THE QUARTERLY OF THE TEXAS STATE HISTORICAL ASSOCIATION
VOLUME IV. JULY, 1900. NUMBER 1.
PUBLICATION COMMITTEE. John H. Reagan. George P. Garrison. Bride Neill Taylor. Z. T. Fulmore. C. W. Raines. EDITOR. George P. Garrison. AUSTIN, TEXAS: PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE ASSOCIATION. Price, FIFTY CENTS per number. [Entered at the Postoffice at Austin, Texas, as second class matter.]
CONTENTS.
Escape of Karnes and Teal from Matamoras R M. Potter.
The Reminiscences of Mrs. Dilue Harris. I.
The Mexican Raid of 1875 on Corpus Christi Leopold Morris.
New Orleans Newspaper Files of the Texas Revolutionary Period. Alex. Dienst.
Book Reviews and Notices.
The Texas State Historical Association.
PRESIDENT.
John H. Reagan.
VICE-PRESIDENTS.
Guy M. Bryan. F. R. Lubbock.
Julia Lee Sinks. T. S. Miller.
RECORDING SECRETARY AND LIBRARIAN.
George P. Garrison.
CORRESPONDING SECRETARY AND TREASURER.
Lester G. Bugbee.
EXECUTIVE COUNCIL.
President John H. Reagan.
First Vice-President Guy M. Bryan.
Second Vice-President Julia Lee Sinks.
Third Vice-President F. R. Lubbock.
Fourth Vice-President T. S. Miller.
Recording Secretary and Librarian George P. Garrison.
State Librarian C. W. Raines.
Fellows Z. T. Fulmore for term ending 1903.
John C. Townes for term ending 1902.
R. L. Batts for term ending 1901.
Members Rufus C. Burleson for term ending 1905.
W. J. Battle for term ending 1904.
Beauregard Bryan for term ending 1903.
Dora Fowler Arthur for term ending 1902.
Bride Neill Taylor for term ending 1901.
The Association was organized March 2, 1897. There are no qualifications for membership. The annual dues are two dollars. The Quarterly is sent free to all members.
Contributions to the Quarterly and correspondence relative to historical material should be addressed to
GEORGE P. GARRISON, Recording Secretary and Librarian, Austin, Texas. All other correspondence concerning the Association should be addressed to LESTER G. BUGBEE, Corresponding Secretary and Treasurer, Austin, Texas.
Vol. IV. OCTOBER, 1900. No. 2.
The publication committee and the editor disclaim responsibility for views expressed by contributors to the Quarterly.
Brooklyn, N. Y., March 2, 1881. To H. A. McArdle, Esq., Independence, Texas.
My Dear Sir: In compliance with your request, I herein give you some of my reminiscences of Matamoros, connected with the revolutionary struggle of Texas, and not included in what I have heretofore published on the subject; and since commencing the letter I find I have accidently, but quite appropriately dated it on an anniversary half-forgotten where it ought most to be remembered. In the May number of the Magazine of American History for 1879, I narrated the case of the Texan prisoners captured by Urrea at San Patricio and thereabout, and alluded to the detention and escape of the Texan commissioners, Karnes and Teal, whose adventures, I observed, would form an interesting romance, but would be too long to be included in that article. I now propose to relate what was then omitted.
The duty on which those commissioners were sent by the Texan commander, with the sanction of the Mexican general, Filisola, was that of carrying into effect certain forms of a truce entered into between Houston and Santa Anna (the latter a captive), and assented to by Filisola, who was still in the field. Under that agreement Filisola was permitted to retreat unmolested from Texas, with the remains of Santa Anna's forces, and, by the same terms, the commissioners were to receive and conduct back to Texas all prisoners of war then in Matamoros, as well as all escaped slaves who could be found there. The readiness of both sides after the battle of San Jacinto to hold hands off was more excusable on the part of Mexico than of Texas. The latter got lazily rid of an enemy she might have destroyed, while the former profited by the immunity, and dodged the terms left for later fulfillment. It was a new instance of the man who was left to hold the bag.
Filisola was relieved of his command and ordered to the City of Mexico so soon as he had got through the most arduous portion of his retreat, and went to the metropolis without passing through Matamoros, while Urrea, already there, succeeded to the command of the defeated forces. It was not yet officially known what reception the Mexican government had given to Filisola's report of the truce; but no one living in Mexico had any doubt as to what it would prove to be. That government did not openly repudiate the armistice till the benefit to their side was accomplished, and the rest was not.
Karnes and Teal were officers in the service of Texas, who had figured in the late campaign, the former as a captain of volunteer cavalry and a most efficient scout, and the latter as a captain of regular infantry. They were accompanied by their orderlies, two soldiers of Teal's company, and an interpreter, a French resident of Texas, named Victor Loupé. Their flag of truce and passport from General Filisola brought them safe into Matamoros, and they repaired to Proctor's Hotel, where many of the American residents, as well as a number of Mexican officers boarded.
To see for the first time in Matamoros, in the midst of those they had fought against, two San Jacinto officers with shoulder straps of rebel rank, and two soldiers from the same field in rather ungainly uniforms, was a cause of no little sensation. The foreign residents greeted the phenomena with great cordiality. I was at the hotel when they arrived, and happened to be one of the first to salute them; but I threw no immediate damper on the hopes of what I knew to be a fool's errand. I was struck by the appearance of Karnes, whose robust frame, red hair, and bold Scottish cast of features offered, I thought, a good personation of Rob Roy in his youth. Teal, though of less notable individuality, was as wiry, and more handsome, and of genteel bearing for a lad of frontier breeding. They were soon greeted by a brother officer, then a prisoner at large in Matamoros, Major Miller, who had been captured with his men at Copano, and had narrowly escaped the fate of Fannin. He had been brought thither with the retreating army, and was allowed the freedom of the city bounds. From him and other friends who called the commissioners soon learned that Filisola's pledges were certain to meet with no recognition; and they expressed their readiness to accept whatever ill luck duty had brought upon them.
To the Mexican officers, smarting under recent disaster, the sight of Texan officers and soldiers wearing outward and visible signs of their class and quality was a galling sight, and roused antipathy which the diplomatic position of the commissioners could hardly restrain; but its manifestation did not go beyond muttered threats and hostile but half covert gestures. There was, however, one class of persons to whom the new comers were apparitions of terrible import. The fugitive slaves, of whom there were between fifty and a hundred in the city, soon learned on what errand these Texans had come; and, as they had no longing for the hearth and home of Uncle Tom's cabin, they quaked with fear. Some skulked out of sight; others, I think, bolted to the bush; and one, at least, ran to the nearest barrack and decorated his ragged felt with a borrowed military hat-band. Under the protection of this talisman, which represented the sovereignty of his adopted land, he ventured to walk the streets.
