elysium for the bears, the dogs seemed to become possessed of a very
spirit of unrest; soon they struck a trail. ‘Lo-co-see ojus’ (bear
plenty), exclaimed Captain Tom Tiger, as he observed the numerous
cabbage palms with their buds freshly torn out, as well as the
conduct of his dogs, and with a word of command to the hounds, he
started. The rest of us followed, till we struck a marsh heavily
timbered with cypress, which grew so close that sun’s rays could
not reach the earth. It made a dark, damp and dangerous ground to
enter. The dogs were now running with broad scent, heads well up and
throats wide open. If ever there was a sound sweet to the hunter’s
ears, it was the baying of five hounds close on bruins trail. With
nerves on a tension we rushed along, with gun carried at ready.
On swept the riot. The Indians yelled as only Indians can, and
the tenderfoot brought up the rear. A hunt in a Florida jungle,
pulling through soft mud, climbing over logs, pushing through vines,
sprawling on hands and knees through the tangled, matted undergrowth,
expecting or fearing each step we would strike a moccasin, are the
penalties paid for the romantic, adventurous hunt with a Seminole
Indian. At last the supreme moment arrived; the leading dog had
reached the bear, and soon the five dogs and the bear were having a
vigorous rough and tumble fight. We were in good hearing distance,
but traveling was very difficult, and our progress was slow. The
Indians’ cry, ‘Yo-ho-ee-hee, Yo-ho-ee-hee!’ to the hounds, made them
fight furiously, so much so that bruin broke from cover and started
on the chase just before we reached shooting distance. Further into
the woods the chase led. Soon the sound of the pursuing dogs ceased,
much to our surprise. We appealed to the nearest Indian for an
explanation. ‘Lo-co-see (bear) climb tree,’ was the brief reply, and
later, when we reached the dogs, they were running wildly around on
the bank of a dark creek. We were again at a loss to comprehend the
situation, until we were shown by the Indians a leaning tree, the top
of which reached to the further side of the creek, over which bruin
had safely passed. ‘Lo-co-see-hiepus’ (bear gone).
“Three hours’ tramping through the swamp and hot sun had taken all
the enthusiasm out of us, and we were ready to play quits, but the
stalwart red men had defiance in their faces as they said, ‘Big
lo-co-see; fight heap; Indian kill lo-co-see to-day.’ Away to the
left the brown legs of little Tiger Tom could be seen twinkling
through the foliage; he had found some fresh tracks of a cub, and in
his eagerness to capture a baby bear he proved a similar nature to
his little pale-faced brother. But the stern hunters had no time for
a cub, and soon started for old bruin, who by this time had crossed
the marsh and gotten into a tree on the opposite bank, and by this
trickery put the creek behind him. This did not daunt a Seminole
Indian. Wading the shallow part of the creek, with water to the
armpits, again cooled our ardor, but safety depended on not losing
sight of the Indians, as we were miles in the swamp, and with no hope
of finding our way out without the guidance of our red pilots. At
last the bear was driven to a small island and surrounded, the island
covered with tall grass and weeds hiding both dogs and bear. The dogs
grew furious, and several times forced the bear to stand and fight,
and such a battle as it was; the dogs didn’t hesitate to take hold
of old bruin, and as a result were badly lacerated from the blows
of her powerful paw. We closed in and our game was in a trap. The
Indians were in their future heaven; but the tenderfoot was getting
very shy of being hugged. Bruin, now finding herself cornered, made a
break for the open, and as she emerged from the tall grass, with the
dogs at her heels, she met the stalwart figure of Tom Tiger. Rising
on her hind legs, with open arms, she made one dash for him, when
stepping back, in a cool and deliberate manner, he pulled the trigger
of his ‘scatter’ gun and emptied both barrels into the bear’s side.
