Osceola His Capture and Seminole Legends

Osceola His Capture and Seminole Legends

By William P. Ryan

"I loathe you in my bosom;

I scorn you with mine eye

I’ll taunt you with my latest breath;

I’ll fight you till I die.

I ne’er will ask for quarter, and I ne’er will be your slave;

But I’ll swim the sea of slaughter

till I sink beneath its wave." Charles Coe - Red Patriots

It is not known if any Seminole of the times wrote a history of his life. Except for black translators, who were often not educated men, the written accounts of the time came from white authors. Thus, this by its nature must be considered a work of fiction. I am attempting to tell the story in Osceola's own words - - William Ryan

Osceola his Capture and Seminole Legends

Copyright 2010 William P. Ryan

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - The present time

Chapter 2 - Near Kings Road 1837

Chapter 3 - Remember

Chapter 4 - Creek Civil War

Chapter 5 - 1819 - 1829

Chapter 6 - June 1822

Chapter 7 - We lose our lands

Chapter 8.- October 1823 to the Withlacoochee

Chapter 9 - Fort King - the white ways

Chapter 10 - 1829 - 1834

Chapter 11 - 1835 - 1835

Chapter 12 - Placed in chains

Chapter 13 Our villages are emptied

Chapter 14 December 1835 - War!

Chapter 15 1836

Chapter 16 1837

Chapter 17 Summer 1837

Chapter 18 White Flag October 21, 1837

Chapter 19 Col. John H. Sherburne

Chapter 20 London News January 1848

References

About the author

Chapter 1 - The Present Time

A small section of a magical road still exists south of St. Augustine, Florida near the headwaters of Moultrie Creek. Here is a highway of long ago, built by the British before the American Revolution. It was once called The Kings Road. The road is long abandoned saved only by being within a private, fenced area. It is almost forgotten. It passes by a hidden stone marker that once held an iron plate marked OSCEOLA. The ancient highway is intact. It awaits the travelers that will never come again. The hot white sand rests silently, it holds a mystery, the arrow of time appears to halt here. Like many an old battlefield there are memories here.

If you look with care you may find them.

Old Kings Road south of St. Augustine Florida

The hunter walks slowly down the old roadway, the white stone topping glares in his eyes, making it hard to see deeply into the heavy brush and brown palmettos along the side. He carries a 12 gauge shotgun loosely, stops, looking intently, then listens to the steady wind blowing bits of dust and dead plants across the road. I am certain for sure that old sow is here somewhere, he says softly to himself, listening for any sound other than the dead leaves. Now she has some little pigs, they would make some fine eating, but for sure I don’t want to tangle with that sow, she might be 300 or 400 pounds, a real mean one. I’ll stay on this old road for a while, cause if she comes at me fast, it’ll give me a margin. He holds the gun more closely and looks with care at a spot to the left.

There’s a dried out pond to the left that still is a mud wallow. I seen tracks and they gotta be around there somewhere. He moves left a bit off the road still tracking more carefully with the shotgun. There are no crickets or frogs sounding, the pond is too far gone in the Florida heat. The sun is plenty hot, the ground has only dry white sand and dirt reflecting even more heat than the old road did. He moves deeper into the thick brush listening carefully for any sound other than the rustling palmetto fronds. The hot reflection from the white rocky dry ground is almost blinding. There are no trees, only the dried brush and skin tearing palmetto fronds. The land was clear cut long ago, so there are no trees and only two dried up ponds to show that once there was more here.

He knows he should not be here. There are pigs and he had found a way around the fencing that held this property for a land development long ago. The old road still makes a good way to cover territory. It runs almost due north. It is in remarkable shape. There is no green on the baked sand soil and the fire of the sun makes moving waves across the stone dry land. There is little sign of life here. The area is dead.

He makes a few careful paces forward and then moves to the right. A strange white stone appears behind the heavy brush. The white rock is a rectangular column, quite large, and as big as a tomb marker. He thinks it might be a grave but there’s no engraving on it. He looks at it more closely and sees it’s made of graying white concrete. There might have been a plate long ago removed from the lighter square now etched on the stone. Some bullet strikes and lead smears on the face show it was once used as a target.

