The Seminoles of Florida

by Minnie Moore-Willson

We judge the Indian too harshly. It is hard to give up old traditions, especially if the adherence to them means a life of ease. We are all in the pursuit of that which will make us happy.

The story is the old one of merciless extinction of the lower race before the higher. It is a story of the “survival of the fittest.” The Florida Indian can go no further. An old anecdote is brought to light which illustrates the Indian’s own view of the case. The famous Seneca chief, Red Jacket, once met a government agent, and after pleasant greetings they both sat down on a log, when Red Jacket asked the agent to “move along.” The agent did so and the chief followed. This was done several times, the agent humoring the whim of the old chief, until he had reached the end of the log, when the same request, “move along” was repeated. “Why, man,” angrily replied the agent, “I can’t move along further without getting off the log into the mud.” “Ugh! Just so white man want Indian to move along—move along; can’t go no further, yet he say move along.” And so with the Seminole to-day. The clearings they have made in the forests and the only homes they have ever known have been bought from the State by speculators and they are compelled to “move along.” The history of the western Indian as he sells or surrenders the heart of his great reservation proves that the white man will have his way. The broken treaties of the past the Seminole has not forgotten. The old chiefs are as proud as the most imperious king. They regard these lands as their own, and cannot understand the Government’s claim. They say “What right has the big white chief at Washington to give to us what is already ours—the lands of our fathers?” The white man who receives any confidence from the Florida Indian must indeed possess great magnetism, for the Seminole is suspicious of every overture and will mislead his questioner on all occasions. And while the white man is studying “poor Lo,” “poor Lo” is similarly engaged in studying him, and continually revolving in his suspicious mind, “what can pale face want from the Indian anyway?”

The chiefs have taught the young braves all about the outrages perpetrated upon their tribe by unscrupulous agents during the wars; and while the Indians themselves in many cases practiced cruelty, it was always in retaliation for some grievous wrong of anterior date. History records case after case of robberies and enormities committed on the Seminoles previous to the war and during its progress. Micanopy requested a lawyer to draw a form of writing for him which soon after proved to be a conveyance of a valuable tract of land! Afterwards the war-whoop and the deadly hand of Micanopy was heard and felt among the swamps and prairies. Micanopy was one of the most powerful, as well as one of the wealthiest Seminole chieftains. His estate, a mile square, he ceded to the United States. Of the disposition of his slaves—he had eighty—nothing is said.

In connection with the portrait of Micanopy as used in this volume, this bit of almost forgotten history is worth mention. When the famous Indian portrait painter, Catlin, was commissioned by the War Department to paint the most prominent chiefs then in captivity at Fort Moultrie, Micanopy, as chief of the Nation, was first approached, but positively refused to be painted. After much persuasion, he at last consented, saying, “If you make a fair likeness of my legs,” which he had very tastefully dressed in a handsome pair of red leggins, “you may paint Micanopy for the Great Father,” “upon which, I at once began,” says Catlin, “as he sat cross legged, by painting them upon the lower part of the canvas, leaving room for the body and head above.”

When the chief saw every line and curve brought out on the canvas he smiled his approval, and the work proceeded, to the delight of both artist and subject.

In the mutual relations between the whites and the Indians it requires no skilled advocate to show on which side must lie the wrongs unrepaired and unavenged. Without doubt the Indian has always been the victim. One thing is certain, the Indian chiefs, when fairly dealt with, have always evinced an earnest desire to make just terms. Ever since the Caucasian landed on the shores of America, a white man with a gun has been watching the Indian. Four centuries have gone and with them a record of broken treaties and violated pledges. The records of the Indian Bureau support the statement that, before the first half of the present century had passed, we had broken seven solemn treaties with the Creeks, eleven with the Cherokees; the Chickasaws and Choctaws suffered too, saying nothing of smaller tribes. History reveals how well the Delawares fought for us in the Revolutionary War. They were brave “allies,” fighting out of loyalty to the “Alliance,” and inspired by the promised reward, viz.: “The territorial right to a State as large as Pennsylvania and a right to representation in our Congress.” But where are the Delawares to-day? One remove after another was made until we find only a remnant existing—some with the Cherokees, and a few with the Wichita agency.

A great deal has been written about the Florida Indian which is not in accordance with facts. There are many obstacles in the way of an intimate acquaintance with their customs and home life. Living as they do in the almost inaccessible morasses, their contact with civilization has been regulated by their own volition. Visitors, traders and government agents have been denied their confidence, and it is only on their visits to settlements for the purpose of trading that they meet the white man. At such times the Seminole is on the alert, ever suspicious, and to the numerous interrogations applied to him by the inquisitive stranger, his answer is an indifferent “Me don’t know.” When questions become of a personal character, touching upon subjects sacred to a Seminole, he quietly walks away, leaving his questioner wondering.

The Seminoles live to themselves, shun all intimacy with the Caucasian, and their personal appearance is therefore almost unknown to Americans. The greater part of the tribe seldom, if ever, leave their marshy homes. To reach their camps uninhabitable wilds must be traversed and sometimes miles of mud and water waded, then perhaps only to find the camp deserted. For, while the Seminole has regular settlements, at various times during the year the entire camp will assemble at some point where game is abundant and a “big hunt” will occupy a few weeks. Again syrup boiling will be the festival all will join in; at another time a large quantity of koonti (wild cassava) will be made into flour. At these gatherings the tribe or families occupy temporary dwellings called lodges.

The innate dislike of the Seminole toward strangers is his hardest prejudice to overcome; yet he is hospitable when he convinces himself that the visitor is no Government agent, nor come for any mercenary motive. The person who is fortunate enough to reach their hunting grounds, secure their confidence, observe their weird home life, and their childish untutored ways, meets with an attractive spectacle of romance and may study these aborigines in their primeval customs. For to-day, with the exception of the chiefs and a few of the adventuresome warriors, they know nothing of the innovations of the last half century. So strong are they in their resolution to hold no intercourse with our nation, that neither bribery nor cajolery will have any effect upon them. A few years ago an effort was made by the authorities of the Sub-Tropical Exposition at Jacksonville, Florida, to secure a few of the Seminole braves for exhibition. After many proffered bribes, the young warriors with the adventurous spirit of youth consented to go to the “big city.” A council was held and the chiefs said “halwuk (it is bad); if you go you never come back.” The council of the chiefs is always respected and the young braves remained with their fathers.