The Mexican officers lost no time in protesting at headquarters against the toleration of any tokens of rank or soldiership in rebels, and advised the prompt suppression of such displays, though it should be only for the safety of the wearers. General Urrea acted on the suggestion. The commissioners had notified him of their arrival; and his first recognition of their presence was an order to doff all military insignia from the persons of themselves and their attendants. It was done; and the Mexican bull became less irritable when the red flag of the matador was put out of sight. This was the first official affront they received, and it occurred, I think, before the first day ended. It is worthy of recollection, however, that one man from the ranks showed a more manly sign of the freemasonry of the sword. Soon after the new group arrived, the two orderlies met on the street a battered looking Mexican soldier, who, after scanning their baggy uniforms for a moment, accosted them with a sufficiency of pigeon English in his speech to make himself understood. “Soldados Goddammes,” he said, “tomorrow we may have to fire bullets at each other; now, while we can, vamos a drinky whiskly.” The invitation was frankly accepted; but like Santa Anna's truce, it left the advantage on the Mexican side. There was then a general vacuum in the military pockets at Matamoros; and the Texans had to pay for the “whiskly.” The magnanimity of the veteran may have been merely an old soldier trick.
I have no precise recollection of dates. The commissioners, I think, came in May, and it was just after the defeated army had arrived—probably about the time Urrea relieved Filisola. The commissioners, after a day or two, finding themselves unable to obtain an interview with General Urrea, concluded to address him a note referring to the object of their mission, and requesting that he would enable them to carry it into effect, or give them a definite answer of some kind on the subject. Though they intended to address him in English, they requested me to put their letter into proper shape. I did so, to the best of my ability, and then requested that one of them would copy for their signatures what I had written, as I did not wish it to appear in my handwriting. Karnes made the copy I suggested, but both of the young men had been reared where the schoolmaster was but little abroad; and the letter was so badly penned that, for the credit of Texas, I felt unwilling to let it go in a plight so illegible; so I wrote out the body of the document myself, though in a hand which I attempted to disguise. This was a thing in which I was never very skillful. An Irish spy and striker whom Urrea had picked up recognized my distorted penmanship, and soon after took occasion to inform me of his own smartness and the general's displeasure at the discovery. This incident, I think, added considerably to the suspicion with which I had begun to be regarded. 2
The letter was answered, but in evasive terms which amounted to nothing; and when the commissioners requested passports to return with they were refused, and were forbidden to leave the place. What Urrea's intentions then were towards them, if he had any, is uncertain. As they had come under a flag of truce, he probably could not bring himself to make prisoners of them at once, and he was afraid to let them go; so he knew not what to do with them. They continued thus as prisoners at large, under surveillance, some weeks. In the meantime the repudiation of Santa Anna's truce was proclaimed, and with it threats of a fresh and speedy invasion of Texas in overwhelming force. This bluster of rumor seemed like the din of a general uprising. The church was to pour out its treasures, and the population to contribute the best of its bone and sinew, brain and blood, for the vindication of national honor. As this game of brag imposed on most of the foreign residents, if not on most of the Mexicans themselves, it is not surprising that it completely deceived the commissioners, and that they were anxious to send promptly to Texas news of the imagined danger. This brought about what you have heard of as the sending of the whip-handle dispatch. I had, as you suppose, some connection with that affair, but was not the principal agent in it. I engaged the courier and suggested the hollow handle of a whip as a place of concealment for papers not likely to be suspected; but I wrote nothing that was sent in the casket I contrived, for I did not approve the kind of news which all the rest concerned insisted on sending. Mr. William Howell, a Philadelphian, and then an extensive wool buyer at Matamoros, took the lead in the undertaking, and bore the expense of it. He was one of the most zealous friends of the cause of Texas in the place, and the most lavish of his means for its advancement. He was also an intimate friend of mine; but, except in the sympathy referred to, our ideas seldom harmonized. The papers sent in the whip handle were a letter from Captain Teal to General Rusk, and another from Howell not signed, and they were worded more like military orders than suggestions of a subordinate and advice from an unknown friend. “I am not discouraged atoll,” said Teal. “You must work headwork as well as fight. You must blow up San Antonio and Goliad”; while Howell wrote, among other sage advice, “Shoot Santa Anna and his officers.” I listened to both communications with disgust; for they were shrieks of the same kind of unreasoning panic which had set fire to Gonzales and San Felipe. I had been less imposed on than many of my friends by the Mexican bluster of the season, which I was even then inclined to put into the same category with Henry Smith's threat to carry his conquests to the walls of Mexico, and, though I believed in the possibility of near danger to Texas, and thought she ought to be warned, I had no wish to aid in raising the shepherd boy's sham cry of wolf. But my advice was overruled.
Howell put Teal's letter, with corrected orthography, as well as his own, into a very minute and well-disguised back hand. The whip handle was stuffed, and the courier was started. He was a young Mexican, who had already been employed in similar trips, and was considered perfectly trustworthy. He went with speed, and without interruption, till he arrived near the Nueces, where he fell into the hands of Texan scouts, who charged him with being a spy or an enemy's courier, and searched his equipments in every place except the right one for papers. Not finding them, they threatened to hang him up unless he produced dispatches, whether he had any or not; and he plead in vain to be taken to their general. At length, to save his neck, he betrayed the whip handle. Thus the letters intended for General Rusk went into the hands of the roughest and most ignorant scouts, and copies must have been taken by the first readers, for one letter went speedily to the press, which it would never have done through the hands of General Rusk. There was certainly one among the scouts who was sufficiently clerical for such mischief, for he gave the courier an acquittance of his charge by receipting to him for “one whip.” I saw the receipt when it came back, and would have been glad if the signer of it and his companions had truthfully receipted for “one whipping.” The receipt was not the only voucher which returned; for in a short time, I think little more than two weeks, Teal's letter came to us in the columns of a New Orleans newspaper. I know not by what exceptional forbearance it was that Howell's communication was not published also. Teal said in his, “We have met with many friends here,” but luckily he did not name them; still the incident was a terrible damper to all who had expected ordinary discretion in the people they were endeavoring, at no little risk, to serve.
The whip handle news had the ill effect I had apprehended. Texas for a time was pervaded by panic, and many of the frontier settlers were frightened from their homes, which they had to leave at great sacrifice.