Wonder what the hell this is? Who is buried here? Hell, it might be some old Indian thing, he thinks. I guess there was Indians here a long time ago, good thing they are gone now, he smiles at the thought. He ponders this a bit then hears a faint rustling over by the dried up pond. Pulling his safety, he brings the gun up and stalks with great care into the dry brush. The stone is now behind him and quickly forgotten.

The white stone marker still stood alone in the blazing Florida sun. It is a marker, a record frozen in time, of betrayal. It is the capture site of Osceola, a famous Seminole warrior. It stands in the dry brush, forgotten and alone. Almost no one recalls it. Few know it is there. Osceola lies far in the past. The stone holds no memory. Something lingers in this dry land. This spot once shook a nation and generated a hundred books. The hot air heated by the white sand seems to crackle with energy. The shotgun fires. A Florida buzzard catches the updraft. It circles in the still hot air looking for something newly dead. The reflected light from the white, sandy soil shivers. The buzzard rises as it catches the hot airs.

Chapter 2 –Kings Road

October 20 1837

A white flag flies in the night about a mile and a half south of Fort Peyton on Kings Road, the old route to Saint Augustine. This is the camp of Osceola who has come to meet with the white general. It is a poor and hasty camp far removed from the battles of the Seminole War. Osceola spoke little English. This is a place of power. He can speak to you. Here Seminole ancestors still seek their lost children. If you are a friend, listen with your mind, go back to another time.

It is nightfall. Osceola sits, somewhat distant from his camp, near a frog infested Cypress pond the day had been exceptionally warm, and in the nearby pond the frogs are croaking in unison. He can see the gleaming white Old Kings Road running north. The wind blows through the tall long leaf pines that surround his camp while the white birch trees and thin cypress sway in the wind. It is a good place to camp, with fresh water nearby and the well tended road going north. His 25 Indian ponies are picketed next to the fresh water. His followers are camped in rough lean-tos. Osceola sits upon a fallen tree log deep in thought. He is sick and dispirited from malaria that he knows as the great fever. It goes and comes, but he cannot regain his strength. His mind wanders with sweating dreams. His mind races with memories of why he is here. He does not look forward to the dawn.

He knows that the soldiers are coming.

I have nothing to be ashamed of. I have kept my word, now my road is white. I sent General Hernandez my gift of carved white pipe and Egret feathers to show my intent. I no longer follow the red road; I journey only on the white. My rifles are no longer ready; they are stacked under deer hide so as not to offend the soldiers when they come he thought more clearly. Perhaps my fever breaks.

The camp was darkening early this October day of 1837. A cold wind rattled the towering long leaf pines that shielded the nearby cypress pond where the thin, slow growing trees swayed above the rippling water. Florida was said to be a land of great heat but it can also carry biting cold too when the north wind blows as it will for some days. He sat some distance from the camp in dark reflection. One of the black women had fixed a fine stew of deer, but he only tasted it. She knew well not to speak when his brow was dark. His family was not here. Osceola’s spirit grew blacker as the sun fled and the night owls began to sound their cry, warning of approaching death.

The wind shifted and tried to move the thin shawl wrapped about his shoulders. One of the several small campfires was still close enough to flicker flashes of light on his face. Osceola is of moderate size, but strongly muscled, from years of action. His moves still are as keen as they once were when he could block out all enemies in the game of Indian Ball. Now he is much thinner, having lost much weight from his sweating sickness. As he bends lower in the chilling wind his hand shakes, and sweat beads on his forehead. The many night chills and sweats bring fever dreams. His followers have seen him weaken over the past three months. This hand wound is only slight. He was hit with splinters flying from a tree. The large caliber lead musket balls had riddled the tree he stood against. The striking lead never touched him directly but the wood splinters flew deep. The cold makes his hand stiff. It is a small matter.

More important are his waiting Seminole and black warriors. They listen only to a winner, the player that could make the goals, or the war leader who could amaze and defeat the enemy every time. When you show weakness or sickness, that the Great Spirit is no longer with you, they will drift away, pulled away by chiefs who have never lost their jealousy and now blame him for this war. Many blame me, he said softly. Then he looked about to see if there were any nearby ears to hear. I have only a few. They are mostly the black warriors that follow me now. Do I take the blame? They listened to me once, but no more, he spoke softly out loud, then again looked into the darkness to see if anyone had heard. The few remaining Black Seminoles, the Maroons with everything to lose, would still follow him into death; he is certain they would not desert him. Coa Hajo or Alligator well knows the whites are capturing anyone with dark skin for sale back into slavery on the Georgia plantations."

