Killing Mister Watson

Conditions in south Florida are primitive. Much of it has changed little since its recesses enabled the Seminoles to prolong a resistance to the United States Government that never was fully overcome. Three counties, Lee of the Big Cypress Swamp, Dade of the Everglades and Lake Okeechobee, and Monroe of the Ten Thousand Islands, contain the most that is left in this country of uncharted territory and wilderness available for exploration…

Throughout these islands society is as loosely organized as it is sparsely distributed. One of the principal men of the coast told me that court justice was too expensive and uncertain for that country, and that people were expected to settle their own quarrels, a homicidal custom that has cost me four guides during the years of my own explorations…

The mazes of the Ten Thousand Islands have proved a sanctuary for the pursued since before the Civil War. At that time they harbored deserters from the Confederate service, some of whom continue their residence within its boundaries in apparent ignorance that the need therefor has passed… Often, in the cypress or mangrove swamps which border the Everglades, you will meet men who turn their faces away, or if they look toward you, laugh as you ask their names… These outcasts trap otters, shoot alligators and plume birds, selling skins, hides and plumes to dealers who go to them secretly, or through Indians who often help and never betray them… Sometimes these outlaws kill one another, usually over a bird rookery which two or more of them claim. I passed the camp of two of them beside which hung a dozen otter skins and a few days later learned that both of them had been killed, probably in a quarrel, but possibly by some third outlaw, tempted by their wealth of skins…

The Dimocks describe what seem to have been the plantations of the Atwell family on Rodgers River, 'all abandoned, all for sale, and all without purchasers. On them are splendid royal and date palms, palmettoes and tamarinds, but occupants have found skull-and-crossbones notices upon these trees, which latterly they have obeyed, influenced thereto by seven mysterious deaths which have occurred in the vicinity. The story of the murders, and the names of those who doubtless committed them, are upon the lips of even the children on the coast, but positive proof is lacking.' Despite the judicious use of the plural pronoun in that final sentence, there is no question in the context that the suspected murderer is Wilson/Watson. (Ted Smallwood's memoirs also mention that Watson was accused in the death of seven men, including Quinn Bass and 'Tucker and his nephew,' but at least two of Smallwood's unlucky seven appear to have perished after the Dimock account was published.)

BILL HOUSE

I had the names of his plume buyers from the Frenchman, and done my best to keep up the good work. For a time, before the birds give out, my neighbors was collecting for me, cause people was dirt poor in Chokoloskee, all but Smallwood. Trap male redbirds, sell 'em to Cuban cigar kings in Key West-them Cubans had 'em cooped in little cages, liked to hear 'em sing. That was before the two bad hurricanes around the end of Watson's time blew that whole cigar business clear north to Tampa. (Many's the Tampa Nugget I have smoked since them days.)

The Injuns was taking some egrets, trading 'em in with their otter pelts for gunpowder and whiskey. The rookeries over by Lake Okeechobee, they was shot out in four years, and by the turn of the century the west coast birds was giving out, from Tampa all the way south to Cape Sable. If you recall that plumes would bring exactly twice their weight in gold, you can figure out why men fought over rookeries, and shot to kill. The Roberts boys went partners with the Bradleys, and those fellers was still doing pretty good around Flamingo, but most places birds had grew so scarce that us regular hunters set guards around what few poor rookeries was left. Them Audubons was agitating harder'n ever, and in 1901, the year that Watson disappeared, plume hunting was forbid by Florida law. Yessir, our own state of Florida passed laws against our native way of living!

All that ever done was put the price up. Them laws was passed to quiet down them Yankee bird-lovers, but nobody give a good goddam about enforcement. Only man paid them laws any mind was young Guy Bradley, who got to be first warden in the state of Florida and took his job too serious for his own good.