About the time above referred to, a friend who had called on business at headquarters informed me that he had seen lying on General Urrea's office table the number of the Picayune which contained Teal's letter, and lying beside it a manuscript translation of the letter into Spanish. It was about this time that Karnes and Teal were suddenly arrested and put into close confinement in one of the regimental barracks. As well as I recollect, this occurred just after Teal's letter came to light through the press, which, if I am right as to time, gave Urrea, to say the least, a plausible justification of his step. In a few days, however, the commissioners were permitted to rent their own prison; that is, they were allowed to hire private quarters, such as could be easily guarded, where they could be confined under the charge of a special detail. Such a squad, under a commissioned officer, was sent each morning to the private quarters to relieve its predecessor,—the two prisoners being permitted to go thrice a day in charge of a file of soldiers to take their meals at the hotel where they had before boarded. Their friends were also allowed to visit and converse with them at any hour of the day. Thus their imprisonment, however irksome, was not very rigid; and I think they were generally treated with courtesy and consideration by the officer of their guard. Their two orderlies, who had been arrested at the same time with themselves, were confined with the San Patricio prisoners in the principal barrack, and remained there till the whole body was released by General Bravo. In the meantime, apprehensions of the immediate invasion of Texas had died away; and, as a considerable force was kept on foot there, the commissioners no longer felt any dread concerning the safety of their country. Still the thought of escape continually occupied their minds. Major Miller had effected his, and had arrived safe at General Rusk's camp before Karnes and Teal were confined; and they, some time after their transfer to private quarters, were very near making a desperate flitting before any feasible plan could be formed for doing it with a fair prospect of success. They had acquired some knowledge of Spanish; and one evening on their way to supper they ventured to sound the two soldiers who had charge of them, and found them willing to desert, and, for a small consideration, to escort their prisoners out of town before taking their own course of flight. This need not seem strange, for it was at a time when desertion was rife among the half-paid soldiery. The captives could have had no other plan than to cross the river in any manner they could, and make their way on foot as best they might through the arid waste between the Rio Grande and the Nueces. The supper was eaten, and an extra ration from the table put into each pocket; and the prisoners and guards commenced a brisk march towards the country. They had nearly reached the edge of the city when a military patrol, crossing their course, frightened the soldiers, who peremptorily demanded a return to quarters. Thus the attempt failed; but one minor incident connected with it is worthy of mention. On the outward march, when not far from the outskirts, they passed two of the black fugitives from Texas who had been so alarmed by the arrival of the commissioners. “My God, Ben,” said one to the other, “the sojers is a takin' 'em out to the bush to shoot 'em.” This was the only way in which the negro could account for the direction which guard and prisoners were jointly taking. He spoke with evident horror, and it was very pleasing to the two Texans to meet with such a token of sympathy where it was hardly to be expected, considering the relation in which the commissioners stood towards the runaways. It was one instance of the many which occur of the kindly feeling which the escaped slave can entertain towards the house of bondage and its flesh-pots.
Karnes and Teal continued in this loose kind of custody, I think, over three months. Among the acquaintances they had made before their imprisonment was Mr. Robert Love, an American, who had a hat manufactory in Matamoros. He took charge of their baggage when they were arrested, and had occasional conferences with them, and often sent messages through me. They were indebted mainly to him for their escape, in arranging for which he was willing to take any risk, and could do it more boldly, as he had fallen less under suspicion than the rest of their friends. He secured a guide, a ranchero, older than the whip-handle courier, who for the present wished to avoid dangerous enterprises. When other needful dispositions were made, the program for the first step, or rather the first rush, was fixed on. The quarters occupied by the Texans were a house of one large room opening on the street and having no back yard or rear entrance. It was about midway between the plaza and the nearest edge of the town towards the river, where an old receding of the stream had left a small lagoon. This was beyond the dwellings, but not very far from the quarters. To this place the prisoners were wont to repair under a guard whenever the calls of nature had to be obeyed. It was resolved that on the evening fixed for the escape the guide should repair to this spot early in the evening, ready mounted and leading another saddled horse, and should there await the appearance of the prisoners. They, on their arrival, were to break from the guard and mount, one behind the guide, and the other in the empty saddle, when the horses were to be put to full speed in the safest direction. At Mr. Love's request, I gave information of the plan to the prisoners early in the day by calling at their quarters, when I delivered the message in the fewest words possible, and then without taking a seat took my leave; for a long conversation at this juncture might afterwards seem suspicious. The plan succeeded.
In the evening my ear was on the alert for the beating of a general alarm or some such token that the escape was effected; but I heard none, and began to apprehend failure. If pursuit was made, as it doubtless was, it was done without demonstrations. I remained on the plaza and its vicinity till a late hour. My way thence to my lodging room was past the prisoners' quarters, and in going, after 10 o'clock, I took my usual course past them. The officer of the guard stood at the door, but I saw nothing of the prisoners. I was passing him with a salutation, when he called to me, and I halted. “Have you seen Don Henrique and his companion this evening?” said he, meaning the two Texans. “No, Señor,” I replied, “have they not returned from supper?” “They went to supper,” he said, “at the usual hour, and then, as usual, to the comun; and the corporal and soldier who escorted them report that, while they were lying down to drink at the water's edge, the two prisoners disappeared. It could not have been a mere trick of the latter, for if so you would probably have met them; it must be an escape.” “Yes,” said I, “they have doubtless bolted for the bush.” “Seguramente,” he replied, and bidding him good night, I passed on. I had expected closer questioning; and it struck me that the officer took the matter very coolly, when it was certain to involve an arrest and a courtmartial for him. I went to my room and to bed; but before falling asleep I heard the foot-steps of a passing guard, and from some stern words that reached me I learned that they had one or more persons in custody. It might be the fugitives, or some one suspected of aiding them; and the thought naturally came up, “It may be my turn next.” But the turn did not come; and in the morning I learned that the man arrested was Victor Loupé, the interpreter of the commissioners, who had not shared the imprisonment of his employers. Nothing appeared against him, and he was soon released, and no other foreigner was arrested. Though my conversation with the Texans was probably the last they had with any outsider before their flight, the brevity of the conference must have saved me from being suspected of complicity. It is probable, too, that the safe retention of these men had become a matter of indifference to General Urrea, now that there was no prospect of speedy operations against Texas. Their flitting did not cause a tenth of the excitement which, a year later, after I had left Mexico, followed the escape of Wm. H. Wharton, and led to the arrest of several American residents.
I afterwards learned that Karnes and Teal, on going out to the lagoon, found there the guide, who seemed to be watering his horses. The two prisoners made a show of sky-larking with each other, and in doing it amused, and got further away from, their unvigilant guards, and then made a sudden rush for the horses, mounted, and were off in a moment. If the soldiers fired, it was without effect. The corporal's story about lying down to drink was no doubt a lame excuse of his own invention. The fugitive group swam the river with their horses, and took refuge a few miles from its northern bank in a thicket which had already been picked out as a safe hiding place, and had been stored with a hidden supply of food; for the plan contemplated an abode there of several days till the first energy of pursuit should be over.
I am again at a loss for dates, but it was in autumn, I think in September, when the escape occurred. Soon after the fugitives took refuge in the thicket the fall rains set in; and, as their hiding-place had no other shelter than what they could improvise, they found the trials of freedom, if more welcome, more of a penance for the present than the accommodations of captivity. The rains for a time so swelled the Arroyo Colorado and so submerged the roads that it was not thought advisable to start on their journey so soon as had been contemplated; and the fugitives had to continue in their bleak bivouac more than two weeks. Their guide did not keep with them most of the time, but visited them daily, to take to them whatever they needed and to give them information. When their baggage was sent over, Mr. Love did not think it advisable to send Captain Teal's uniform and sword, for the accidental discovery of these articles by scouts on the way might interrupt the plan of escape; but Teal continued his entreaty for them so earnestly that Love at length took the risk of sending them. Karnes, not being a regular, had no uniform, nor would he have given it undue importance if he had had one. I afterwards heard the incident referred to quite significantly.
