_The Climax of Twenty Years’ Struggle, When the Seminoles are Granted
Homes in the Historic Stronghold of Their Ancestors._
Almost simultaneously with America’s entrance into the great European
conflict, as the “Defender of Liberty, for the liberation of the
oppressed nations,” the Florida Legislature convened. The hour had
struck for the humanity of the whole world. We still feel the sobbing
clutch in our throats, and we hear, as if but yesterday, the tread of
our khaki-clad youths as they marched to the colors of liberty; we
see the furling and unfurling of the Star Spangled Banner; the hearts
of the American people wakened to the love of humanity; all these
stood out like beacon lights in the springtime of 1917.
In Florida, like a star shining through a clouded sky, was the
passage of the “Seminole Land Bill” without a dissenting vote, giving
to the Florida Indians approximately 100,000 acres of land.
This was a fitting climax to the years of work by the Seminoles’
active white friends in Florida. The air had become vibrant all over
the country for the betterment of Florida’s homeless aborigines.
The Indian Rights Association, national in its scope, had sent a
special committee to the Seminole camps and learned the circumstances
of Florida’s wards, reporting to the Government the true conditions.
The camera pictures and search-light truths of this organization
barred censorship.
Later, and just prior to the convening of the Legislature, a
Congressional committee was sent by Congress to ascertain at
first hand the real condition, as well as the legal status of the
Seminoles, and the report of this committee gave official proof that
“The Seminoles’ rights to lands in Florida were made a part of the
transfer by the Spanish Government to the United States in 1821,”
and that if justice were carried out as specified by the United
States Government treaty rights of 1843 _all_ of the lands of
Southeastern Florida (approximately 5,000,000 acres), belonged to the
Seminoles.
[Illustration: OSCEOLA--THE NAPOLEON OF THE SEMINOLES
From the famous Catlin portrait, by courtesy of the American Bureau
of Ethnology. “I painted him precisely in the costume in which he
stood for his picture, even to a string and a trinket” (CATLIN).]
Of the 100,000 acres granted by the Florida Legislature to the
Indians, only about five per cent. is supposed to be tillable, but it
is at this time the best available land, and the records of Florida
for the calendar year of 1917 will go down into the long ages as
being the most humane act ever done by a Tallahassee legislature,
and the Flower State may look back upon a “Century’s Dishonor” with
sorrow, yet with triumph, because she has rectified a long standing
injustice and has given to the vanquished people of the Everglades a
refuge, in this late hour of their direst necessity.
The reservation thus granted is the long worked for and century old
home of the Seminoles--the stronghold occupied by their forefathers,
situated on the Southwestern coast of Florida, near the “10,000
Islands,” including within its boundaries the beautiful, palm-fringed
Shark and Harney rivers. Here many of the Indians are living today,
cultivating the same hammocks from which their ancestors fled when
hunted by the American expedition in 1841. Government records show
that while Colonel Harney “with his marine boats and artillery and
his entire force of 250 men were thrown out through this section to
hunt the wily Seminoles” they came upon numerous villages, with their
crude home belongings, and hundreds of acres of lima beans, pumpkins,
bananas and other food products, but in every instance the camps had
been recently abandoned by the Indians.
From the Gulf to the Atlantic, naught remained of Colonel Harney’s
“trail” but the ashes of the wigwams, the devastated crops and the
skeleton of an Indian scout here and there, lying beside his canoe
where he had been attacked by the soldiers in a secreted channel in
the tall saw-grass. After a fruitless search, the boats were recalled
and the expedition given up. The Seminoles in their hidden recesses
had made good use of their ancient signal codes.
Today, the Seminole stands upon the last sandy strip of his once vast
domain, an honorable hyphenated Indian-American. With the horrors of
the great European war as told to him, his instincts of liberty and
freedom asserted themselves and he proved himself no “slacker” as he
stood ready as a volunteer to defend his native America in the great
war struggle.
The War Department at Washington, after seriously considering their
application for scout duty and sharpshooting service, decided against
the proffered aid.