This ended the chase, and a happier set of Indians the world never
saw. Immediately they drew their knives and commenced skinning the
bear. As the skin adheres very tenaciously it should be taken off at
once, as it then comes off much easier; besides, it is difficult to
scrape away all the fatty tissue after it cools, and wherever any
remains it rots the pelt.
“The Indians’ method of educating their dogs for hunting bear is well
worth knowing. They take the gall of the bear and thoroughly saturate
the nostrils of the young dog. This is excruciating pain to the dogs,
and they howl and whine for hours; but it makes ‘bear dogs’ out of
them, perfect on the trail, and this is the point with the Indian.
“The huge carcass of bruin was divided and each Indian carried a
load to camp. A fire was soon built, and a huge chunk of bear meat
was thrown on the coals. All night long they cooked and ate, the
tenderfoot getting into his hammock beneath the bough of the oaks.
We rested and dreamed--the flicker from the camp-fire, the Indians
moving to and fro, the silence occasionally broken by their low,
soft voices, and ever and anon in this wakeful slumber came the
half-dreaming thought, ‘Betty and me killed the bear!’”
CHIEF TOM TIGER (MIC-CO TUSTENUGGEE).
It is a number of years now, that Tom Tiger, chieftain, reached
Kissimmee after a ride of 160 miles. Tall, straight and muscular, he
proved himself a worthy descendant of the royal Tustenuggee. Dressed
in the regalia of a chief, and mounted on a raw boned horse, he
might have been mistaken for a sheik of the Arabian desert. He had
come on a friendly visit incidentally, but to tell his white friend
his trouble over a horse which had been procured under a fraudulent
pretense, by a white trader. The story is a long one, but suffice to
say proceedings were instituted and with the result that Captain Tom
Tiger, Seminole chieftain, was the first Florida Indian that ever
stood up in a white man’s court, making, as the spectators remarked,
the most imposing picture they had ever witnessed.
The tall, magnificent looking savage, with uplifted hand, took the
oath on the holy Book, with a perfect understanding of its meaning.
[Illustration: CAPT TOM TIGER
(Micco Tustenug-gee.)]
The case was prosecuted by the Society, “Friends of the Florida
Seminoles,” and achieved notoriety for being the first case in
Florida in which a Seminole sought the protection of the court.
It was told that the State’s Attorney made the most thrilling speech
of his life as he pleaded for the barbarian of the swamp. The Indian
never swerved under the strongest cross-examination, but told the
story simply and direct. The status of the case was this: The white
man was to return the horse at the end of two moons, binding the
promise by writing. The argument was written on a cartridge box;
a terrific rain storm came; the box was soaked in water, and the
writing made illegible. Because Tom could not read, he could not make
oath as to what was written on the box, the white man testifying he
had bought the horse. On this simple technicality the case was lost
and the white man escaped the penitentiary.
Like many of his race, Tom had a love for Wy-o-mee (whiskey), and
was not averse to taking it. In speaking of a saloonkeeper he would
say, “Captain, good man, five Indians go in saloon, five drinks give
’im. No money take,” but when Tom was asked to drink no whiskey in
Kissimmee, he promised, “un-gah” (all right). A day or two after, the
white friend stepped out of his office, and looking back saw the tall
form of Tom just passing into the saloon--headed by three cowboys.
Tom returned to the office, and his friend chided him for going to
the saloon. “Whiskey, me no take ’em, lemonade, me take, cowboys
wy-o-mee take.” The white friend’s trust had not been betrayed.
In this Indian’s visit of a week, many chapters were revealed of the
character and home life of this tribe. Savages, it is true, but
honor, justice and religion shine forth in their tribal life.
During his absence, the squaws and pickaninnies watched the potato
and corn patch, and cared for the hogs, surely worthy tribute to a
domestic life.
In relating a tragedy of the forest, Capt. Tom seemed much affected.