The time at length came when a start was considered feasible, and the trio in due time reached in safety the camp of the army of Texas east of the Nueces, where their arrival called forth great demonstrations of joy.
My story is ended, but it is proper than I should give a parting word to the subsequent lot of the several persons whom I have named. Karnes died about three years after, and was then, I think, in command of a small garrison at San Antonio. Though of humble origin and almost illiterate, he was a man of large brain, by nature a gentleman as well as a soldier, and of the kind of material which in Napoleon's day so often supplied the great leader with field marshals from the ranks. Teal soon after his escape rose to the command of the regiment to which his company belonged, and at the time of his death was, I think, in temporary command of the army of Texas. He was a half instructed martinet, with none of the tact and discrimination so essential for the command of soldiers among whom mutiny is chronic, owing to lack of pay and of a strong power above them. The result was that he became an object of hatred to his men, and was shot dead one night in his tent by hands which were never identified. 3 The assassin took advantage of a violent storm, and so timed the discharge as to make it simultaneous with a clap of thunder. He fired from without, where, so long as he knew on which side of the tent his victim lay, he could place the muzzle almost in contact with its mark. In the same tent that night lay the Bayard of the early days of Texas, William G. Cooke, who slept unconscious of the murder till it was discovered in the morning. 4 A few years later, while relating the adventures of Matamoros to one who had been an officer of that short-lived army, I told of Teal's anxiety to secure his uniform for his flight. “That uniform,” said the listener, “was the death of him. He was always flaunting it in the eyes of his ragged soldiery, and this brought their animosity up to the killing point.”
Major Miller was known to me at a later day as a resident of Victoria, where he long since died. Mr. Love after annexation removed to Texas and settled at Corpus Christi, where I am told he died a few years ago. Mr. Howell, about a year after the above events in Matamoros, lost his life in an attempt to pass from that place to Texas by land under the guidance of the whip-handle courier. Howell bore on his person a large sum in doubloons, which may have become known to his guide. The story told by that man was that they were attacked on the way by banditti, and that Howell was killed, while he escaped; but there was a strong suspicion that the guide, notwithstanding his previous fidelity, had been tempted to commit the murder and robbery himself. What became of the interpreter and the two orderlies I know not, but they have probably traveled the same road with the rest. That noble-hearted circle of foreign residents who then fraternized in Matamoros were soon scattered, never again to meet; and one after another they have in the distance dropped or faded from my sight. Of the persons associated with Karnes and Teal in that place I am perhaps the only one living.
As this episode, though unimportant, may be interesting to those who take an interest in the historic stem of which it is a mere twig, it ought perhaps to be preserved by the only one who can now do it; and I do not object to your desire to publish it if you can find in Texas—what I never could—a printer who is intelligent enough to know when he is making a fool of his author,—one who would not be liable to convert Bowie's apparition into Bowie's opposition.
With a prayer that printer's types may some day become as plain in the meaning they aim at as the types and shadows we hear of in another line of business,
I am most truly Your friend and obedient servant, R. M. Potter.
P. S.—Allusions just made remind me that, if this letter be printed, the typographical opportunity may be made use of to say a word about another thing touching me, which was put into a newspaper without asking my consent. Over two years ago, I sent to a gentleman in Texas, at his request, a letter containing an outline of my personal history, it being requested for a use so different from that of making it the basis of a newspaper article that I had no apprehension of such perversion. The substance of it, however, was converted into a communication to the Galveston News; and, though no misstatement was aimed at nor made except through the awkward use and alteration of words, the writer and printer between them contrived to evolve an amount of nonsense so great that I wish to plead innocence of it. I heard of the publication by mere accident over two months after it came out; for the writer forgot to send me a copy, as well as to ask my leave. On obtaining the article, I read in it with surprise that my father was a native of New Jersey and was born in England, and there I read for the first time of such things as “imitated rank” and a “second lieutenant-general,”—designations unknown to the Blue Book. Other causes of wonder turned up, but these will suffice. Setting aside blunders, the article seemed so uncalled-for as a subject of interest then and there, that I have thought I might be excused for accounting for its appearance, whenever I could do so without making it the subject of a special communication. The first time I ever saw my own life in print was when I read that number of the News of December 12th, 1878, and the sight of it gave me the uncomfortable feeling which a man is said to have on catching a glimpse of his own ghost.
R. M. P.
It is difficult to give this contribution a title which shall describe it properly. The basis of it was a journal kept by Dr. Pleasant W. Rose, the father of Mrs. Harris, which has unfortunately been destroyed. Copying parts of the journal, Mrs. Harris has added her own recollections, and the whole is almost indistinguishably blended in the manuscript. It takes on, therefore, the form of reminiscences, and is given that title; but much of it is a journal in fact. The dates and subtitles are written, in every instance except one, at the heads of the pages; but in one or two cases it is clear that they do not apply to all the matter on the pages beneath them. They have been printed, as nearly as it could be done, immediately before the lines which they precede in the manuscript. It has been revised for publication, but the changes, except in the case of some omissions which it has been thought best to make, affect only minor details. Not only have the statements been carefully preserver, but the language itself has been altered as little as possible.
Mrs. Dilue Harris is the widow of Ira S. Harris, who was born in Jefferson county, New York, in 1816, came to Texas in 1836, and was married near Houston in 1839. He lived at Columbus, Colorado county, where he died in 1869.—Editor Quarterly.
1833, April 28.
This was the anniversary of my birthday. I was eight years old, and on shipboard at the time with my father, Dr. P. W. Rose, my mother, brother, and sister. We embarked at New Orleans the 15th of the month for Matagorda, Texas, and were two weeks on the Gulf of Mexico. The name of the captain of the ship was Denmore. The pilot was James Spillman. I don't remember the name of the vessel, but she was a small schooner. We were becalmed for two weeks, then a storm arose, and we ran on the bar at Galveston Island. We were two days and nights trying to get off; then we anchored near the island. The storm had been raging fearfully for twelve hours, but it ceased late in the evening. The moon rose full. It was a splendid sight. The passengers wanted to land, but Captain Denmore would not let them. He said if the wind rose he would go to Harrisburg, a small town on Buffalo Bayou.
Galveston Island was a sandbar, on which not a house was to be seen. The captain said there had been a custom house on the island, but it had been moved to Anahuac, and that Mexico had closed Galveston as a port of entry.
Captain Spillman, the pilot, said his home was on Spillman Island, and that he had a grown son living there. He said he would take the schooner to Harrisburg in a few hours, if the wind and tide were favorable. The passengers had all been seasick, and were willing to go anywhere to get on land. The wind did not rise that night, but the next morning a terrible storm came up. The vessel dragged her anchor, and Captain Denmore sent the passengers down in the hold, and then she shipped water till the sailors closed the hatch-way. It was so dark we could not see. In the evening the schooner ran on the beach at Clopper's Point, near Virginia Point. She grounded and turned on her side. The sailors saved the women and children. The men carried father out. He was very sick, and had been all the time.