Guy Bradley was shot in 1905, not long after Ed Watson had showed up again, and when that bad news come in from Flamingo, Ed Watson got the blame for it, as usual. When another warden got axed to death in 1908, near Punta Gorda, that one was laid on Watson too, but every man at Punta Gorda knew who done it. No one ever got arrested, far as I know. I ain't saying that's good, I got my doubts, but in these parts any judge knows better than to mess with an old clan that is only taking what is theirs by God-given right. Wiped out a third warden along about that time, in Carolina.

Before Pap crippled himself with his ax, and I went home again to help him out, I went to work for a Yankee sportsman, Mr. Dimock. Had his son along with him snapping pictures, that boy spent most of every day with his head in a black bag. A.W. Dimock was a pretty old feller by that time, but like most sports, he would shoot anything in sight, not only deer and birds but gators, crocs, and manatees. We even took sawfish out of House's Bay, where my family had our cane farm north of Watson's place. We'd cut the saws off, sell 'em for souvenirs, that's what the old gentleman wanted. Mr. Dimock made out as how he had a good market up North, so we'd hack the saws off them big fish, leave the rest to rot. Lost his shirt, not that he needed money. Trying to sell saws was his excuse for all that killing, made him feel better about his life some way, but the only good it done was save some turtle nets, which sawfish used to mess up something terrible.

We harpooned sawfish from Chatham River all the way south to Cape Sable, and in that time I told Mr. Dimock a fair amount about Ed Watson. Seemed like Watson was about all us local people talked about in them days. Mr. Dimock put them tales into his book. Never read it myself, didn't know how, but I was told about it pretty good. Called him J.E. Wilson cause E.J. Watson was still going strong and might have took him into court for heartburn, but there weren't no doubt at all who he was talking about. Told the barber story on Ed Brewer, too.

Well, Dimock's book hinted pretty plain that this J.E. Wilson had killed seven in these parts. Damn if I know who them seven could of been, less they was stray nigras that we never knowed about. And if us natives never knowed about 'em, how did that old Yankee find it out? For quite a spell after Atwells went away from Rodgers River, and them Tuckers was found killed at Lost Man's Key, there weren't but hardly seven people down there, not if you left out them two big clans of Hamiltons. Their men was hard. If Watson killed any Hamiltons, them families never said too much about it.

Ed Watson were not by any means the only feller in our section who had took a life. There was murdering aplenty back in them days, but the law never bothered with it hardly cept to say good riddance. Sheriffs never did find out who was living back into the Glades, too damn hard to keep track of men who traveled very light and kept on moving. Some of these men were real old fellers, very wary, never let you near, just slipped like otters through them rivers where they could always scoot away into the Glades. One old feller come from England, Ted Smallwood called him the Remittance Man. Ted would have a check for him every six months there at the post office and he'd fix himself up with six months' worth of shine. Wanted to get away from it all, looked like to me.

Mr. Dimock wrote up his adventures in a famous book called Florida Enchantments. That Yankee must of got delirious, too many skeeter bites or something, to be enchanted by these godforsaken swamps. Well, we was partial to 'em, too, never knowed why. He sent me the book, and I got my intended, young Miss Nettie Howell, to read it out to me. There was a picture of a sawfish guide in there, kind of murky but it might been me.

After I quit Mr. Dimock, the feller who took my place got pulled overboard by a sawfish, split his guts out, died before he'd figured out his own mistake. Man from the east coast, y'know. Wasn't familiar with the way we done things in the Islands.

Nine years after Mr. Watson's death, an article in the Home and Farm, published in Louisville, extolling the wonderful sport fishing out of Chokoloskee, was still warning its readers to avoid a very dangerous islander named Watson. The charge of multiple murders in the swamps (and at Key West) would be repeated many times, with varying degrees of exaggeration and pure fantasy. But in every case, as the Dimocks acknowledged, positive proof was lacking, and this is true in regard not only to Mr. Watson's guilt but to the numbers of killings that actually occurred.

In a day when Negroes were discounted, it is scarcely surprising that not one of the names of his alleged black victims has been recorded. On the other hand, some supposed white victims are also nameless,