The chief, attracted by the cries of young birds, found that a
rookery of the beautiful white heron had been completely destroyed
by plume hunters, and the grounds strewn with the mutilated bodies
of the parent birds. From the tall trees overhead the starving
nestlings were spending their waning strength in calling for food.
The pitiful scene touched the heart of the strong red man, and he
paused in his journey to find food for the helpless birdlings. In
relating the circumstance, the Indian said, “Little birds, cry, cry,
all day. No water, no fish,” till the Indian boys caught minnows and
daily climbed the lofty trees and fed and watered the young egrets,
a tribute to the savage mind over the cruelty of the civilized and
Christianized white man.
A few years ago, Florida was an ornithological Eden, the winter home
of countless thousands of the migratory birds of the North American
Continent; but alas, the blood thirsty greed of the Caucasian for
gold is shown in the brutal extermination of the plumed egret, and
“the passing of the snowy heron” is the price of human callousness.
The Indian chief probably did not see in the fate of the innocent
plume bird, a prophecy of the destiny of the Seminole.
[Illustration: THE INDIAN’S HUNTING GROUND
“Within a mile of the wigwams, the big dredges clank and groan, an
accompaniment as it were, to the dirge of the recessional Seminoles.”]
The same forces are at work to-day to take from the helpless
Seminole his home and happy hunting ground.
Tom Tiger made his last visit to Kissimmee during the
Spanish-American war, and a touching and pleasing feature of the
visit was the meeting between General Fitzhugh Lee and this Chieftain
of the Seminoles.
The train bearing General Lee and staff stopped at Kissimmee, where
crowds of citizens went to welcome the hero of the Southland. General
Lee, dressed in his rank as U. S. general, Chief Tom Tiger in the
regalia of a Seminole chieftain. The scene is indelibly impressed
upon all who witnessed the meeting. The Indian chief with the Stars
and Stripes in his hand, was introduced and shook hands with the
great American soldier. In hearty tones General Lee responded, “I am
glad to see you, Chief.”
Tom was told he must “yell” when the train came in. He understood and
answered, “Me holler (ojus),” and he did, a genuine Seminole war cry,
“Yo-he-ee-hee--Yo-ho-ee-hee!”
Driven and hunted, homeless and helpless, this Indian was a strong
ally of the United States. “No fight white man,” meaning the people
of the United States, “shoot Spaniards, ojus” (heap), was Tom’s reply
when the attitude of the two countries was explained to him.
One by one the older Indians are passing away, and when word was
received that Captain Tom Tiger had been killed by a stroke of
lightning, the news was received with genuine sorrow. In his death,
a fair, generous and faithful friend was gone. Captain Tom was
building himself a dugout canoe on the edge of the cypress swamp, his
family being with him at the time. Seeing an approaching storm, he
sent them back to their wigwam. When he did not return, the Indians
went to seek him and found his dead body. Other Indians turned the
unfinished canoe into a mausoleum, and there rested his remains until
an avaricious curio seeker sought it out and robbed it of the body of
the chief. Considering the tender respect the Florida Indians have
for their dead, and also the superstition that any desecrations of
the bones bring dire calamities to the tribe, it is not surprising
that this act of vandalism aroused the Seminoles to the highest
pitch, and they were stirred as they have not been since the days of
the Indian wars. The whites realized that unless they were pacified
they were liable to give trouble.
Two of the leaders of the band visited the authorities at Fort
Pierce, Florida, and the newspapers of that date give the following
account, “Big Yankee steal bones of Tiger Tom, Indians Big Chief and
best friend. Indians all fight. Kill white man ojus, bones no bring
back by big white chiefs next moon.”
The matter was immediately taken up, and information filed by the
State Attorney in the Circuit Court against the party, charging him
with disturbing the grave of another and having in his possession a
dead body. All over the United States the account was taken up by
the press and looked upon as a matter of serious importance, as the
Smithsonian Institution was credited with being behind the rapacious
curio hunter.