The storm subsided, the water went down, and the schooner remained on shore. There was a small log house near. It was vacant and had a fireplace, but no floor. The people took possession. Men and sailors carried the freight out of the schooner. We were nearly starved, for we had not had anything to eat all day. There were three negroes with us, one man and two women. They began cooking. The men put a plank across the house. They set the ends between the logs for a table, and there we dined the first time in Texas. We slept that night in wet clothes. Captain Spillman's son came during the night with a small keel-boat and men to our assistance. Father decided to go to Harrisburg.
Clopper's Point, Texas, April 29, 1833.
Mother and Mrs. Johnson were the only white women in our party. Mrs. Johnson had no children. Mr. Johnson decided to wait for the return of the boat to take them to Matagorda. The captain said father's family should go first. Mother spent the next morning drying out clothes. The freight was not badly injured. By noon we were aboard, bound for Harrisburg. My mother's brother, James Wells, went with us. The trip up Buffalo Bayou was very pleasant. We stopped at Lynch's Ferry, passed a steamboat sunk at the junction of San Jacinto and Buffalo Bayou, and arrived at Harrisburg in the night. No one expected a boat at that time, for in those days there were no telegraph lines or railroads.
Harrisburg, April 30, 1833.
In the morning, we were received with open arms by the good people of Harrisburg. Father was very sick, and had to be carried. A Mrs. Brewster had him taken to her house. She was a widow.
Uncle James Wells went out to rent a house, but there was none vacant. There was not a dray nor a wagon in the place. A Mr. Andrew Robinson came to see father, and said he had a new house half a mile from town, which he could have. He said his old woman wanted to visit their son, Andrew, living at San Felipe. Mr. Lytle had a cart and one yoke of oxen, and he moved us. He wouldn't take pay for his work; said that was not the way in Texas. In the evening the men came with the cart for father and mother. My sister and brother and I had been on the go all day. When we got to the house, the kind ladies had sent meal, butter, eggs, milk and honey, and had the house in order and supper ready.
Captain Spillman returned to Clopper's Point, and carried Mr. Johnson's family to Brazoria. I remember the names of but a few of the passengers. My mother's brother, James Wells, came with us from St. Louis, Missouri, and a Mr. Bennet, from Kentucky. He had a sister in Texas, Mrs. W. J. Russell. She lived near Columbia on the Brazos river. Mr. Bennet brought two slaves, a man and a woman. Mr. Johnson and wife were young married people, and had one negro woman. He had been in Texas before he married. 5
We were delighted with our home. It was a new frame house. Most of the houses of Harrisburg were built of logs. Mother said she would be willing to live in a camp the rest of her life rather than cross the Gulf of Mexico again.
May 1, 1833.—Harrisburg and its Inhabitants. The four Harris brothers.
Harrisburg had been settled several years. It was settled by four brothers. John Harris, the oldest, had died some years before. His family were living in New York. The other brothers were Dave Harris, who had a wife and two children, daughter named Sarah, and William and Sam Harris. Other people living there were Robert Wilson, wife, and two sons; Albert Gallatin and son; Mr. Hiram, wife, and two daughters, Sophronia and Susan; Mr. Lytle, wife, and daughter; Mrs. Brewster and one son; Mr. Evans and wife; Dr. Wright and family; Dr. Gallagher; Mr. Peeples and wife; Mr. Farmer and family; Mr. Mansfield, and five negroes; one negro man, Joe, 6 servant of W. B. Travis; and John W. Moore, the Mexican alcalde. 7 The young men were Messrs. Richardson, Dodson, Wilcox, Hoffman, and Lucian Hopson. 8 The boys were James Brewster, and John, George, and Isaac Iiams, step-sons of Dave Harris. There was also a Mr. Ray.
There was a steam saw mill at the mouth of Bray's Bayou. It belonged to Robert Wilson and W. P. Harris. 9 Mr. Hoffman was engineer.
May, 1833.
Everything in Harrisburg was different from what we had been accustomed to. No church, nor preacher, school house nor court house. They had no use for a jail; everybody honest. We had been there but a few days when a man died. My sister asked mother how they could bury the man without a hearse and carriages. In the evening the funeral came. Mr. Lytle with his cart and oxen conveyed the corpse, men, women and children walking. Brother and I went with them. I don't remember the man's name. He came to Texas from New York with the four Harris brothers. A Mr. Choate conducted the burial. The man was a stranger in a strange land, but was nursed and buried by the good people and mourned by all.
The next time I met Mr. Choate was the Fourth of July. He played the violin for the young people to dance. He lived below the town on Vince's Bayou. He had five daughters. He was the most popular man in Texas.
Thomas Earl lived below the town on Buffalo Bayou. He had a wife, two sons, and four daughters, all grown. The Vince brothers, Allen, William, Robert, and Richard, lived at the bridge on Vince's Bayou. Allen Vince was a widower. He had two sons. Their sister, Miss Susan, kept house for them. Mr. Bronson and wife lived at the mouth of Buffalo Bayou. He was trying to raise the [Harrisburg, May, 1833.] steamboat. 10 They did not succeed, but they saved the machinery and furniture. The boat belonged to David G. Burnet, who lived near Galveston Bay.
There were two dry goods stores at Harrisburg. The export trade consisted of cotton and hides. Twice a year a schooner would bring groceries and other necessaries from New Orleans.
That year there was some talk of trouble with Mexico. Soldiers had been sent to Velasco and Anahuac. The people did not appear to anticipate danger. In the year 1832, several Texans had been put in prison at Anahuac, but were released without trial. Among them was W. B. Travis.
Our first summer in Texas passed very pleasantly. Father got well, bought a horse, and began the practice of medicine. He bought drugs and medicine, also dry goods and groceries from New Orleans for his family, but sold the flour, as there was none in Harrisburg. The merchants said flour would be brought from New Orleans in the fall, when the schooner came for cotton.
We were settled only a few days when sister and I asked mother if we could not go and gather dewberries. She said yes, but that we must not go away from the fence. We were so interested in gathering berries and flowers that we were soon out of sight of the house and were lost in the pine woods. It seems like Providence guided our footsteps. We got on a footpath that led to the last house below town. Mr. Farmer lived there, and he went home with us. [Harrisburg, June, 1833.] When we got home, mother was calling us. We had been gone one hour, and were so frightened that we stayed in the yard afterwards all the time.
Father met an old friend from St. Louis, Mr. Gallatin. Three of the young men that came to Texas with us came to visit us. They had gone with Mr. Johnson to Brazoria. We were glad to see them. They were going to San Felipe on a surveying expedition to locate land. One was a surveyor.
By the 15th of June, the Brazos and Colorado rivers overflowed, and the water extended from the Brazos to Buffalo Bayou. The crops were all lost. Not corn enough was raised to feed the people, and no cotton was raised that year. No boat came during the year. David Harris sent a schooner loaded with lumber to Tampico, Mexico, which brought back dry goods, but no provisions. It was many days before we got any flour. Soon times became hard. The steam mill was closed down, running only one day in the week to grind corn. That threw the men out of work, as sawing timber was the only branch of industry in the place. There was some corn raised on Buffalo Bayou and the Bay, but the main dependence of the people was on the Brazos farmers. They, the planters, didn't raise bread to feed their negroes.
