Recollections of Early Texas (28 page)

But I will record it freely and fully here and now. Behold, these are the plain facts in the case:

I bought an auger—a fine auger without a handle, and
procuring the good solid heart of a post oak, proceeded to make a stout handle, a splendid handle. By the way, it was a considerable job, requiring some little time, labor, and patience, “quartering out” the timber, fitting it to the auger, etc., but after a while it was finished, and I was very complacent at the idea of having it ready for the first emergency. Near time for plowing I needed a rake, which with the help of my new auger I soon made, and proceeded to try it immediately. A worrisome round with unruly steers, and lo! I had put only half enough teeth in my rake, needing just as many more, a tooth between all the other teeth.

I was very tired, very warm, and very mad when I sent Billy in a run for my new auger and waited impatiently, taking no inventory of plan for the necessary work until he came.

Then throwing the rake over on its back and placing the auger, I tried to bore a hole. It would not turn all the way around because it would strike the teeth. The brilliant conclusion that the handle was too long exasperated me, and snatching an ax I cut it off short enough to revolve between the teeth. Then I finished my rake and worked on the stubble field until noon. After eating dinner, while resting, I remarked to my wife, “I ruined my new auger handle after all my work!”

“Why and how?” she asked. I explained how it was too long to turn between the teeth, and I had to cut it off.

“Why, John,” she said, “Why didn't you turn the rake over and bore from the topside?”

Springing to my feet I poured forth unbounded abuse upon my head, making an oft-repeated statement, which she always hears with an appreciative smile, “I never did have one particle of sense anyhow!”

Well, there is some shadow of consolation and allowance to be found in the remarkable fact that many famous men
of genius and power struggled hard and in vain to conquer that “abstraction or distraction known as absence of mind,” which is not only an affliction to its possessor, but often an infliction to his friends. It is said that the famous Ben Jonson once failed to recollect even his own name.

By previous appointment and arrangement I lately spent a day gleaning some facts from the memories of a few of my dear old veteran friends, and desire to chronicle informally the pleasant and interesting data and items gathered as they talked in free and familiar terms of the olden times, when they were young and Texas was in danger and they stood ready to dare even death for her welfare and safety. It is like an interesting dream to thus drop out of the present and let the mind fall back into a forgotten state of affairs which existed a half-century ago. Last Tuesday at Captain Grady's home in Bastrop, we were found wandering away back fifty or sixty years as two old soldiers talked it all over, with occasional comment and suggestion from Sarah, which added no little to the value and interest of their recollections.

“Time brings many changes, John!” It was a trite remark but its full force came home to me as I tried to imagine what they were thinking. From the white hairs, somewhat enfeebled frames, and the scenes of hardship and danger and fun through which they had passed, I caught a faint glimpse of them as they stood in the wilds of young Texas, revealing the strength and hope and life of a vigorous youth and a broad field of adventure around and before them. Troubles and trials, like all of life, die and yet come to be only a memory and after fifty years men bring into an hour's conversation the most terrible suffering and the most comical situations.

First came a hearty laugh over a false alarm, and exclamations upon how a man can run when he realizes that death is hard behind him. It occurred along in 1841 when previous
depredations had been frequent and daring, so that the settlers were constantly on the outlook for the Indians. Captain Grady and a friend were traveling between Gonzales and La Grange, and stopped for the night at young Vanham's house, which was only a short distance from his father's home. After supper they suddenly noticed a bright light, evidently a large fire, seemingly upon the identical locality of the old home. All grew much excited and the son cried out in alarm that he knew the Indians had killed his mother and father and were burning up the place. They made all possible speed in reaching the scene, but the mail rider who formed one of the party, went a nearer route. He soon discovered that the flames were simply from burning brush and started back to quiet the fears of the boys behind. Riding along, while yet out of sight of the excited trio, he suddenly launched forth with all the power of powerful lungs into a curious kind of French or Dutch song, filling the night air with a most unearthly yell or chant. Thinking it was the triumphant war song of the savages coming on to finish or continue their work of destruction—all turned, and then came a merry race for life. Captain Grady being unable to keep up, hid at the roadside and watched the “fun.” He declares that no man ever turned more quickly or ran faster than young Vanham when the strange song burst upon their ears. He actually leaped over bushes as high as a man and seemed almost to fly.