[Illustration: BILLY BOWLEGS PHOTOGRAPHED WHILE VISITING THE AUTHOR]
An amusing incident, at this time, illustrates the Indian’s intense
patriotism and when questioned by a white friend, as to fighting
Germany, the Chieftain asked:
“You go? Yes, me go, shoot Germans like Hell. One hundred Indian
men go. Indian shoot good. Indian want two Maxims,”--the Seminole’s
idea of doing double service for peace and liberty. As Belgium
and bleeding France stand by the colors today at every hearthstone
in the land, crucified that liberty and democracy might be saved for
the whole world, so the Seminole, through a century long invasion
of his wigwam and his campfire by the Paleface, has come through
the crucible, still true to the colors of the plumed knight of his
race--the martyred Osceola--American patriots that we know would
spend their last drop of blood freely and gladly in defense of their
native land and sacred soil they have loved so long.
With the granting of the reservation in the Big Cypress by the State
of Florida, the patient, long neglected native red people of the
Everglades have had a new chapter written in their tragic life story
book. Already the United States Government has come to the assistance
of these Seminoles and under the supervision of the Special Florida
Indian Commissioner, who, too, is an educated Seminole from the
West, their lands are being fenced, the Seminole being encouraged to
perform the labor, with the prospect of stocking this section with
good cattle.
The Seminole is a natural stock raiser and will be allowed to buy
cattle and pay for them at so much per year, using his own mark and
brand. Together with the co-operative help of the Federal Government,
the Southern Baptist Home Mission Board is planning to immediately
enter the field with industrial and missionary workers--the teachers
to be educated Oklahoma kinsmen of the Seminoles, who will in time
make this people citizens worthy of the blood of their patriotic
ancestry.
Can you, the friend of the down-trodden and the oppressed, not see
the Seminole silhouetted against the burnished horizon, waiting for
Opportunity to open her Pandora box and give him a chance with the
people of America in a better civilization and Christianity?
Can you not hear the heart of the big forests throb a tribute of
praise and the glittering waters ripple a melody of love for this
touch of humanity--“For inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the
least of my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
A VISIT TO A SEMINOLE CAMP.
Would you visit a Seminole village in the heart of America’s Least
Known Wilderness? Then let us draw the curtain and, turning the
slide, look upon a vision of aboriginal life with its flame encircled
background.
The view of this aquatic jungle has not changed since Spanish and
English invasion four centuries ago. Of the 300,000 Americans found
when Columbus landed on these wild and unexplored shores, the Florida
Seminoles are the only remnant left who live the old, primitive life
and practice the ceremonies of their royal, barbaric ancestors.
We see the palmetto thatched wigwams glistening in the red lights
from the camp fire; tall trees are silhouetted against the sky, and
we see the little children playing backward and forward, their
little, brown legs twinkling through the shadows cast by the lurid
flames. We hear the century-old lullabies, softly crooned by the
mothers as they watch with careful eyes the toddling pappooses. Let
us look again on this scene from aboriginal life and see the stoical
braves, as they rearrange the “red wheel” camp fire and continuously
add to the ever ready Sofka kettle some new ingredient, possibly
fresh from the chase. The hunting dogs scent the savory odor, while
the alert and watchful squaws glide in and out amid the shadows of
the royal palms, which stand like sentinel warriors, crowned with
feathery head-dresses that rustle in the breeze.
We look again, and the slide shows the cypress canoe “car lines”;
these are the secret channels cut through the watery saw-grass
prairies by the ancestors of the present Seminole.
Silently a canoe cleaves the dark waters, with the chief of the clan
in the stern. Tying up among the lily pads, the canoe is hidden from
view and the red pilot with his game approaches the camp.
Beware, adventurer, for this wilderness region gives out no secrets
and only the Seminole knows the hidden channels and haunts.
The shadows grow dimmer and dimmer and we look up to see the stars
lift the lids of their twinkling eyes to smile down upon the
sleeping pappooses; the braves and the squaws, with the faith of
little children, keep afresh the mystic religion of their ancestors,
while they worship before the Great Spirit, who has given this
Pay-hay-o-kee country to his red children. The smoke-wreathed film
blots this aboriginal picture from our view, but as we listen, we
hear the monotonous chant of the Indians echoing through the solemn
stillness of the night.