Father concluded to move. He rented a farm near Stafford's Point, about fifteen miles from Harrisburg on the Brazos. We were very sorry to leave our new friends, but father thought it best to move.
December, 1833.—Leaving Harrisburg.
The farm father rented was called the Cartwright farm. The owner had a large stock of cattle. We were to have the use of the milch cows. It was in a good neighborhood; and, as there was no physician living there, it was a desirable situation.
We left Harrisburg during Christmas, the weather warm and pleasant. Mr. Lytle helped us to move. He said it would take two days, the roads were so bad. Father had sent most of our movables by a neighbor from the country. We started prepared to camp. Mr. Lytle gathered pine knots and put them in the cart, saying he would need them for fire and lights. Mother, sister, and myself rode in the cart. It was rough traveling. Christmas two years before, in the year 1831, we rode ten miles in a sleigh from Grandfather Wells' to St. Louis. Christmas, 1832, we were in New Orleans.
There were three young men with us, also Uncle James Wells. The men were going to Mr. Stafford's to build a cotton gin. They traveled on horseback. All of them had guns. They said they would go on six miles and wait for the cart. Father went with them to kill a deer, for we had bread, but no meat. Brother rode behind uncle. He was ten years old. He said he wanted to see the sport.
It was anything but fun before we got to the end of our journey. Three miles from town we left the timber. The prairie was covered with water. Bray's Bayou had overflowed and the road looked [December 28, 1833.—Moving from Harrisburg, continued.] like a river. We hadn't traveled six miles when the sun set, and the party on horseback was not in sight. We came to a mound that was high and dry, and Mr. Lytle said we would camp. He hobbled the oxen and turned them loose so they could feed. He got pine knots to make a fire. We had a flint and steel, but couldn't strike fire. In those days there were no matches, and every man carried a flint and steel, and the guns all had flint locks.
The men came back. Father had killed a deer. He soon made a fire, and the young men went to the timber to get firewood. They had to stand in the water, cut down a tree, cut it up, tie it on their saddles, and walk back. While the men were gone, father skinned the deer and got it ready for cooking.
We were waiting for the wood men to return, when all of a sudden the wolves began howling. They surrounded the camp. Mr. Lytle drove the oxen back, and tied them to the cart. The wolves were after the vension. Father would have shot one, but said if he killed it the others would eat it and then kill the oxen. Our woodmen got back, and made a big fire, which scared the wolves. They ran a short distance, sat down, faced the cart, and barked and howled all night. The men had to hold their horses to keep them from running off. One of the men had a mare and colt. He couldn't catch the colt; it would kick at the men, run off, and back to its [December 29, 1833.—On the road from Harrisburg to Stafford's Point.] mother. Father had two hound dogs for hunting. They hid under the cart, and one of the men advised father to kill the dogs and feed the wolves. Mother, sister, and I, slept in the cart, brother and the dogs underneath. The men sat up to guard the stock. Bray's Bayou was near. We were surrounded by wolves and water. There was a large Sycamore tree that stood in the water near us, and it was as white as snow. The buzzards roosted in it. We could hear owls hoot all night. Mother said it was a night of horrors, worse than the days and nights on the bar at Galveston. She said the owls were singing a funeral dirge, and the wolves and buzzards were waiting to bury us. At daylight the wolves and owls disappeared.
We continued our journey. Mother rode Uncle James' horse, and uncle stayed with the cart. Father went ahead to get another yoke of oxen. He met us at Stafford's Point with them. We had to go four miles further, and got to the house at one o'clock. Mother and brother were there. The young men went to Mr. Stafford's plantation, two miles in the bottom on Oyster Creek.
There was a family in the house, that of a Mr. West, who had lived on the place five years. He had a wife and four children, and had built a house on Oyster Creek, a short distance away. He was our nearest neighbor. He moved next day. He had two daughters, one ten, the other eight years old. I was delighted to have them for playmates.
January 1, 1834.
The New Year opened fair and bright with no cold weather. Mr. Lytle stayed a few days with us to rest, then returned to Harrisburg. Father said he felt like he had lost his best friend. Sister and I cried when he bade us goodbye. He would not let father pay him for moving us, but mother sent his wife some coffee, sugar, and dried apples, which father had brought from New Orleans. I never met Mr. Lytle again.
We were very lonesome the first few days. With not a house in sight, it was a great change from St. Louis and New Orleans. We had four near neighbors, Messrs. West, Bell, William Neal, and C. C. Dyer. Neal and Dyer married sisters, the daughters of Mr. Stafford. There were two brothers, Harvey and Adam Stafford, both grown.
Father and uncle commenced ploughing. Father had had no experience in farming. He had been a surgeon in the United States army. In 1812, he emigrated from Virginia to Georgia, and in the year 1813 to Missouri, before it was admitted into the Union. Mother had been reared on a farm, and she knew how to spin and weave. There was a wheelwright living in the neighborhood, and he made mother a spinning wheel. She had cards. I soon learned to spin.
January, 1834,—The Roark Family.
Mrs. Roark, a widow lady, lived two miles from our house. She came to see mother. She had been a widow four years, and had a large family, two grown sons, twin daughters, one daughter grown, two little children, a boy named Andrew, and a girl, born several months after the death of the father. The family came to Texas from Illinois in the year 1824. They traveled by land, in a large wagon with six mules. They came with Austin's first three hundred emigrants. The husband, Mr. Elijah Roark, was murdered by Indians in December, 1829, near San Antonio. Mr. Roark, his eldest son, Leo, and a young man were going to San Antonio with a wagon load of country produce. It consisted of butter, cheese, lard, bacon, soap, candles, and various other things which they expected to exchange for dry goods and family supplies. San Antonio, at that time, was the only market in Texas. The inhabitants were mostly Mexicans.