The matter was brought to Mr. J. M. Willson, Jr., recognized as the
Seminoles’ best friend among the whites.
The letter following explains the situation and is herein given:
SECRETARY RATHBUN’S STATEMENT.
“Mr. J. M. Willson, Jr., Secretary Society of Friends of Seminole
Indians, Kissimmee; Fla.
“_Dear Sir_:--Replying to your letter of the 24th inst., I beg to
say that about six weeks ago a Mr. ----, about whom nothing is
known here, wrote to the National Museum and offered to present
certain Indian relics which he had obtained in Florida, including a
skeleton of an Okeechobee (not Seminole) chief. Assuming that these
objects were properly acquired by him, he was notified that they
would be accepted. No further word or the objects arriving, it has,
therefore, been supposed that he disposed of the relics elsewhere.
The heading of his letter paper indicates that he is the secretary
and general manager of an amusement resort, called Island Park, at
---- Pa., and it is not impossible that the relics were taken there.
“Although I find that the name of the chief was mentioned in Mr.
----’s letter, the fact that he spoke of him as belonging to the
extinct Okeechobee tribe entirely misled the Museum authorities
who did not associate him with the Seminole Captain Tom Tiger,
about whom so much has lately been printed in the papers until the
receipt of your letter to-day.
“I cannot express too strongly my abhorrence of the act of Mr.
----, whose desecration of this grave I consider outrageous and
sacrilegious. The man had no connection with this museum or any
branch of the Smithsonian Institute, as he seems to have claimed
several weeks before he sent in his letter.
“You can readily understand, therefore, that the museum will be
only too glad to coöperate with your society in securing the return
of the remains and of any objects that may have been taken with
them from the grave. If they should be received at the museum they
will be promptly forwarded to Florida.
“I have forwarded your letter to Mr. ----, at the address given in
his letter, viz: Box 531, ----, Pa., and I have also written him.
“Trusting that this unfortunate matter may soon be satisfactorily
adjusted, I am, dear, sir, very respectfully yours,
“RATHBUN,
“Assistant Secretary in charge of National Museum.”
The bones of the noted Indian were quietly restored, and all trouble
averted, but of the throbbing hearts of these interesting countrymen
of Osceola what shall we say?
NANCY OSCEOLA.
A short time ago, the press chronicled the news that the old Seminole
squaw, Nancy, living at the Big Cypress camp, was dead. The account
stated that Nancy was the widow of the famous chieftain (Osceola),
and that she was survived by seven children. The associated press
took up the story and many accepted it as true.
It is the desire of the writer to say that Osceola’s wives (for
he had two) went into captivity and were with him when he died, a
captive of the United States Government, and it is safe to suppose
they, with his children, were taken with the other Seminole captives
to the West.
Old Nancy was the squaw of a half-brother of Osceola--hence a
sister-in-law. A few years ago she consented to have her picture
taken amidst a group of her great-great grandchildren. Chief
Tallahassee quickly recognized the picture and said, “Old too
much--eyes no see, blind ojus.” When questioned as to her identity,
with the suggestion that she might be Osceola’s widow, Tallahassee
showed marked disdain, “No, no, Osceola, big chief. Squaw no got one
in Florida. Old Nancy Osceola’s brother’s squaw.”
BILLY BOWLEGS (CHO-FEE-HAT-CHO).
Several months ago, Cho-fee-hat-cho (Billy Bowlegs), a warrior
of more than usual intelligence, made his long-promised visit to
Kissimmee.
Here, away from his natural surroundings, one could study his Indian
characteristics from an unprejudicial standpoint.
As a specimen of manhood, he is far above the average. Although six
feet, two inches tall, he is so symmetrically proportioned that one
loses sight of his height. His features are good, his hands and feet
remarkably small, his voice soft and low--a characteristic of every
Seminole.
