Recollections of Early Texas (24 page)

Like Bowie's fight, this was a struggle which once commenced could neither be postponed nor avoided. Our men were compelled to fight or be butchered by the blood-thirsty band, who had lured them into their very clutches—hemmed in with no shadow of a chance to escape or retreat. Captain Bird's rallying cry embodied the terrible truth
of their situation, and he bade them, “Stand and fight like men, or die like dogs!” Nearly every one of the small company was wounded and a few died from their wounds, after reaching home.

One of our men proved himself a hero indeed, through this memorable day of daring and danger and suffering. I wish I could remember his name and record it, but I cannot. We can cherish his memory, however, as one of those sleeping in unmarked graves, who, in life, erected to themselves monuments more enduring than brass or marble, by a fortitude and bravery unsurpassed by the most hardy of Spartan warriors. Early in the morning he received a deadly wound—a poisonous arrow sinking a message of death throughout his strong frame, but, pausing not for pain, faltering not from fear, he stood with his comrades, loading and firing upon the savages. All through the heat and fervor of the day he fought, and, at last, as the battle was ending, the soldier's life struggle ended, too. The Night of Death brought its strange peace to the life thus given for Texas. How many in the world's broad field of battle thus fell—the results of their mightiest efforts unknown to them.

    
Calmly rest in peaceful triumph,

    
Soldier brave,
the day was won.

    
And we know your single valor,

    
Aided in the work these have done;

    
Thus it is in all our life work,

    
We must strike with might and main,

    
And full oft we leave the issue,

    
Knowing not its loss or gain.

    
But, 'tis written, He will crown us,

    
And up there we will know no pain.

    
Conflicts over; blessed triumph;

    
Of that rest that doth remain.

The battered, bleeding remnant of men made their way
back to the settlements, leaving their dead and carrying their wounded who could not go without help. Then, collecting as many men as possible, they went back, buried their dead, and taking the trail of the Comanches pursued it a short distance, finding the body of the dead Indian chief, which they had carefully borne away and concealed. This was in accordance with one of their most sacred superstitions. Indeed they would risk life itself in order to preserve their dead from scalping and mutilation. Should a warrior suffer any such desecration at the hands of an enemy, his body was left to the mercy of the wolves and buzzards, for they held that the Great Spirit would not allow a scalped warrior to enter the Happy Hunting Grounds.

Again, in 1839 or 1840, Burleson was returning from an unsuccessful Indian campaign when one of his men proposed leading the way to a village of Tejas Indians, a hostile tribe that covered their tents or wigwams with grass. Burleson with the main army paid no special attention to the information and came on home, but twelve or thirteen men volunteered to accompany the self-appointed guide, anxious for the excitement and adventure as well as the plunder they might secure. I do not recall the captain of the little squad, but I remember a few of the volunteers—Christian, Buckman, and others. All their arrangements were made and their plans were well-laid. They struck off to burn the village with its roofs of dry grass. On their way, however, while they were cutting a bee tree, they were surprised and attacked by a large band of Indians.

Taking refuge in a hollow, they fought faithfully and kept the Indians off. But, as in the Bowie fight, the savages finally set fire to the grass surrounding them and they were compelled to retreat. Nearly all of them were killed, but the dense smoke concealed a few, who escaped, among whom was Buckman, from whom I received the details.

Among the standing mysteries of those terrible times is how the families lived through some of the sieges and horrors. Women and children sustained themselves bravely and acted nobly in many a fearful extremity, which would try the nerve and soul of the bravest men. Somewhere about 1834 or 1835 the Taylor family
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had their almost miraculous escape from a most horrible fate. Mr. Taylor was living on Little River, where he had lately built a new cabin and settled there with his family. The Caddo Indians came in and out, pretending to be friendly, but in reality very bitter in their hostility.

