No event in the history of the Seminole tribe since the closing of the war has been more tragic than the slaughter of eight of the band, by the hand of Jim Jumper, a half-breed belonging to the tribe. The killing occurred in February, 1891. According to the Indians, the negro had bought some bad whiskey from a white trader, and it made him “crazy too much in his head”—doubtless delirium tremens. With his Winchester in his hand he started out. The first victim was his faithful squaw who happened to be close by. Rushing forward and through the camp and meeting the venerable Woxo-mic-co, head chief over all the tribe, who was on a visit to the Cow Creek band from his council lodge at Miami, the crazy half-breed sent a ball through the old chief’s head, killing him instantly. Old Tom Tiger, one of the landmarks of the Indian wars, hearing the firing, came to the rescue, but was shot down before he had time to interpose. Young Tiger, stepping out of the wigwam in time to see his father fall to the ground, with a blood-curdling war-whoop sprang upon the maniac and a hand-to-hand fight ensued; but he was at the wrong end of the rifle, and before he could wrest it from his antagonist, another report was followed by the death-cry of the brave, young Indian. The wildest panic ensued, the women and children huddling in their wigwams or fleeing to the woods. The murderer now rushed into the wigwam of his sister, and with his knife murdered her and her two little children, who were clinging to her dress in terror. Brandishing his knife, he started into the woods, where he was killed by a bullet from Billy Martin’s rifle. The wailing and the anguish in that camp can better be imagined than described. After the burial ceremony over the murdered victims, the body of the murderer was dragged far into the swamp, to be fed upon by the vultures. Thus passed away in less than half an hour eight innocent lives, victims to the demoralizing influence of the white man’s whiskey. The Indian village was broken up, the entire band moving away to escape the visitations of the spirits of the murdered ones.
Photograph by E. W. Histed.
A SEMINOLE GROUP OF THE TALLAHASSEE BAND, KNOWN AS THE COW CREEKS
A people without a country.
On the death of Woxo-mic-co, four candidates for the position of Big Chief appeared, but five years have passed and yet no chief has been elected. In the old chieftain’s death the last vestige of Seminole war spirit is obliterated. Nowhere in their history is their determination to live at peace with their white neighbors more conclusively proven than in the abolition of the office of Great Chief, “Big Chief” and war councils, in their minds, being inseparable.
The authority of the sub-chiefs, who are leaders of the different bands, is purely personal; they cannot decree punishment—a jury or council alone can do this. The government is not harsh, and there is as much freedom as could be possible in these forest homes.
APPEARANCE AND DRESS.
In personal appearance, many a Seminole brave might be taken as a type of physical excellence. He is bright copper in color, is over six feet in height, his carriage is self-reliant, deliberate and strong. His step has all the lightness and elasticity that nature and practice can combine to produce, as lithe and soft as the tread of a tiger. The Yale, the Harvard or the Oxford student with years of training in the athletic school, would be but a novice in the art of grace, suppleness and mode of walking, as compared with this son of the forest. His features are regular, his eyes jet black and vigilant, always on the alert; his nose is straight but slightly broadened, his mouth firm as a stoic’s. The hair is cut close to the head, except the traditional scalplock of his fathers, which is plaited and generally concealed under the large turban that adorns his head.