His dress was the holiday attire of the tribe, his tunic or shirt
he had made himself, was highly decorated with bands of narrow
red,--leggins and moccasins elaborately thonged, and around his neck
about a dozen gaily colored handkerchiefs, not worn for warmth, but
because it is a Seminole fashion.
His large turban was embraced by a silver band, made from four silver
dollars beaten with the implements which can be found at an Indian
village. He wore a gold watch and chain and regulated his timepiece
by the railroad clock. Billy is a fantastic dresser, but he is a
loyal Seminole and a progressive one, too. He keeps posted on the
markets in his own particular line of business. His pockets bulge
with letters received from New York and Jacksonville buyers of skins
and otter pelts. He expects no favors, pays for what he receives and
keeps a promise, although a year may elapse before he is able to do
so. He is often a purchasing agent for members of the band, and in
his small way has a mercantile mind, buying four shawls for $1.75
that would retail at fifty cents each, he will sell out, with the
satisfactory remark, “25 cents me make ’em.”
Billy ventures beyond the confines of his Everglade home, much
oftener than any other of the tribe. To the stranger he is all
indifference, answering: “Yes,” “No,” “Me don’t know,” as it suits
him.
[Illustration: A SECTION OF A SAW GRASS SWAMP WITH THE STAKES SET FOR
A NEW DRAINAGE WAY
“The onward march of the white brother into the last hunting ground
of the Seminoles.”]
Billy has visited St. Augustine, and has seen the Ponce De Leon
Hotel, but explained that “no get inside.” The season was not “on,”
otherwise the Seminole brave would have been one of the celebrities
that enter its great portals. New York and Washington do honor to
dukes and counts, and this Aboriginal American Knight is no less a
Prince of the Everglades.
He has made several visits to Kissimmee, hence is well known to the
white people. At the ringing of the church bells on Sunday morning it
was explained to the Indian that they were to call the people to the
church, so that the preacher might tell them of the white man’s God.
With the inquiry, “You go?” to his host, and receiving an answer in
the affirmative, Billy said, “Me go too.”
He was escorted to the chapel and through the long sermon was a model
of propriety and conformed perfectly with the customs of the church.
He expressed himself later as liking the music, but remarked that the
“preacher talked too fast.”
From time to time colored pictures from Sunday School charts have
been given or mailed to the Indians and Billy reports, “Indians got
’em,” keeping them with their treasures in boxes or trunks.
Blue backed spelling books had been sent to these Indians, for the
spelling book is the Seminole’s ideal in literature, and Billy
reported that the books were in good order--and Indian boys, spell
“littly bit.”
Who shall say there is no hope for the civilization of this
picturesque tribe?
Not a hair’s breadth will this Indian diverge from the truth. Even
to the simple question as to when he would visit his white friends
again, he replied, “Six moons; me don’t know, maybe ten moons; six
moons, me say--no come, white man say, ‘Billy Bowlegs lock-a-dox
ojus!’ (lie too much).”
Billy is grateful for favors shown him and on his return from a
visit always sends some remembrance. A letter usually accompanies
the present, and the following is a unique specimen of his literary
ability:
“Indian Town, Fla., J. M. Willson, Jr., Kissimmee.
I write you Letter. I send you Big Alligator Feet skin. Big
Alligator 12 ft. long 4½ inches. This time Indian no sick. All Good
Well Ojus. You write to me Letter. Your Friend
Mr. Billy Bowlegs.”
In his signature, Billy always uses the prefix, “Mr.”
At another time on Billy’s return to his Okeechobee home, a letter
was received which read:
“MY GOOD FRIEND:
“Littly white birds me send. Indians all well.”
The egrets, snowy white and beautiful as a poem, came in a crate made
of green palm stems, with a door fastened by buck skin hinges and
buck skin catch, the whole a marvel of neatness and ingenuity.
The birds were at once given the freedom of the lawn, where they have
been a constant surprise, in showing how full of confidence, how
charming the wild heron can be made under habits of domestication.