Is my face now much thinner with the care that once had never been there? They say I normally keep a pleasant look. I think my face is never a mirror of my mind. You might know me as Asi Yaholo, or called by the whites as Osceola or Billy Powell. If you meet with me for the first time, you often will note only my mildest aspect. I have a deliberate, calm somewhat high pitched voice, full smiling lips and bright eyes that fearful whites would never think were those of a vengeful Indian warrior. Some say I carry a glow, a face that is friendly and kind, listening to all around me. (This aspect is not the soul of Osceola.) I can strike hard in war. I once had no quarrel with the whites. Some claim I have the look of white blood in me. Now in this darkness of my mind, while the flashes of heat fever hold me, I know my face has a new hardness. The wind tries to pull away my covering, but I am of the Wind Clan. Is it not my friend? I pull the shawl closer. How can I feel heat and cold at the same time?

This fever burns my mind, I am cold and yet I sweat my thoughts race like a deer through the forest. My mind runs from memories and thoughts like a blowing storm. Could this wind be speaking to me? Does it carry these memories to me? I feel they surround me, moving in closer and the night grows deeper. Will dawn never come? His thoughts race by like wind gusts piling one on another. A chill shakes him again.

His 24 Seminole ponies snuffled and stamped in the dark unnerved by the rustle of the trees. They were tied to a strong line but still they pick at the hard sand with their unshod hoofs. The campfires blow dark, and then send bright sparks into the wind. They show the outline of the small deerskin tents, not really enough for a large camp. Alligator and his 71 brave warriors, four black Seminoles, six women including some wives and their cousins, and the aged wife of King Philip complete this small group. Once Osceola could command thousands of brave Seminole warriors. Now his leadership was greatly reduced to a few loyal followers, mostly black.

The moon is in its half stage and low in the east. He sees the white gleam of the crushed shell on the ancient Kings Road that had brought him north from Pellicer Creek two days prior. Osceola stares to the north. The white path rises to a slight hill and vanishes into blackness. What would come down this road with the dawn is not a surprise. His mind runs up the trail. He had come upon it, running from Volusia at the St. Johns River, to the Spring Garden Trail that ran northeast, crossing the three fords of Haw Creek. There he had rested and tried to recover his strength in the hidden camp of Halleck-Tustenuggee, deep in a Haw Creek hammock, never found by the whites. Halleck was a determined Red Stick warrior who would never give in to the whites and held his secret camp close from their eyes. The Spring Garden trail was the main route from the south to the northeast, joining the Old Kings road just north of Pellicer Creek. It made for a fast trail north when we made the Christmas attacks on the plantations. Many slaves fled, some joined with us, and many were taken. There was not enough food for all. The blacks were in poor shape, with little to eat and only the light clothing they were wearing when they left the plantations. Many were ready to return.

Osceola wondered if Hernandez and Jesup would recognize his act of good faith. He sent some 74 of these hungry slaves north to meet Captain Hanson and his small detachment coming south with food for them. He had sent his black scout friend, John Horse (John Cavallo), who was a good interpreter, to Fort Peyton telling of their hunger. The sending of captured blacks north would fulfill a promise. These were not black Seminoles. Some were captured during the war, but most were run-always from plantations. They could not speak the Seminole language, and truly were the ones the soldier leaders spoke of when they demanded that all blacks captured from the plantations be returned. It pained him to do this, but there was no choice.

These slaves were hungry and poorly clothed. They were field and house workers, not warriors. This was a peace offering to negotiate the release of aged King Philip and his family. They did not have enough food at Haw Creek or Volusia, and this large group also endangered Halleck’s hidden camp at Haw Creek.

John Horse also was to tell Hernandez that the road was now ‘white’, he would be safe from any harm, and they would be flying the white flag of soldier’s truce and good talk. Sending the blacks north was his hand extended, showing good faith to his word. John Horse was to say that Osceola had put away his rifle and was ready for a talk. It would be held under the white flag of truce.

A large flag snaps in the wind. It is white but is now shows grey in the coming night. It makes the only sound in the darkness except for the nervous pack ponies. The flag is mounted high on a thin cypress pole, planted in the coquina rocks, and carefully braced to stand the wind. Even in the darkness it could be seen from Old Kings and perhaps even from Ft. Peyton.