Then the chat drifted backward to 1834 or 1835 and they told of an interesting adventure or event of that period, all regretting their inability to recall names. Two men with their families were traveling on Little River, in the bottom lands, when they were stopped by a band of twenty or thirty Waco Indians, who made every sign of friendly conciliation, begging for tobacco, provisions, etc. The two travelers were not inexperienced in Indian warfare and kept a strict watch on every movement. At length, one of the warriors, waxing
over-impudent and bold, climbed into the wagon, whereupon the white man knocked him out. It was rather an imprudent act, but the Indians went their way showing no sign of resentment or anger. On a little further, however, they shot from behind trees upon our travelers, giving one of them a severe wound through the body. They fought on and kept the cowardly savages at bay, though their chief did manage to slip around and steal a lead horse from one of the wagons. Mounting this he beat a hasty retreat, lying down on one side of the horse to evade or escape the flying bullets which pursued him. Reaching the river he plunged in, and was nearly across when curiosity or a sense of security got the better of his prudence, and he raised his head, just a little in order to look back, when a ball struck him exactly in the center of his forehead, and he sank under the dark waves, and as usual his followers fled, panic-stricken at the loss of their chief.

On the old folks talked, soon bringing up a tragedy of later date, occurring in 1860 or 1861, probably. Wofford Johnson was well-known all through here, having lived in this country for a number of years. He had with his wife and children been spending the day with a friend and was on his way home in the evening. He was entirely unprepared for danger, unarmed and unsuspecting. Suddenly a band of Comanches came upon them, killing the wife, husband, and one child, throwing the other into a thicket near the road. Next day neighbors and friends went to bury the dead and were puzzled to find no sign of one of the children. Hoping it might possibly have been spared they sought and called eagerly and constantly but could get no answer. The fate of the missing child was a mystery. Finally, Mina, the Negro boy who played with and watched over the little ones called aloud and alone. The familiar voice roused the child and quieted his fears so that
he answered from his brushy hiding place, where he lay more dead than alive, from fear and the exposure of the night.

Then Mrs. Grady gave an interesting account of some troubles and adventures of which she was thoroughly cognizant at the time and which I think are worthy of mention in this irregular chronicle of early times. Mrs. Wheat, wife of one of our old fellow countrymen, moved from these parts and settled about seventy miles above Uvalde County where these thrilling scenes were enacted. It was about 1850. Her father was killed by Indians and her life was surrounded by fears and tragedies. Some of her nearest neighbors, the entire family again, had been visiting, and in the evening were quietly wending their way home. Coming to a point where the road diverged, the wife with the little ones took the nearest way home, while the husband went the other in order to find and drive home the cows. Upon reaching home, he was filled with surprise and dismay to find no wife and little ones awaiting him. Hurrying back along the road they were to come, he soon came upon them dead, cruelly murdered by the Indians, who, “thus upon the spots most wild and lone and fair, when peace seemed resting in the very air, would gorge their battle-ax with blood,” and slay “e'en wailing babes and shrieking maids, and matrons brave and calm.”

A rare bit of local history came up as the talk went on and I learned all about the first grave ever dug in Fairview Cemetery, at Bastrop. A child of old Marty Wells was buried first on that hill which now bears record to so many sad hearts and still homes around. The little grave was dug by Bill Duty and Bob Pace.