Mr. Roark's party had camped for the night. It was the 24th of December, and they were near the end of their journey. One man was to keep guard while the other two slept. Leo Roark 11 said his father kept the first watch, and the other man the second. He went on guard about two o'clock, putting on his shoes and hat. It was the 24th of December, and they had been two weeks from home. The weather had been very warm, but while he was sitting by the camp-fire, the wind began to blow from the north. It was getting cold, so he put on his coat, took his gun and knife, and walked a short distance. There was a large log near the road about one hundred yards from the camp. His father told the boys they must walk past the log and turn back. He got to the log and was afraid to pass it. He thought he would go back and wake his father. The mules were staked near, and they were so restless he knew there was something close by. Before he got back, the Indians surrounded the camp. He shot at them, and his shot woke the men. They did not get on their feet before they were murdered. He tried to catch a mule that was tied to a stake, but could not get near the mule. He laid down his gun and tried to cut the rope. But before he could cut it, the Indians were so near he had to run. He lost his hat, knife, and gun. He was west of the camp, and knew the way to San Antonio. He said he left the road and ran into the mesquite thickets. He did not look back, nor realize what had happened till daylight. At sunrise, he stopped to rest. He couldn't find water, but ate mesquite beans. He traveled all day, and late in the evening he found water. He rested a few minutes, but was afraid to lie down, he was so tired and sleepy. After resting, he continued his journey, and arrived at San Antonio late in the night. He found the Mexicans celebrating Christmas. Next day, he got assistance and returned to bury his father. He said when he arrived at the camp it was a horrid sight, both men stripped and scalped, the wagon burned, the mules carried off, and everything either taken or destroyed. After they buried the dead, they built a log pen over the graves to prevent the wolves from digging them up. The burning wagon had scared the wolves away, or they would have devoured the bodies. 12
It was three months before Leo got home. The family did not hear of the death of Mr. Roark and his companion till then. Leo returned with a company of Mexican soldiers on their way to Nacogdoches. The terrible tragedy of Mr. Roark's death was a great source of sorrow to all the people in the neighborhood, and left his family almost destitute. 13
February, 1834.—On a Farm in Texas.
By the first of the month, there was a scarcity of corn. People had to do without bread and save the corn for seed. Father had five bushels of corn ground in Harrisburg before he moved, and the men in the neighborhood laughed at him for not saving seed corn. He gave Mrs. Roark half the meal in exchange for sweet potatoes and pumpkins. All the farms on Oyster Creek had been overflowed in June, 1833. That year there was no cotton raised, and the schooner didn't come to Harrisburg in the fall; so there was no flour, coffee, bacon, nor lard in the country. Mr. Stafford made sugar. His sugar cane was not under water. The sugar was as black as tar. It had to be carried in a bucket. Father went to Mr. Stafford's to see a sick negro, and mother gave him a bag to get sugar. He was going in his every-day clothes, but mother would have him put on his best suit, and when he got back he was holding the bag at arm's length, his clothing covered with molasses. Mother hung up the bag with a bucket underneath, and we then had sugar and molasses. Mother had rice, tea, dried apples and white sugar, which she had brought from New Orleans, and which she was keeping for hard times and sickness. She said she would use the rice, as bread was getting scarce. We had plenty of milk, butter, venison, and small game. When one man butchered a beef, he divided with his neighbors.
We had been six weeks on the farm. Mother, sister Ella, and I had not been from home, and mother promised us we should soon go and visit Mrs. Roark's children. One Sunday she said brother Granville should take us and send Mrs. Roark to spend the day at our house. We were delighted with our visit. The twin girls were nine years old and could spin and weave. The young men, Leo and Jackson, were not at home. Mrs. Roark came back in the evening and sent us home. To my great delight, I found a little sister had arrived while we were gone. The thing next in order was naming the babe. I wanted to call her Louisiana. Father said we all should vote for her name. Mother, brother, and sister voted Missouri, and father for Texas. The majority ruled, and she was named Missouri.
It was now time to plant corn, and there was no seed corn nearer than fifteen miles. Dr. Johnson Hunter sent father word that if he would send up to his place he could get corn. Uncle James and brother went. Dr. Hunter let them have five bushels. He told uncle to plant half the corn; he said there might be cold weather that would kill the first planting.
February, 1834.—Ben Fort Smith and his Negroes.
One cold day we could see in the direction of Galveston Bay a large crowd of people. They were coming to our house. Mother said they were Indians, and we were badly frightened. Brother ran to the field for father and Uncle James. By the time they got to the house, the travelers were near. Mother wanted to leave the house and go in the woods, but father said no. He said that probably they had been shipwrecked, as it was only thirty miles to the bay. When they got near the house, there were three white men and a large gang of negroes. One man came in and introduced himself as Ben Fort Smith. He said he lived near Major Bingham's, and that he was lost and nearly starved. He asked father to let him have two beeves and some bread. Father told him that he did not own the cattle, but as it was a case of necessity, he would kill two beeves, and send for Mr. Dyer, the agent. Father killed the beeves and helped to skin them. One man made a fire near some trees, away from the house. As soon as the beeves were skinned the negroes acted like dogs, they were so hungry. With the help of father and uncle, the white men kept them off till the meat was broiled, and then did not let them have as much as they could eat. Father did not have bread for them. Mother prepared dinner for the white men.
After dinner, Mr. Smith explained to father how he came to be lost on the prairie. He said he had a plantation on the Brazos river near Major Bingham's. * * * The negroes were so enfeebled from close confinement that they could not travel. He rested one day, and would have reached home the next night if he had not got lost. He had been absent some time, and did not know the Brazos river had overflowed. He said he had a sister and her children on his plantation. Her name was Terry. He asked father if he knew them, but father did not. He knew Major Bingham; had met him in Harrisburg the fall before. He did not suppose there had been any casualty, or he would have heard, as Mr. Bingham lived twenty-five miles below.
Mr. Smith asked Uncle James to guard the negroes till he and his men could sleep. The men slept, but he could not. * * * Father told him he had some brandy for medical use, and advised him to take some. After drinking a glass, he went to sleep. Uncle James guarded the negroes. They did not need watching, for after dark they went to sleep and did not wake till morning. They were so destitute of clothing, mother would not permit us children to go near them. Next day they cooked their meat before they began eating.
Next morning, Mr. Smith sent for Mr. Dyer, paid for the cattle, bought more beeves, and asked father's permission to stay till he could send to his plantation for assistance. Harvey Stafford offered to go. He said he knew Frank Terry. 14 After three or four days, he and Frank returned. Mr. Smith's body servant, Mack, came with them and brought a wagon and team and clothing for the negroes. Mack made them go to the creek, bathe, and card their heads. After they were dressed, he marched them to the house for mother and us little girls to see. He tried to teach them to make a bow. They laughed and chattered like monkeys. They did not understand a word of English. All the men and boys in the neighborhood came to see the wild Africans.
Mr. Smith had gone to Mr. Stafford's. He came back the next day and was glad to meet his nephew and servant. They had brought him a horse and saddle. He had a large scaffold built over a trench and made a fire under it. He butchered the beeves and dried the meat over the fire. After a few days he sent Frank Terry and Mack home with the negroes.
The stock of cattle on the place was for sale. Mr. Smith and Mr. Woodruff bought them, and engaged Uncle James Wells to take charge of them until they could move them. Mr. Woodruff was a Baptist preacher. Mother asked him to preach in our neighborhood, but he failed to do so. He lived near Columbia, had a large family, and was engaged in farming. Messrs. Smith and Woodruff's stay with us was very pleasant. The friendship formed at that time between Mr. Smith and father continued as long as they lived. When Mr. Smith bade mother goodbye, he told her he would send her a barrel of flour as soon as the schooner came to Brazoria. She said she had never expected to see a barrel of flour again. We were very lonesome after our company left.
As there was no school in the neighborhood, mother made us [March, 1834.—Farming on the Brazos.] study our lessons every day. At noon, we recited to Uncle James or father.