He sits alone. There are none at present with him all are sleeping. The other campers are wrapped in their warm robes. Could not one spend these dark hours with me? he meditates. Would this coming of the day pass me by? I feel not the strength for it, the evil of the fever has drained my spirit. I fear what I feel is coming toward me.

I must do what is right. Philip has asked, and my path is straight. I must meet with the white general to make him see that I have changed my path; it is the white road I must now walk. I must make him see this.

It is over! He speaks to the wind, for there was no one to listen. Yes, Coa Hadjo and Coacoochie had spoken to me, ‘the road was white.’ Truly it is white with its crushed oyster shell. But the white snake, Jesup, had two tongues. I speak with only one. Jesup asked me to come and he knew MY heart was white. The messengers spoke true, but the bow that launched them, Jesup’s arrow, was red and he would never really hand a white arrow to the Seminole. It is over, it is done. I know I may die here, the land of my ancestors, I think I can never agree with the white man. I may never leave this land that holds the graves of my clan.

Yes, white is the color of peace. I was a boy in a white stick village, far from the anger of the Red Sticks. Before the sun set I watched Coa Hadjo set the tall, trimmed young pine pole, that holds our white cloth snapping in this cold wind. It pops and cracks, showing its whiteness, a sign of peace and truce. General Jessup had sent a messenger with a bolt of this fine white cloth to make a flag of peace. The color had great meaning to the Seminole. Stories that cry out for thousand of seasons, of both war and peace are signed by the white feather and the white flag.

I sent the great general Hernandez two presents of peace. A fine pipe with white feather and a belt of fine white beadwork were made by Che-cho-ter and her sister. Hernandez must know for certain my heart is wishing peace, but he knows also I will never leave this land. I now have few followers. The soldiers have men like blades of grass and they keep growing. King Philip’s wife is old, she moves slowly and is cut by the cold. She stood bravely before me asking that I bring the release of her husband. She looked deep into my eyes and said: These are all my children. I am tired of the war. My warriors were slain, my villages burnt, and my little ones perish by the roadside. The Great Spirit frowned on his red children that the star of her nation had set in blood. She desired that the hatchet should be buried forever, between her children and her white brethren. His thoughts race onward. The face of his mother appears briefly in his mind, he misses her wisdom. For the heart of the Indian people is held in the hands of their mother. The wisdom of the mother is sacred to them.

The white flag whips again like a spirit of anger, charged with protecting the small camp, yet there is the threat that the evil may come with the red rays of dawn. It whips in the dark night as if it knows it can not protect us in this small camp.

It had been only a few days past when Coacoochie came south with King Philips brother Tacosa Tustenuggee, accompanied by his youngest son who was called Captain Sam. Osceola had been in the hidden camp at Haw Creek with a larger group of some 100, who escaped from the soldier raids to the south. This is the camp of Haleck Tustenugee just north and east of the three fords of the Haw Creek.

The white man had never found this deep, swampy hammock camp. Coacoochie walked in one morning and gave the story of more trouble:

King Philip was taken in a sudden raid by the white general Hernandez. He was betrayed by the breed Tomoca John. Philip is in poor spirit, he longs for his wife, his children and those that surround him. The white general Jesup asks for a council. He wants you to meet with him, and has sent you this bolt of white cloth so that his soldiers will not fire upon you. If you do not come to his council, they might hang Philip from the tower of the fort. Philip will surely die if something is not done.

Coacoochie spoke firmly, but he would not meet my eye. He then boasted I will kill Tomoca John; his bones will be white with the new moon. Coacoochie loves the role of a warrior. He needs the white man who would listen to his tales, and I think sometimes he draws too close to them. He likes to share the drink in their tent and make friends with those that have whiskey."

I am Philip’s friend, my road is clear. I must meet with this Jesup although I know he is a snake that may strike without warning. He did send me the white cloth. Coacoochie spoke his message Coacoochie knows the white general speaks false. Jesup told him I must first return any escaped, and captured black slaves. I know I must do this. Philip asks for his family, he no longer wishes to keep fighting. It comes to an end for many.

I said I would move with my people in two days time, first to a camp south of the Pellicer Creek, and then to this camp which is only a few hours walk from the soldiers at Fort Peyton along this white man’s road. I said I would surrender the blacks who had escaped from the plantations. This I did bringing some