In this wooded silence the wild animals find a refuge; the gentle
doe, with her fawn, slips through the shadows; the red fox cautiously
watches for her prey; the black bear, with her chubby cub, scents the
custard apple and the palmetto bud; the raccoon skulks through the
tangled underbrush and the cunning otter darts through the fish-laden
stream in quest of his midnight meal; the snowy egret, the heron,
the eagle and the bittern, with countless migratory birds from the
North American continent, find in this wild solitude a winter refuge.
Gorgeously colored butterflies infest the flowers of the Everglade
prairies and in their flights, ascending and descending over their
island homes, form clouds shimmering with color and animation.
Today this Big Cypress is an empire of pristine wonder, prehistoric
in its dramatic and weird jungle setting. Epitomized into the terse
verbiage of Perley Poore-Sheehan, one of America’s rising young
authors and a sympathetic friend of the Florida Seminoles, “To
cut the Big Cypress up into lots and acres would be like turning
the Yosemite into an onion garden; it would be like turning the
Yellowstone Park into a factory town.”
As we close our eyes to this picture of primeval life in the “Land of
the Seminole,” with the thought of war and famine and killing, which
has so recently touched the heartstrings of every American, these
questions confront one: “Who are the barbarians of the twentieth
century, the Caucasian or the red man of the primeval forests?” You
ask, “How long did it take to educate and civilize the Anglo-Saxon
race?” According to authentic history, the work of civilizing Europe
and bringing the mass of the barbarians under the subjection of the
law was the work of fully one thousand years.
_Is Europe civilized today?_
VISITORS FROM THE EVERGLADES.
This is a day of “ether wave thoughts.” The “inalienable rights of
life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” are the searchlights
piercing the dark corners of every cranny in the universe. Like
sun motes, human sympathy has entered the Indian’s domain and is
vibrating in harmony for the American red man--acting as a torch
of liberty, showing the pale-face his belated duty to the original
American.
If the American Indian were not worthy a place in the world’s
history, would his memory be perpetuated by his white conquerors?
As an idealistic type this twentieth century is rushing to pay him
a tribute. Is there a white American who would dare to place before
a Congressional body a bill for the erection of a colossal statue
of the African to stand beside the Goddess of Liberty in New York
harbor?
The American Indian, in bronze, is to have this honor, and to
ex-President Taft was assigned the honor of lifting the first
spadeful of soil at the dedication services, where Indian and white
man stood as equals in this official function.
In the Nation’s Hall of Fame in the Capitol at Washington, the
inventor of the Cherokee alphabet, Sequoyah, an Indian, is honored
with a place.
An Indian head is on the five-dollar bill, as well as on the
five-cent piece. To the practical mind, let us not forget that
Teehee, the American Indian, must sign our currency before it is
passed by the Treasury Department.
In military tactics the name of no greater genius adorns the pages of
history than that of Florida’s patriot--Osceola, the Seminole.
With all due respect to the immortal Washington, who remembers that
he was safely guided by a nameless red man through the pathless
wilderness to Fortress Duquesne?
Without the Delaware Indians, General Washington’s advance upon the
British on that eventful Christmas eve of 1777 would never have been
recorded in history.
And, in the late European war, do you know that thousands of Indians
volunteered--not as drafted men, not for their homes, nor their
States, but for their native land of America?
Cadet Long Lance, the American Indian of our own Southland, as First
Lieutenant of the Princess Pat Regiment, brought enduring fame to
the Cherokees, standing his ground at the terrific assault of Vimy
Ridge--bringing back the standardbearer, the only officer of his rank
left in the company.
The instinctive eloquence of Coacoochee, the Seminole chieftain, in
his speech to our American General Worth, made him the peer of a Clay
or a Calhoun, while the great Seneca chieftain, Logan, delivered the
most eloquent oration ever compiled in American history.
In poetry, in romance, in legends and folk-lore literature of
America, we must look to the American Indian.