One day a band of twenty-five or thirty surrounded the house of the isolated settlers, yelling “Burleson killed Caddoes!” as they came. Mr. Taylor barely had time to bar the doors when they began a persistent assault upon the house. The father, mother, and a son of about fourteen years composed the force that had to stand up against this savage band. Through portholes they fired out upon them and as both father and son were good riflemen the contest waxed warm and interesting. Charging the little cabin they tried to break down the doors, but Taylor sprang on the table, which had been drawn up against the door, and shot down, killing the leading warrior instantly. While he was reloading his gun, the boy leaped to the table and shot down a second warrior, who was trying to move the body of the one just killed. Meanwhile, Mrs. Taylor was not shivering or screaming or faint
ing under the bed or in a corner. Hers was a most important part of the terrible ordeal. In the din of the fight an Indian had crept around and succeeded in setting fire to the house. This she promptly extinguished, and it is said she punched a green pecan board through a hole, giving the savage such a sudden blow that he abandoned the post. The Indians soon gave up the fight, thereafter leaving the Taylors alone.

There was an Indian campaign under John H. Moore in 1839, before his more famous one in 1840. “First come first serve,” is a very good rule, I know, but in my reminiscences I wander here and there, as memory wafts me a fact from her exhaustless store, and this expedition seems somewhat worthy of relation, even though I have been past that period in my memoirs several times.

One who has never tried to recollect and record past events of his life in proper order and as to time, etc., may deem it an easy task, and will doubtless find abundant food for criticism in the “cart-before-the-horse” style, and the jumbled dates of an old man's tales. Those, however, who have given time and labor to like enterprises, understand the difficulties so well that they are prepared for what I promised in resuming this record of facts, given perhaps in irregularity and confusion but none the less vivid and true.

Fayette and Bastrop counties uniting, formed a company of about sixty white men and twenty-five or thirty Lipan Indians. Under John H. Moore they started on an Indian campaign without preparation, except salt, coffee, and a little bacon. By the way, this bacon cost twenty-five cents a pound. A man living in a very exposed section sold them meat “cheap,” because they were going to fight Indians.

Marching up the river, they were at length forced by a heavy snowstorm to camp at the head of the Lampasas River, where they bided their time as best they could, suffering intensely from cold. While quartered here two men, Joe
Anderson and Felix McClusky,
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went out hunting. Anderson, who was a short distance ahead of McClusky, saw a large band of Indians, and McClusky, coming along, heard the noise of their marching down the country toward home. Coming into camp they reported this to John Moore, but no attention was paid to the alarm. From subsequent events, this band was supposed to have been the one engaged in the Brushy Creek battle and in the killing of Mrs. Coleman.

As soon as possible the small army made its way back through the mountains and cedar brakes to the rye bottoms along the Colorado for the purpose of recruiting horses, men, and supplies before resuming the invading expedition against the Comanches. While encamped there, quite a tragic accident occurred, which cast a gloom over the entire band.

It was about the middle of January and the weather was most excessively cold, so that campfires needed frequent attention. One of the Lipan Indians was bringing wood and struck it against a loaded gun, which went off, mortally wounding one of the soldiers. Prompt effort was made to save him. A skiff was constructed of buffalo hides, and two of his comrades were detailed to carry him down the river to Austin for medical attention. But he died on the way, and rowing to the river's bank, his comrades dug his grave with the blade bone of a buffalo and buried him.

There is an intense pathos and solemnity in the scene suggested here, as we in imagination follow the little skiff down the Colorado. See the two soldiers exerting every power to make all possible speed, at the same time noting with anxious suspense the fluttering pulse, failing strength, and at last
pausing to catch dying words! See how wind and wave and oar are unheeded as the holy hush of death falls upon the trio—the living and the dying! See strong men bend in sadness over a suffering friend, powerless to aid or cheer in that mysterious struggle, wherein “a solitary soul must need go forth alone,” at least from all human standpoint.

