Turning a historic searchlight upon this scene of eighty years ago, one sees the American soldier, Zachary Taylor, meeting the noble warrior of the Seminoles, Coa-coo-chee (Wild-Cat) in his last struggle for his country and his people.
In the wilds of the Okee-cho-bee country, a shattered remnant of the Seminoles, fought against the American army, with a victory for the white troops, defeat, of course, for the Seminoles.
The battle was planned by Coa-coo-chee,[5] who had recently escaped from the musty dungeon at St. Augustine where he and Osceola had been confined after their capture under the truce of the white flag, while negotiating with the American officers. Coa-coo-chee, as if challenging the American army with retaliation and revenge for the indignity of such a violation of recognized warfare, now combined his forces for one great battle.
Carrying their little bundles, the pitiful salvage from the wreck of their once happy homes, the Indians had fled to the dark haunts of Florida’s weird morasses. With his people already encamped in this vicinity, Coa-coo-chee naturally selected the battle ground for its advantage of position, within easy reach of his warriors and by strategy and decoys succeeded in leading the American army to the chosen site. Contrary to the usual tactics of fighting in small bands and at widely scattered points, the Seminoles staked their all in this supreme battle, apparently not awed by the overwhelming odds of four to one.
This battle brought the generalship of Colonel Taylor prominently before the world and confirmed the Nation’s faith in him, which sent him, no doubt, to the Mexican battle field.
Here he was given the task of opening the way to the Halls of the Montezumas, and from this stepping stone he soon received the Presidency of the United States as a testimonial of national appreciation.
But of Colonel Taylor’s gallant opponent, Coa-coo-chee, what shall we say? Finally surrendering, he was put in chains and transported with a ship-load of his people, a group of broken-hearted exiles, to the waiting ships at Tampa; as the transports left Tampa Bay for the far western country, the anguish of this oppressed, terror-stricken people touched the hearts of the most hardened sailor—reduced from a powerful nation to a decimated band of starving humanity, they went silent or weeping toward the land of the setting sun, driven like dumb beasts before the power of the white man.
With lingering looks, these red patriots saw the loved scenes of their homes fade away, their happy hunting grounds, the graves of their fathers—their beloved Florida.
It was the closing of a sad chapter in American history. With the battle of Okee-cho-bee, few are familiar today. Is it not a fitting location for a national park, and a monument to the memory of this noble chieftain whom we have so sadly treated?
Upon this sacred soil a battle was fought that would not shame the Greeks of Leonidas, nor the Romans of ancient days. Today the white man treads heedlessly upon the land, with no other thought than that of commercialism attuned to the jingle of dollars.