The following account of this terrible experience of mine appeared in a newspaper published at Florence, Alabama, in the year 1887, and in the issue for July 30th:
It was in the spring of 1840, we were in force on the San Antonio river to repel a Mexican invasion. News came to us that the Indians were at the mission of Refugio, and at night we received the information that the same Indians had killed a [Mr. Gilleland and his wife] at the Mexican village, Don Carlos Ranche. After the massacre they evidently moved up the river * * *, holding two white children prisoners. About 9 o'clock on the morrow we were called out on horse, General Albert Sydney Johnston commanding. He called for a party of ten men, well mounted, to reconnoitre. I joined the party of nine and with General Johnston went one mile below. The party consisted principally of frontiersmen, but it soon became evident that they were unaccustomed to the trail, so I—having been trained * * *—took observations of the surroundings, and located the trail leading into the San Antonio bottoms, which I pointed out to Gen. Johnston. Gen. Johnston here remarked that the command under arms, and in the saddle, must be tired waiting and ordered a return to camp. We then dismounted and made a cup of coffee—the Texan's beverage—and * * * started for the east side of the river, the few Matagordans remaining as the expedition was breaking up.
At the head of a half a dozen men I observed an old Indian trail, obscure to the uninitiated, where I told the men the Indians would cross. After passing the bottom we met Capt. Price and his scouts, who told us that he had seen the Indians and that they had run into the timber. I told the Captain that if he would give me fifteen men I would defend the trail which I had discovered. He told me to count the men and do so. As we returned we met Adjutant Murphy, of the Regiment—Mustang Gray, hero of an after written novel—and a Mexican, white as Mexican could be from fright. They told us that the Mexicans had crossed at the trail discovered by himself. I immediately sent word to the Captain to surround the timber while we pursued them. We were soon in the chase and bold was the riding in pursuit. There was Dr. A. F. Axsom, so distinguished afterwards as President of Board of Health, in New Orleans, Col. Kerr Purser, of Texas Navy, afterward Episcopal minister at Baltimore. Hard by was Dallam, author of Digest of Texas Statutes—now authority—and author of novel, “The Texas Star.” Two miles away was our noble ex-President Mirabeau B. Lamar, and the “Hero of Shiloh,” Sydney Johnston, in camp, on this lovely Texas day, and not far from Fanning's battle ground where he and his were afterwards massacred. The pursuit was far more exciting than the conflict which ensued. The Comanches scattered, and our men yelled vociferously, ardently pursuing the fleeing. It was impossible for them to escape. After clearing the timber they banked their baggage and formed a line to receive us, while a [n] * * * old Chief ran up and down the line playing a flute. They had evidently counted our number and had intended to give us fair battle. I gave orders for my men to forward, and were then in the prairie moving in eschelon, watching and awaiting events. It was my intention after passing them to take them in flank, for I knew that they could not leave their baggage. Firing commenced when a gay Indian, in beautiful costume, * * * upon a horse handsomely caparisoned, presented too fair a picture to resist a shot. He dropped from the horse, which was one they had captured the day before, and retired into the woods, after which the Indians all took to the woods for the purpose, as I then thought, of taking to the trees. We fastened our horses and pursued them to give them fight in regular Indian style. They never rallied, but ran leaving guns, shields and Chieftain's feathers, all no great trophy. We recovered the children prisoners, a little boy, lanced or shot through the side, and a pretty curly haired girl. The case of the healing of the wound of that little boy, Wm. Gilleland, was published in the Medical Journal by Dr. A. F. Axsom, of New Orleans, and the little girl is now one of the handsomest women in Texas, and a veritable queen of society.
A. G. Hannum, Lieut.
Dr. Anthony B. Hannum, the author of the above article, was appointed assistant surgeon of the post at Galveston, November 28, 1836, and for many years has been a most popular and successful physician. He was a lieutenant at the time of my rescue in 1840, and has been a true and devoted friend all these years. He is an aristocratic gentleman of the old school, beloved and honored by all who know him.
My parents, Johnstone and Mary Barbour Gilleland, were living in Pennsylvania, surrounded with everything to make life pleasant, when they became so enthusiastic over the encouraging reports from Texas that they concluded to join the excited throng and wend their way to this, the supposed “Eldorado of the West.” They hastily, and at great sacrifice, disposed of their property and leaving their home near Philadelphia set sail for Galveston with their three children. Not being inured to the hardships and privations of frontier life, they were ill-prepared for the trials which awaited them. I know not the date of their arrival, but it must have been some time between the years of '36 and '38. From Galveston they moved to either Brazoria or Matagorda, I am not sure which, and finally to Refugio county near Don Carlos Ranch, which proved to be their last earthly habitation.
My father belonged to Captain Tumlinson's company for some months, and when not in active warfare was engaged in protecting his own and other families, removing them from place to place for safety, frequently having to flee through blinding storms, cold and hungry, to escape Indians and Mexicans. The whole country was in a state of excitement. Families were in constant danger and had to be ready at any moment to flee for their lives.
