drainage on scientific rules, in the employment of government experts
and following natural laws, show in their practicable demonstrations,
the great benefit the redemption of submerged Florida will be, not
only to the South, but to the whole country.
Prof. H. W. Wiley, Chief of the Bureau of Chemistry, U. S. Department
of Agriculture, says of this great State question of drainage: “There
is possibly no other body of land in the world, which presents
such remarkable possibilities of development, and with a depth of
soil averaging perhaps eight feet, it reaches beyond the limits of
prophecy.”
Then, when enterprise and capital enter the last home of the
Seminole, converting the tropical swamp into golden Everglades, may
we not pause to ask, “Is there not room enough for this remnant of a
helpless people in the country to which they have been driven.”
Here in the heart of the Okeechobee country, we find the only remnant
of our native American Indian, in his original simplicity, meeting
in the hunting-grounds of his ancestors the mighty power of Capital,
Industry and the Twentieth Century methods of progress. Shall we
wrest from him every vestige of this last foothold in Florida, his
last resting-place in his direst necessity?
The ultimate end of the Seminole should be, to be civilized and
Christianized and assimilated into the present status of the American
citizen. While to-day reclamation looks a calamity to the interests
of the Florida Seminole, it is possible under the direction of an
overruling Providence to be made an almoner of benefit. There is at
this time plenty of land for both interests. It becomes the duty of
the United States Government through its Indian Department and the
friends of the dependent Seminole, to see to it that land sufficient
for their use be left in the Okeechobee country, with Uncle Sam’s
signboard reading, “Penalty to Tresspassers.”
[Illustration: SEMINOLES ON THE MIAMI RIVER]
Let us, as a great American jury, pause in our mad scramble for
dollars, and consider our brother in red. As we plead for these
relics of the warriors of old, we ask, “Why molest them? They are
brave, self-supporting and piteously plead to be let alone.”
Over seventy-five years ago an officer of the Fourth Artillery wrote
in a Charleston paper, “Can any Christian in the Republic pray for
the continuance of blessings, when he is about to wrest from the
unhappy Seminole all that the Great Spirit ever conferred upon him?”
On the larger islands of this tropical swamp are found the fertile
hommocks, the home of the Seminole Indians. Approaching such a home
one sees marks of labor; a clearing is made, the wigwams built, sugar
cane, sweet potatoes and squash are growing. Chickens and pigs run
about and an air of contentment pervades all.
A visit to these Indians is still fresh to memory. After an arduous
journey, the village is reached. It was the occasion of the Green
Corn Dance and preparations were going on. The hunters were out for
game, the corn was ripening and an air of festivity was all around.
Dogs barked as the white guests approached, but a commanding Seminole
reprimand soon drove them away; pickaninnies came around with timid
advances, squaws greeted with handshaking. A wigwam was built for us
by the hospitable hands, and the visitors were assigned to this part
of the camp.
What a world of interest, both romantic and tragic, hangs around the
wigwams of a Seminole family!
To Tallahassee was assigned the greatest part of the entertaining,
and he it was who directed the movements that would add to the
pleasure of the guests.
Without giving thought to it, the team was hitched to a pole that
stood in the open. It proved to be the festal pole for the dance, and
the spot was sacred for that occasion, but the innate courtesy of the
old chief prevented his showing any offense, and in the morning he
waved his hand in the direction of the horses and asked, “Horses, you
want ’em there?” Learning what the pole was for, we were the ones to
beg pardon and feel chagrin. Then came the attention to the guests,
in showing around the little fields, telling the names and kinship
of the various members as they came into camp. This devolved on
Tallahassee, and the honor was two-fold.
As the shadows fell and the camp fire flickered, the old chief
regaled the company with history dating back one hundred and fifty
years. The old patriarch and warrior rambled on in low monotone,
living over in dreamy reminiscence his hunting days, and with the
record of seventy bear, to say nothing of panther, deer, ’coon,
possum and turkey. How the enthusiasm of the twentieth century hunter
was put on fire.
As the old chief drew closer his tunic, we asked, “Tallahassee, last
winter, cold much; Kissimmee City, ice come; what you do?” A young
brave spoke up, “Tallahassee old, get cold heap, blankets put on him
and big log fire make.” Then came the jokes as told by one member
on another and how these children of the forest would laugh as the
tales were recounted. They are children only in mind, but full of
discernment and strong in character.
A present of a picture containing Tallahassee’s picture had been sent
to the old chief a year before, and this must now be brought out to
show the visitors. Spelling and copybooks were the occasion of much
comment and much praise from the white friends. The older Indians
say, “Me no write--old too much. Little Tiger make letters by-and-by;
write good--keep store.”
The utensils that hang around the wigwam would do credit to many a
white family; they have buckets and pans of agate ware, and well made
wagons purchased in Jacksonville.
The hum of the sewing machine was heard in the wigwams, being used
equally well by both men and women.
While the patient Seminole is at the mercy of the white man, and each
day becoming more helpless, he is still proud as the old race.