It was by the blue waters of Ontario that the great Onondaga
chieftain’s Hiawatha, formulated plans for the first Peace League.
Today, “Peace, peace,” is not only the wounded cry of the world, but
its solution is being echoed and re-echoed throughout every nation of
the globe.
After looking through pages of history for a model, the youth of
America, the Boy Scouts and the Camp Fire Girls, have taken the
Indian for their hero.
Can anyone doubt the superiority of the Indian character?
To Pocahontas, the glorification of saving Virginia from utter
destruction is well known, and to this Lady Rebecca of the English
courts many Americans proudly trace direct descent, to this girl
princess.
To Florida belongs the first romance of American history. In this
life story of U-lee-lah, the Princess of Hirrihigua, Florida’s
Pocahontas, is a setting for as dramatic a recital as ever adorned
the pages of literature.
In Florida, particularly, do the descendants of the old, turbanned
Seminoles appeal to the people. So uniform is a kindly feeling to
these Indians that the man who would show any opposition to a charity
or friendliness to them would soon find himself in the minority, and
discredit would reflect, not on the Indian, but on the man himself.
It is always a gala time when these brown-skinned people visit
Kissimmee. When a prepaid telegram, as a forerunner of his arrival,
was received from the Chieftain, a bystander remarked: “I would
rather see Billie Bowlegs than the President of the United States.”
When crowds gathered at the station and children lined the streets to
get a glimpse of these picturesque aborigines, it looked as if the
tourist’s wish voiced the thought of the community and illustrated
the point that sentiment does not change with the passing of a
century, for it was in 1820 that Count D., a young French nobleman,
after coming all the way from France to meet Chief Red Jacket, the
last of the Senecas, declared that he considered Chief Red Jacket a
greater wonder than the falls of Niagara. This remark was made while
standing in view of the great cataract.
A visit from these silent dwellers of the Everglades always revives
interest in the race, for through living authors one may study the
life story of these people--a story dating back in its traditions for
more than three hundred years; brought to the doors of a sympathetic
civilization, the citadel of the hardest heart is touched, for it is
a narrative full of pathos.
Here, in the rich Kissimmee Valley, are the camping grounds and
council seats of his ancestors. With wordless patience he looks out
upon the landscape and the glittering waters of To-hope-kee-li-ga and
for the time lives in spirit with the heroic deeds of his ancestors;
he sees in the long ago canoes laden with men and women and little
children, brown-skinned and picturesque, garbed in brilliant colors,
leaving the ancestral shores of their old hunting grounds, as they
escaped, terror-stricken, through the lakes and rivers to the mystic
land of O-kee-cho-bee.
Today, naught remains of the Seminoles in this region save the
melodious names of rivers, lakes and towns--an enduring heritage
of beauty, which is one of Florida’s most cherished and priceless
possessions.
To study the history of a secretive people, whose story is so closely
woven into our own American history, is a research work full of
difficulties, but full of happy surprises.
Away from the jungle home, in the white man’s town, the Seminole is
silent and stoical, answering to the questions put to him by the
curious “Me don’t know.”
The Seminole discerns character quickly, and while seemingly
indifferent, if he is with you but a few minutes, his keen powers of
observation will pierce you through and through, and he has, with a
keenness born of centuries of “watchful waiting,” made an understudy
of your honesty or your inner self.
It is around the wigwam camp fire and the Sofka kettle that the
Indian relaxes; there he is a big-souled host, extending the same
hospitality that welcomed the European four hundred years ago.
Laughter and jokes abound; news of the outside world is recounted;
the squaws bring the prize pumpkin to be admired, and the rippling
laughter of the children, as they gather firewood for the white
friend, is beautiful in its soft cadenced melody.
In the friendly white man’s home, when the shyness of many moons
of separation has worn off, the Indians give many unique accounts
of life in the wigwam dwellings; they tell of the canals being cut
through their Everglade country and the “big smoke” from the engines,
and the great influx of white settlers that have come into this swamp
country.