The day my parents were murdered was one of those days, which youth and old age so much enjoy. That day was in strange contrast to the tragedy at its close, when the rich lamps of human life were so brutally extinguished and the ground soaked with precious blood. We were only a few rods from the house, my parents expatiating upon the beauties of nature, the goodness of God, and the dangers surrounding us. Nature full of life and beauty was all a glow, but a death-like solemnity seemed to pervade the hearts and mantle the faces of my parents as though some great calamity were near at hand. Suddenly the war whoop of the Comanche burst upon our ears sending terror to all hearts. My father in trying to reach the house for weapons was shot down, and near him my mother, clinging to her children and praying God to spare them, was also murdered, and as she pressed us to her heart we were baptized in her precious blood. We were torn from her dying embrace and hurried off into captivity, the chief's wife (for so she was said to be) dragging me to her horse and clinging to me with a tenacious grip. She was at first savage and vicious looking, but from some cause her wicked nature soon relaxed, and folding me in her arms, she gently smoothed back my hair indicating that she was very proud of her suffering victim. A white man with all the cruel instincts of the savage was with them, and several times they threatened to cut off our hands and feet if we did not stop crying, when the woman in savage tones and gestures would scold, and they would cease their cruel threats. We were captured just as the sun was setting and were rescued the next morning. Neither of us was scalped, as has been reported.
During the few hours we were their prisoners, the Indians never stopped. Slowly and stealthily they pushed their way through the settlement to avoid detection, and just as they halted for the first time the soldiers suddenly came upon them, and firing commenced. As the battle raged, the Indians were forced to take flight. Thereupon they pierced my little brother through the body, and striking me with some sharp instrument on the side of the head they left us for dead, but we soon recovered sufficiently to find ourselves alone in that dark dense forest, wounded and covered with blood.
Having been taught to ask God for all things, we prayed to our Heavenly Father to take care of us, and direct us out of that lonely place. I lifted my wounded brother, so faint and weak, and God directing me we soon came to the edge of a large prairie, when as far away as our swimming eyes could penetrate we discovered a company of horsemen. Supposing them to be Indians, frightened beyond expression and trembling under my heavy burden, I rushed back with him into the woods and hid behind some thick brush; but those brave men, who were on the alert, dashing from place to place hoping to find us, at last discovered us; and soon the clatter of horses' hoofs was heard and the voices of our rescuers calling us by name, assuring us they were our friends and had come to take care of us. Lifting the almost unconscious little sufferer, I carried him out to them as best I could, and with all the tenderness and sympathy of women, their eyes suffused with tears, those good men raised us to their saddles and hurried off to camp where we received every attention and kindness that mortal man could bestow.
We were kept in camp until the next day, when we were taken to Don Carlos Ranch. There my brother remained under the skillful treatment of Dr. Axsom and Dr. Hammond. I remained with him only one night at Don Carlos, and the following day General Albert Sydney Johnston, who was in command, took charge of me, and with his escort conveyed me to Victoria where I was afterwards joined by my brother. As General Johnston was crossing a swollen stream I was shocked by the appearance of some so-called friendly Indians wading in the water just below where we were crossing. The very sight so alarmed me that I screamed with fright, and it was some time before the general could calm my over-taxed and almost paralyzed nerves.
General Johnston placed me under the care of a Presbyterian minister, Dr. Blair, and of his good wife, in whose charming family we remained some time. Dr. Blair was to us a father indeed, whose tender sympathy for his orphan charge can never be forgotten. His home was our home, where we were affectionately cared for and surrounded with everything possible to comfort us in our desolate condition. The shock and sorrows through which I had so recently passed had left a fearful impression. Parents gone, home with all it contained, everything taken from us, as though swept from the face of the earth. I have never been able to ascertain where my parents were buried—if at all—or my youngest brother, Thomas Battle Gilleland, who died somewhere out West.
My brother William McCalla Gilleland, although pierced through the body by the Indians, miraculously recovered. Soon after the Civil War broke out he was accidently shot by a citizen of Austin and his hip bone was so shattered that for months he was lashed down to a litter, his life being frequently despaired of. That wound was also pronounced one of the worst ever known, and yet he survived them both many years, but suffering from their effects all through life.
I was seven years of age when my parents were murdered. Palsied with fear as I was, terrified beyond human expression, compelled to witness the death struggles of my parents, and the life blood flowing from their ghastly wounds, that heart-rending scene can never be described by tongue or pen. Fifty-nine years have passed since then, and yet my heart grows faint as that awful time passes in review. It is indelibly stamped upon memory's pages and photographed so deeply upon my heart that time with all its vicissitudes can never obliterate it.
How to cite:
Fisher, Rebecca J. Gilleland, "CAPTURE AND RESCUE OF MRS. REBECCA J. FISHER, NÉE GILLELAND ", Volume 003, Number 3, Southwestern Historical Quarterly Online, Page 209 - 213. http://www.tsha.utexas.edu/publications/journals/shq/online/v003/n3/article_4.html
[Accessed Fri Nov 21 14:45:48 CST 2008]