Then, when that is over, see rough hands tenderly close the eyes! And then see the mournful sublimity of the simple burial on the river bank!

But we will return to John H. Moore and his men, whom we left with their horses in the rye bottoms, trying to recuperate after the terrible siege of cold and snow. As soon as practicable, they marched out and up the river once more, sending on four scouts—Mike Hornsby,
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Joe Martin, and two Lipans—who by cautious reconnoiter found a large Indian encampment on the San Saba. The company immediately turned in across the river about twelve miles below the mouth of the San Saba, where, arriving at a point near the Comanche village in the night, they waited for dawn. This winter campaign had so far been exceedingly severe, and our men had suffered intensely for so long that everything which in the least brought to mind home and comfort was welcome, even though tantalizing. Their Comanche foes seemed to have established for themselves all manner of home pleasures, for as they lay in the darkness our men could hear chickens crowing, dogs barking, horses neighing; indeed, all of the many sounds with which farm life is vocal.

The encampment was situated on a horseshoe prairie lying in the forks of the San Saba and a little creek, and our men lay on the timbered side under the bank, ready for
action. At length, when it was light enough, the order came to charge. Our men ran nearly through the village, driving the Indians before them—and, by the way, the warriors were all at home this time, about 500 in number, against 90! John H. Moore ordered his men back to the timber, whereupon the Indians, rallying, charged, but were repulsed immediately, as the killing of their warchief, Quenisaik, confused, distressed, and completely routed them for a time. Fighting was continued, nevertheless, until two o'clock in the afternoon.

A somewhat ludicrous incident occurred as our men lay in the timber between the charges. When Pat Moore, a little Irishman, crawled cautiously up to the edge of the bluff and presented a cocked gun, some of the boys said, “What are you doing, Pat? Your gun is not loaded!”

“Hush!” he answered in a loud stage whisper, “Bejabers, they don't know it!”

During the first charge De Witt Lyons called ever and anon for his brother Warren, who was at that time a captive among the Comanches, but received no answer. Later, when the fight was hottest, he called out, seemingly in great distress, “Run here, boys! Run here!” Several of his comrades rushed to him, expecting to find him in great peril, when he exclaimed, “Here is a dog without one bit of hair on him!” Some laughed, while others cursed, at this untimely joke, which was somewhat characteristic of the man, to be cool in excitement or danger.

Our men left their horses without guards about two miles back, a very singular proceeding for which they paid dearly, as the Indians, slipping around, stole them, together with all the baggage of the soldiers. Much to the vexation of a majority of the men, Moore ordered a retreat, and the band marched back home on foot, bearing their wounded on litters. We had none killed instantly, but seven or eight were
wounded, and one Martin, from Bastrop, died in a few days from his wound.
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During the Republic our frontier was protected by regular militia, which was often reinforced by companies of volunteers from interior portions of the country, and many an interesting campaign lives now only in the recollection of a few old soldiers.

One, in particular, comes to my mind, which occurred in 1840, and will serve as an illustration of others of similar character, in which wholesale waste and destruction of life and property were perpetrated.

Major George T. Howard, in command of not more than two hundred men, comprising regular soldiers and volunteers, left San Antonio on a raid against the Comanches, who had lately been a source of constant annoyance and loss to the young Republic.
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The army was fully equipped for travel or for battle, while every precaution was taken to preserve quiet, and, if possible, surprise the savages in their stronghold, wherever that might be. For a time the march was without success, but finally on Turkey Creek, beyond Uvalde, they found signs revealing the recent march of a band of Comanches.

Following a plain trail to the head of the Los Moros, where Fort Clark now stands, they surrounded a large Comanche town or encampment, and charging into it, found but little trouble in its evacuation, as the warriors were nearly all
absent on a raid into Mexico, and the village was taken entirely by surprise. There was some resistance, however, and our men killed four or five Indians in a running fight and regained a few Mexican children who had been held captive by the savages.