A purse of ten dollars had been made up for one family where the
husband had died, but with the suspicion that the money was from the
Government, the older members held a talk with the result: “Money
no take ’em. Squaw no want ’em.” With mouth-watering glances the
little ones on the same occasion refused candy and cakes; they had
been forbidden to accept what the old Indians believed was from
Washington--the home of the Big White Chief. (This was at the time
the Indians had been alarmed by cowboys telling them the Government
wanted them for Arkansas.)
To-day in the forest home of the Seminoles, where yet gleams the
council fires, and within a mile of the palmetto thatched camp of the
Osceolas, the big dredges groan an accompaniment, as it were, to the
echo of the throbbing hearts, the death song, the Recessional, of the
Seminole.
Dynamite blasts shake the very pans and kettles hanging around the
wigwams and, while this monster of a machine destroys the only
home of the tribe, is the time not ripe for decisive action in the
protection of these wards of Florida?
A visit to the Seminoles’ camp reveals many interesting little things
which touch the heart and evoke the sympathy of the observer. The
affection displayed by the stern-faced father, when coddling his
pappoose, convinces the most skeptical that in the fastnesses of the
forest “The heart of man answers to heart as face to face in water,”
whatever the skin it is under. Old Tom Tiger, without question one of
the most ferocious-looking of the Seminoles, would take the baby-boy
from its tired mother’s arms and softly croon a lullaby, swaying the
pappoose backwards and forwards in his great strong arms till the
little fellow would fall asleep.
Another instance of parental affection, as given by the Rev. Clay
McCauley in his report on the Seminoles of Florida to the Bureau of
Ethnology, is full of touching interest. While the incident occurred
many years ago, and the little boy is now grown to manhood, still
it cannot fail to reach the heart of the reader. We give it in the
writer’s own words:
“Tallahassee’s wife had recently died, leaving him with the care of
six boys; but the strong Indian had apparently become mother and
father to his children. Especially did he throw a tender care about
the little one of his household. I have seen the little fellow
clambering, just like many a little pale face, over his father’s
knees persistently demanding attention, but in no way disturbing
the father’s amiability or serenity. One night, as I sat by the
camp fire of Tallahassee’s lodge, I heard muffled moans from the
little palmetto shelter on my right, under which the three smaller
boys were bundled up in cotton cloth in deer skins for the night’s
sleep. Upon the moans followed immediately the frightened cry of
the little boy, waking out of bad dreams, and crying for the mother
who could not answer; ‘_Its-Ki, Its-Ki_,’ (mother, mother) begged
the little fellow, struggling from under his covering. At once the
big Indian grasped his child, hugged him to his breast, pressed
the little head to his cheek, consoling him all the while with
caressing words, whose meaning I felt, though I could not translate
them into English, until the boy, wide awake, laughed with his
father and was ready to be again rolled up beside his sleeping
brothers.”
Where the Seminole is hospitable is around the camp fire and the
“_Sof-ka_” kettle. “_Hum-bux-chay_” (come eat) is his salutation. The
kettle is placed in some convenient part of the camp and at the meal
hour the members of the household sit around it. A large Sof-ka spoon
rests in the pot, and is handed from one to another, each taking a
single mouthful. A fastidious taste might shrink from using the large
spoon, but to affect such taste would be to offend mine host. Sof-ka
is the Seminole standard dish, and is simply a stew made by cooking
the meat in a large iron pot, and thickening with meal, grits or
vegetable. Sof-ka corresponds in its importance with the Seminole to
“_frijoles_” among Mexicans. The Indians observe a regularity in meal
hours, yet at most any hour the Sof-ka kettle is ready for those who
may come in from the chase enhungered. So plentiful is game that it
is a common sight to see a saddle of venison or a wild turkey and
perhaps a duck roasting before the fire, and, as appetite prompts,
any member of the camp may help himself to the savory roast.
The Seminole pickaninnies are healthy, good-natured little toddlers,
and show no more savage spirit than do their little pale-faced
brothers. They play with bows and arrows, make dolls and playhouses,
revel in mud pies, roast the small birds they kill before a “spit
fire,” and play they are roasting wild turkey. They rarely cry, as
they are taught from infancy to show no such weakness; they must
obey the slightest command of their elders. The little four-year-old
is taught to assist in the duties of the camp. He can carry water,
gather wood, watch the little pappoose, and learns thus early that
he is an important feature in the tribe.
The boys are allowed to handle no weapons until old enough to use
them successfully. When an Indian boy is taught to use a Winchester
and returns from the chase with his first deer, favors are shown him
by the elders, tokens are presented and he becomes for the time the
young Nimrod of the tribe.
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.
[Illustration: TIGER TAIL, A REPRESENTATIVE SEMINOLE
In picturesque harmony with the land of the cocoanut.]
“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.
[Illustration:
_From Le Moyne’s Narrative of the French Expedition in 1563._
INDIAN MODE OF HUNTING ALLIGATORS IN FLORIDA, AS CONTRASTED WITH THE
PRESENT DAY HUNTING]