virginia is worthy a place in the
pages of history. She is old, decrepit and poor, the muscles of her
once powerful arms are shrunken and her hands gnarled with the labor
of years, but she has a memory as keen as when almost 80 years ago
she watched the “stars fall” from the upper windows of the Old Swan
Hotel in Richmond. She has kept pace with many points in history,
particularly of the wars of the country.
As the old dame--a study in ebony--rocks back and forth in the
creaking split-bottom chair, memory runs back to the imperial days of
Virginia when the cavalier was supreme, and she the pampered nurse
girl of the little mistress. She says, “Oh, dem was dream days. I hab
nebber seed any days like ’em since. De mounfulest day I ebber seed
was when dey took me from my mistress, for the sky was a drippin’
tears and de wind was a groanin’.”
“No, honey, dey ain’t stories ’bout dem Seminole war days, dey is de
Lord’s blessed truf, what ole Marthy see wif dese same ole eyes.
“Oh, dem wuz high times! I reckelmember dat Krismas day jest like hit
wuz yisterday; the sun wuz a shinin’ an’ de birds a singin’ (you see,
de mokin’ birds didn’t sing while dat cruel war wuz a goin’ on) an’
ebbery body wuz a laughin’ an’ a talkin’ an’ de white ladies wuz
a coquettin’ wif de sojers an’ dem Indians wuz as thick as hops an a
laughin’ an’ a jabberin’ too.
[Illustration: MARTHA JANE, “BANDANNA MAMMY”
who cooked the Treaty dinner for General Worth in 1842. Now living in
Kissimmee.]
“When Colonel Worth see dem long tables settin’ under the big live
oaks an’ see dem beeves an’ muttons an’ turkeys an’ deer we cooked,
he jest natchelly laughed an’ say, ‘Clar ter goodness, what kin’ o’
Krismas doin’s is dis’; an’ how dem sojers an’ Indians did eat.
“How come I ter cook de treaty dinner?
“Well, I wuz livin’ out on ole Marse Watterson’ plantation, ’bout
four miles from Fort King, dats to Ocala, now, you know, an’ Jim, dat
wuz Colonel Worth’s servant, he ride out on dat big white horse o’ de
Colonel’s an’ say ‘Colonel Worth want Marthy Jane ter cook de treaty
dinner;’ so me an’ Diana Pyles an’ Lucinda Pyles cook dat dinner.
“Oh, Lordy, what scufflin’ roun’ an’ jumpin’ like chickens wif der
heads off as we do dat day.
“All de sojers’ guns an’ de Indians’ guns, too, wuz stacked in dat
garrison, an’ when de night come, dey make big camp fires an’ de
white folks dance an’ de Indians wuz a dancin’ too, wif dem ole
coutre (terrapin) shells a strapped ’roun’ der legs.
“Tell you ’bout Colonel Worth? He wuz de gem’men ob all dat crowd;
he wuz de nobles’ lookin’ man an’ so kind an’ easy; de United States
nebber would hab conquered dem Seminoles if dey had not induced
Colonel Worth ter come down an’ argufy wif dem. Him an’ old Captain
Holmes wuz de mos’ like our folks ob any ob dem big generals.
“Arter dey had all eat, an’ eat dem fine wituals we cook, den dey hab
de speech makin’; oh, dat wuz high ’stronomy talk!
“I reckelmember jest like hit wuz to-day, me an’ Diana Pyles wuz a
standin’ right inside de garrison an’ dat noble-lookin’ Colonel Worth
wuz talkin’ kind an’ persuadin’ like ter dem savages an’ axin’ dem
all ter come up an’ sign de treaty.
“You see dat treaty wuz foh dem ter quit fightin’ an’ go ter Arkansas.
“All dem chiefs walk up but two. Oh, Lordy mercy I kin jest see dat
Sam Jones yit standin’ close ’side Colonel Worth. He wuz sut’n’ty a
big Indian an’ could talk English good as we alls white folks.
“He jest look at de Colonel pizen like an’ I smell de trouble den,
an’ he up an’ say, ‘My mother died heah, my father died heah, an’ be
demned I die heah; yo-ho-ee, hee-ee!’
“How dat Indian could gib dat war whoop; an’ he walk right ober
yonder ter dat big stack ob guns an’ take his rifle an’ ebbery Indian
ob his band follow’ ’m an’ dey walk out ob dat garrison as easy as a
cat arter a mouse.