Then Captain Grady went over the time when our men were called to San Antonio in view of Mexican invasion. He told how Vasquez captured all our spies except Ben McCulloch, who escaped, and sent in proposals of a cessation
of hostility till four o'clock—how before that hour orders were issued for all ammunition to be destroyed and preparations be made to evacuate the place. All was chaos and confusion. Kegs of powder were thrown into the river. Liquors and cigars were plentiful and very soon many of the soldiers were dead drunk, while nearly all were in a mild (?) state of intoxication. Jim Kincannon gave rise to an amusing excitement which might have resulted seriously for some. Mounted on his horse, he seized a powder keg under his arm and rode along pouring out the gunpowder in a stream behind him. Jack Bibb, with reckless and grim humor, sang or said in a loud and distinct tone, “Hark from the tomb!” and at the same time touching the lighted end of his cigar to the stream of gunpowder. A wild scene of panic, confusion, and laughter followed, but no damage was done. Then came some wrangling and division as to how to dispose of the artillery, but finally they decided to remove them with ox teams. When ready to take up the line of march, lo, some of our men were too drunk to move and were lashed to the cannons and thus borne out of San Antonio.
¹

Marching to Seguin and finding no sign of invasion they returned to San Antonio to find it literally sacked and in a terrible state of desolation. It was then that the banker, John Twohig, burned up his splendid storehouse and valuable stock of goods rather than see it fall into the hands of the Mexicans.
²

I have promised Jack
³
a chapter on panther hunting, but since there is little of interest or excitement in such sport, I will just add what I know about them to this chapter. My experience in connection with this timid animal will doubtless seem very tame to the children, for all of us can remember how our early years were haunted with terrible tales of terror—cruel, horrible fears as we in imagination could hear the strange wild cry which was said to be very much like the wail of a child or the scream of a woman in distress. Yes, we all used to hear how they would by their weird wailing decoy people and destroy them. A great deal of experience with them in later years taught me the fallacy of such tales, for I always found them very wild and timid and easily killed.

Once on the trail of a panther the work of hunting and killing was about as simple and exciting as squirrel hunting, and I never knew one under any circumstances to show fight—always running a very short distance and taking to a tree, whence one could easily shoot and kill. As to the weird wail like the cry of human distress, I recall only a loud, hoarse
mewing like the me-ow-w-w of some tremendous cat—a doleful sound, however, and rather terrible to young and inexperienced minds. This was quite a familiar sound among our woodland echoes years ago, and was considered no sign of danger except to hogs, colts, and other small animals.

I have known only a very few instances of men being hurt by them—I remember one Tonkawa whose body bore scars from wounds caused by a panther. An animal of the same species used to haunt our woods—the “Marsh Tiger,” so called—a large bobbed-tail wildcat which was justly considered much more dangerous, but it would be a rare accident for any of these to straggle in here now, so our children will not likely ever see one. The young panthers, like a fawn or leopard, are spotted, but as they grow older the spots disappear, leaving them of a light, brownish-red color—very much like the color of a deer in the “red season.” They rarely ever were lean or poor, for being skillful and incorrigible hunters, they feasted upon the fat of the land. They were very powerful, as well as active and quick, and would often kill horses, hogs, chickens; even a full-grown buck was killed as quickly and easily by a panther as a mouse is dispatched by a cat. I never saw one being weighed, but a full-grown panther would measure at least nine feet from end of nose to tip of tail—the tail alone measuring from three to four feet in length. In appearance, they are simply a specimen of huge house cat.

Our earliest settlers were much troubled with their raids upon our small animals. Col. Wylie [Abraham Wiley] Hill* and I lived near together and owned good dogs, and we used to have frequent occasion to meet and go panther hunting. I remember an incident which occurred on one of these little hunts, which was indeed a hairbreadth escape to me. One of his finest hogs had been killed by a panther. He sent for me.
From all signs there had evidently been two of them—an old one and one just grown. We soon treed and killed the old one and then the dogs started and treed the young one. As we galloped up to the tree I proposed that we dismount and shoot at one and the same time. He agreed. As we struck the ground his gun hung on his saddle and in some way went off—the ball passing through my shirt sleeve and the powder burning my arm. The shock to us both was considerable, and Colonel Hill was much excited and relieved to find the accident had not produced serious results. I waited until he reloaded and we took our simultaneous shot, killing the panther instantly. The old pecan tree still stands on the banks of Sandy Creek and reminds me of how narrowly I escaped being killed by a good friend.