They love companionship and at meal time they station themselves like
two sentinels, at the dining room piazza. Here they stand, with their
long necks craning into the door-way, alert and tense, waiting for
their beef to be thrown to them.
These white plumed egrets, with their dark, piercing eyes, their
spotless white figures adorned in their bridal veil of long silken
plumes, make a picture that an artist may envy.
It is a pleasing and encouraging fact that on all occasions when the
Seminoles visit white settlements they are warmly welcomed by the
whites and treated with the utmost respect and many times entertained
as one would celebrities.
The _Florida Times-Union_ always breaks a lance in favor of the
Seminole. During a carnival season in Jacksonville, Billy Bowlegs
visited the city, and of his visit an editorial read:
“Jacksonville has among her guests this week one of the most
representative Indians in America to-day--the highest type of what
is known as the savage tribe.... Billy was a conspicuous figure
in last night’s parade; he rode in one of the most striking and
effective floats of the parade, that of the Florida East Coast R.
R. Company.... This float bore the distinction of conveying the
noble figure of this Seminole chief and thus the only one with a
member of the real and single strictly American race. Billy Bowlegs
is no savage, but a magnificent specimen of physical manhood, with
a dignity, a reserve, a keen intelligence and an honest heart--a
representative of that forlorn remnant who regard honor with
commendable sacredness.”
Billy visited the _Times-Union_ office, and took the keenest interest
in the mechanical equipments for making a newspaper.
A fac-simile of Billy’s writing appeared in the paper at this time
and, a year later, it made an amusing picture to witness Billy’s
expression when he was shown the fac-simile; the clipping having been
taken from the paper at the time. Very quickly memory came to him and
he said, “Me know; my name write big paper, Jacksonville.”
[Illustration:
Okeechobee Dade County
Florida Nov 28
Mr. Billie Bowlegs
Seminole Indian
My Home Okeechobee Fla]
Such names as Tom Tiger, Doctor Tommy, Wild Cat and Billy Bowlegs,
are white man’s names for the Indians. Each Indian has his Indian
name, which is significant of some family or personal characteristic,
and which contains the root word of the gens to which the Indian
belongs. During the Indian’s visit he expressed a wish to have the
Seminole names of a number of his people written down so that he
might make a copy and carry home with him. Certainly this young brave
could not be called stupid or sluggish. Knowing that the information
was sought for the purpose of putting it into a book, so that “the
people could read about the good Indians of Florida,” he showed the
greatest interest in the questions, making his answers direct and
truthful.
With the patience of a sphinx this Indian answered questions till
dark. When asked if he were tired, he answered, “Tired ojus,”
although his native politeness had not permitted him to show any
special restlessness at the tedious afternoon’s questioning. An air
of deepest solemnity would rest upon his face until he was assured
his meaning was thoroughly understood. During his visit he expressed
an eagerness to learn, and followed a copy with remarkable exactness.
With the desire to read and write, however, ended all ambition to be
like the white man.
Every effort was made to please so rare a visitor, favors were shown
him, in fact he was treated as a most honored guest, yet this son
of the forest received it all with a silent dignity that would have
graced a monarch. When he was ready to leave he quietly arose,
remarking, “Me hi-e-pus” (go), and noiselessly passed out of the
house.
It is a disputed question whether a wild Indian of pure blood has
ever been permanently civilized. One of the missionaries of the Osage
band once said that “it took fifteen years to get a blanket off
Joseph Pawnee-o-passhee, Chief of the Osage tribe, and it took Joseph
just fifteen minutes to get it on him again.”
RELIGION.
A pretty tradition among the Seminoles is that a beautiful race of
Indians, whose women they call the daughters of the sun, reside among
the swamps and lakes of the O-kee-fee-ne-kee wilderness and live in
uninterrupted felicity upon islands of eternal verdure, feasting upon
the luxuries of the islands, but inaccessible to the approach of
human footsteps.