Seminole Smoke: An odyssey of power, love and blood in the Seminole Wars

The first time the young mother saw her son’s special gifts was during his second spring, in 1806. The dawn mist was reluctantly lifting from their Alabama village. Men were already out hunting fowl, beaver and - with luck - a boar. Elderly men were planting corn in a tiny patch by the creek. The women and older children had already begun the day’s chores. The village’s ten younger children and infants were playing quietly in an open-air hut tended by a wrinkled, ancient woman perched by a smoky fire. The young mother - Niilhaasi - was strolling to the creek to wash the breakfast pans, pausing for a glance at the children’s hut about 100 feet away. Her gaze, naturally, went directly to her beloved son and she smiled. She called him Yok-che. His father called him Paul Sullivan, Jr. Everyone knew him as Paul Turtle. A playful but introspective baby with a mischievous grin, Paul Turtle had his mother’s high cheekbones, dark complexion and generosity. He had his father’s long legs, freckles and sleight-of-hand. From both parents, he inherited agility, charm and an easy smile. The whole village loved Paul Turtle. Niilhaasi beamed as she watched little Paul crawling next to the fire-pit with the other babies. He’s already a leader, she mused. The fire kept the little ones warm in the April morning chill. The village’s newest newborn dozed in a crib of thatch and straw. The aging baby-sitter nodded off in her chair as the fire crackled. The black vulture dropped like a stone from high in the sky, attracted by the scent of the newborn. Its featherless head and spiked talons were still drenched in the hot blood and entrails of the baby armadillo it had just ripped to shreds. Perched boldly at the infant’s crib, the huge bird slowly stretched its menacing 6-foot wingspan and hissed, preparing for lunch. The children froze in terror. Niilhaasi tried to scream, but couldn’t. On all fours, little Paul stared at the vulture through the fire’s smoke from ten feet away. Just as the massive bird cocked its head, poised to strike the newborn’s neck, Niilhaasi dropped the pan and screamed. The bird swiveled its bloody head at the noise, and at that precise moment, Paul leapt through the smoke and seized the bird’s left leg, snapping it in an instant. The raptor let loose a primeval shriek, awakening the slumbering baby-sitter and infant. Niilhaasi loped to the fire-pit, grabbed a broom and bashed the pitiless bird’s cranium as little Paul still clasped the dying raptor’s broken leg. In recalling the incident, Niilhaasi realized that she hadn’t actually seen Paul move. One second he was on all fours, the next he had the vulture in his grip. She hadn’t blinked, nor had the smoke obstructed her view. She knew what she saw. Paul Turtle had uncommon speed and perfect timing, almost inhuman.