CHIEF TALLAHASSEE.
Almost four hundred years have passed since that fair April day when Ponce de Leon anchored on the verdant shores of Florida. Since the Spanish cavalier planted the silken flag of Spain upon her soil, Florida has been surrounded by a halo of romance and tragedy. Between the time of her discovery and to-day, what marvelous scenes have been witnessedupon her fair plains and along the borders of her wild, dark rivers.
The ancient race who greeted the old Castilian has vanished and, save in the little band of Seminoles secreted in the mysterious and weird wilderness of the Everglades, no trace of the red man is visible. A description of a type of this fragment of a people will enable the reader to form a better conception of the tribe as a whole; and no name is more worthy to place in these pages than that of Tallahassee.
The old chieftain in appearance is noble and intellectual, and there is that in his look and bearing which at once pronounces him something more than the mere leader of a savage tribe. While his silvered head marks the cycle of many years, in his attire of scarlet and white, embraced by the traditional brightly beaded sash, he exhibits a dignified and patriarchial bearing. His countenance, while indeed mellowed with the cares of four-score years and ten, is kindly, and shows a conquered spirit. The lineaments of noble features are traceable in the broad forehead, the firm, thin lips, and eyes that might pierce the rays of the sun. Tallahassee shows no resentment to the whites, yet he believes that they have treated the Indian badly.
It may seem strange to talk of gentlemanliness in an untutored savage, but the demeanor of this Seminole chief must dignify any family in the land. But that face! Heaven forbid that any native of free America should wear so sad, almost heartbroken an expression as that which seams poor Tallahassee’sface. No child could look upon it without being impressed by its mournful pathos. The very history of the tribe is carved there.
When Osceola, with his compatriots, went on the warpath, Tallahassee was a small boy, and remembers well when his father and a few companions were surrounded and killed by the soldiers near Tallahassee, the capital of the State. Chipco, the chief of the tribe, was Tallahassee’s uncle; he escaped from the soldiers, and made his way to the Everglades where he lived to be nearly one hundred years old. Rosa, the sister of Tallahassee, became his squaw. They were childless, and at Chipco’s death, Tallahassee inherited the title, but as a reward for bravery displayed in saving his life on two occasions, Chipco had made him chief years before he died.
There is no trace of a revengeful spirit in either word or manner when Tallahassee speaks of his father’s tragic death, but with the stoicism of a philosopher, he seems to have accepted it as one of the cruel fortunes of war, and has nobly “buried the tomahawk.” Tallahassee is no stern warrior with blood-stained hands, but wears worthily the dignities of his ancestral station, and in many ways might be imitated with profit by his more cultured pale-faced brother. He is a true type of the “noble red man,” and in any other walk of life would have risen to eminence. Of all the Seminoles, Tallahassee is the most friendly to the whites. With the inborn courtesy that is native to all true greatness, this untutored Indian will welcome you to his wigwamand with royal grace dispense the hospitalities at his command. Few enter his presence, and none leave it without this mental tribute to his high character. The old chief is treated with care and consideration, and a homage is paid to him by the younger members of the tribe. Among the Seminoles, when a member of the tribe becomes too old for usefulness or self-help, it becomes the duty of the young men to contribute their share to his support. They are taught to do this more as an honor than as a burden.
As the years pass, more pathetic grows the life of the hereditary chieftain.
A few years ago, after numerous invitations, Tallahassee was persuaded to leave his swamp home to make a visit to the home of the writer. The old patriarch was accompanied by Billy Bowlegs, who showed the tenderest care for him. With one horse between them they traveled from the Everglades to Bassinger, the terminus of the steamboat line to Kissimmee. Then they boarded the steamer Roseada, arriving at Kissimmee after two days’ river travel. They attracted much attention and were the recipients of many small presents from sympathetic friends. They were both in full costume, the old chief wearing the regalia of his rank, sashes of bead work and red beaded leggins. On reaching the home of their host, they immediately began unpacking the bundle they carried, which indicated they had been preparing for many moons back for this eventful visit. Numerous garments, new and fanciful, were carefully withdrawn. The next morning being the Sabbath,they dressed with greatest care for the Sunday School and church services, which they enjoyed to the fullest. Knowing the famous chieftain would attend service, the church was crowded and at the close of the services parents with their children crowded around the old chieftain eager to shake hands with him; and with a pleasant beam of gratitude in his eyes, he received these greetings of the white friends.
It is a pleasing fact that Tallahassee, a savage and the representative of an almost destitute people, received a homage and as kindly a greeting as was ever accorded to any visitor to the little city of Kissimmee. However adverse a man may be to the Florida Indian in general, if he looks into the history of the Seminoles of Florida, he not only becomes friendly, but eager to see justice meted out to them.
As Tallahassee bade “good-bye,” he said, “Me no more come to Kissimmee City—old too much.” He had come as an ambassador of his tribe to tell his white friends the history of his race, and as memory went back to the olden days of bloodshed and accounts of home after home wrested from his people, he trembled with suppressed emotion. Anguish, interblended with the mournful pathos of his face, made a picture too sad to look upon. It was a period of agonizing struggle for this gallant, but conquered Seminole.
Sad and prophetic were his farewell words, for a short time after he reached his swamp home, he was taken with violent pains in his head, and as Billy Bowlegs reported it, “Pain three days—pain go,—Tallahasseeblindojus” (heap). The old chieftain, though totally blind and physically helpless, rules his band with the same stoic will of days long ago, when he carried them to the wilderness and wrenched them from the white man’s bullets and Uncle Sam’s bloodhounds.[4]