Facetiously adding: “White man, money want to make ’em too fast,
rain come, water too much, money lose ’em ojus (much). Go back, say
Everglades ho-lo wagus (no good). No come again.”
The Seminoles acknowledge that their hunting grounds are gone and
that the pale-face has slaughtered the game, admitting, after much
pressure, that the Indians sometimes go hungry. _Hungry in a land
like Florida!_
A visit from these people of the darksome Glade forests is always
fraught with kindly attention. Nothing but a heartfelt kindness is
shown them, and a tribute paid to them, not because of any other
interest in the Indian, but because they are the representatives of a
proud and noble race and the American people are hero worshippers.
It is a question if any celebrity could have been treated with
greater courtesy. Crowds sought to extend a greeting; parents brought
their young children to shake the hands of these ambassadors of
a race that is vanishing so fast. It was not an interest of idle
curiosity, but a genuine, tender solicitude. This need not surprise,
for an inborn and instinctive admiration must be felt for a people
through whose veins flow the purest blood of any of the American
Indians today, and who live and practice the same ceremonies of their
ancient ancestors.
_Not a drop of the white man’s blood courses through the veins of an
Everglade Seminole!_
Many small gifts were bestowed upon these silent visitors; men of
capital from far-away States, tourists and old friends, took the time
to go to the stores to purchase such presents as they thought would
please the Indians.
Kodaks and camera men kept busy. The guests of the hotel, retired
business men, as well as the women and children, vied with each
other in having a souvenir picture, showing themselves in friendly
relation with these red people of the forest.
With the exhilaration of boys, the men took turns with each other as
they posed with the instruction, “Now you snap while I stand beside
Billy.” The Seminole chieftain was the only calm one; he was as
passive and immobile as a bronze statue.
The cornet band divided honors with the newly elected mayor and
volunteered a serenade.
Whether it was the courtesy of an automobile ride, or being addressed
by guests, both Billy and his sister received the attentions with
such a quiet grace and refinement as if to the manner born, causing
an admiring tourist to give Stem-o-la-kee, the title “A Princess of
the Everglades” and calling Billy the “Red Knight of Okee-cho-bee,”
titles as much in order today as those bestowed three centuries ago
on the Lady Rebecca, the far-famed Pocahontas.
STEM-O-LA-KEE.
Seldom, if ever, has a Seminole squaw stepped beyond the boundaries
of her trackless Everglade home to visit the home of the white man;
to study a Seminole woman at close range and yet far from her forest
refuge, is a privilege seldom experienced. An incident is recalled
when a young squaw, in company with her brother, was making her first
visit to civilization.
The couple had traveled three hundred miles by ox cart, canoe and
railroad. Reaching their destination, they were escorted to a
waiting automobile, when they were whirled away to the home of the
pale-face and enjoyed this first ride in the “fire wagon,” with the
same dignity and calmness that they would do in their cypress dugout
canoes along the water courses of their saw-grass homes.
Stem-o-la-kee, with the natural feminine instinct, soon showed
her domestic sense, her native frontier nature for the time being
relegated to memories. The easy couch and cushioned rocker appealed
to her sense of luxury. The delight of pouring tea from the silver
pot was an unending pleasure. She admired the furnishings and
belongings of the white home, but when asked if she would like
to live in such an abode her answer came, quick and decisive:
“Munks-chay (no), white man’s home like littly bit, one week me
think _my_ home, Okee-cho-bee.” Significant was her summary of
civilization--humble though her wigwam, she loved it with all the
ardor of her savage heart. This young woman, three hundred miles from
her forest home, showed inborn grace and dignity in her demeanor.
Particularly was she interested in the pictures on the wall, but,
on recognizing the portrait of Osceola, all her frontier nature was
aroused and, with vindictive spirit and trembling with suppressed
emotion, she exclaimed:
“Indian’s big Chief, long time ago! White man kill ’im!”
She knew the perfidy of Osceola’s capture under the white flag of
truce as well as any American student.
This untutored and innocent child of the forest became a most
interesting personal study. Friendly and courteous, there yet shone
out from her wonderful eyes an unapproachableness that made a gulf
between the white woman and the red woman.