The spring opened fine, no cold weather, corn up and growing. The farmers were planting cotton. Father had two bushels of corn left. He said if there was no cold weather at Easter he would have it ground. We had been without bread three weeks. Mother made a cheese every day. Father killed a deer on Saturday. He cut up the meat and dried it over a fire, and we ate it for bread.
Mother and I had been spinning. Father needed plow lines, and there was not any rope in the country. The men made their ropes out of hides and the hair from the manes and tails of horses. The hair rope is a Mexican product called a cabris. The Mexicans only used two sticks of wood to twist the hair. Making ropes from the hides of cattle and horses was a tedious process. First they would stretch a large hide on the ground and cut a piece in the center the size of a dollar. Then they would cut round and round till they had four long strands. They scraped off the hair, and soaked the hide in ashes and water. After it was greased, it was wound in four balls and hung up and platted. The name of the rope made this way is lariat, a Mexican word. I spun thread and mother made the plough-lines. I soon learned to plat straw and ropes. The women made hats for the men out of palmetto and straw. They made bonnets out of a plant called a bonnet squash.
April, 1834.—Trouble between Mr. A— and Mr. M—. 15
There has been considerable trouble between two of our neighbors. Mr. — A— accused Mr. M— of marking and branding his (A—'s) yearlings. Father tried to settle the trouble, but did not succeed. Mr. A— went to Harrisburg and complained to J. W. Moore, the Mexican alcalde. The court came to our house and sent for the defendant. They did not try the case that evening, but let Mr. M— go home till next day and sent for all the men in the neighborhood. The court was composed of Judge David G. Burnet, John W. Moore, the Mexican alcalde, and others. The lawyers were William B. Travis, Patrick Jack, and his brother, W. H. Jack, and R. M. Williamson, nick-named Three-legged Willie.
That evening Mr. Smith and Mr. Woodruff came with men to gather the cattle. Mr. Smith brought a wagon, provisions, and a negro man to cook. He also brought mother some flour and coffee. He said he expected to meet Mr. Cartwright, the owner of the land and cattle. Father told him Mr. Cartwright had arrived, and was at Mr. Stafford's; also, that the judge, lawyers, and alcalde were present, and that they would hold court next day to try M— for stealing. Mr. Smith knew the men; he met them in Brazoria. They had gone hunting. Mr. Smith said he would butcher two calves and have a barbecue. Mother said she would be very much obliged if he would, as all the men in the neighborhood would be present.
The hunters returned with plenty of game. Mr. Smith invited them to his camp. They had lariats for ropes, and drove stakes in the ground and tied their horses to feed on the grass. Near our house there was a grove of trees. There were four large trees that almost formed a square. Near the trees there was a large petrified log. It had almost turned to stone. We children built a playhouse under the four large trees. We had put moss on the petrified log for a seat. The men took possession of our playhouse, spread their blankets on the ground for beds, used their saddles for pillows, and sat on the petrified log. Each man had a knife, a tin cup, a gun, and a bottle gourd.
Mr. W. B. Travis took supper with our family. He and several of the gentlemen from Harrisburg were going after the trial to San Felipe, and father decided to go with them. Mr. Travis said he would assist father to locate land. The land office was at that place, San Felipe de Austin, where all public business was transacted. It was situated on the west bank of the Brazos river, about thirty miles above where we lived.
April, 1834.—Court under the Live Oak Trees.
The next day the men began to arrive early. Several ladies came with their husbands to visit mother. Mr. M—, the accused, was the first man on the ground, and by one o'clock there were twentyfive or thirty people present. Mr. Moses Shipman came early. He lived five miles below our house. He had four grown sons, who came with their father. Mr. Shipman was horrified that one of the neighbors should be accused of stealing. He said that if M— was found guilty he would be sent to Anahuac or San Antonio, and probably to Mexico to work in the silver mines. He said he would much rather have paid Mr. A— for the yearling than to have a family left destitute in the neighborhood.
Mr. Smith prepared dinner for the crowd. The trial began at eleven o'clock, and the defendant plead not guilty. A— proved that a yearling with M—'s mark and brand was sucking his (A—'s) cow. W. B. Travis was attorney for M—, and Patrick Jack for A—. After argument on both sides, the jury pronounced the defendant guilty. W. B. Travis gave notice of an appeal. Judge Burnet granted the accused a second hearing. Mr. Ben Fort Smith proposed to the court to adjourn till everybody present should have dinner. He got A— to one side, bought the cow and yearling, sent A— home, and when the case was called again there was no evidence against M—. Mr. Smith claimed the cow and yearling. He said the branding had been done through a mistake and the defendant was discharged. Judge Burnet admonished him to be more careful in the future. Mr. Smith and father had a good laugh after the trial. Father said it was the most perfect farce he had ever seen. All the men in the neighborhood were rejoiced at the way it terminated.
This was the first act in the A— and M— tragedy.
Two of the young men proposed to mother to have a dance. They said they would go and fetch some young ladies. Mother objected. She said that if there was a preacher she would ask him to preach. She said she had been in Texas nearly a year and had not heard a sermon. One young man said he never had heard a sermon. Mother asked Mr. Woodruff to preach. He agreed, but did not have a bible. Mother's bible was lost when we were shipwrecked the year before. No one offered to go for a bible. Mr. Travis said he would send mother one if he could find it in San Felipe. Mr. Woodruff prayed and exhorted the people to lead pure lives. Mrs. Stafford and mother sang the hymn “On Jordan's stormy banks I stand and cast a wishful eye.” The preacher sang, “Come, thou fount of every blessing.”
Mr. M— was not present at the religious exercise in the evening. The neighbors went home. Next morning father, Mr. Travis and R. M. Williamson started for San Felipe. The alcalde and lawyers returned to Harrisburg, and David G. Burnet went to Brazoria. [April, 1834.—Going to a Ball.] Mr. Smith and Mr. Woodruff gathered half the cattle and were to return in May for the balance. Before the gentlemen left, they thanked sister and me for the use of our playhouse. Mr. Travis said he would send us some side combs. Smith said he would give sister one of his nephews, named Dave Terry. She said she did not want him if he was as ugly as Frank. Mr. Smith laughed at her and said if she would not have Dave, he would give her a cow and a calf. I was very much mortified at what she said. I was nine years old, and she seven.
We were very lonesome after the men had gone. Sister and I cleared up our playhouse. The prairie was covered with flowers. Wild horses and deer would feed near the house, and if the horses became frightened, they formed in a half circle, then in a straight line, then one horse would gallop up and down the line, then they would form three or four together. After the maneuver, sometimes they would turn and run off.
One evening Mrs. Dyer sent her brother, Harvey Stafford, to invite mother to attend a dancing party at her house. We children were delighted. Mother had not been from home since we had been on the farm. Mr. Stafford went to the field for Uncle James and brother. We got there before dark. It was only two miles in the bottom. The house was a double log cabin with a passage between the rooms. The people soon began to arrive, among them several young ladies. Mr. A— came with his family. Mr. M— and family did not attend. He appeared to have a spite against every man in the neighborhood. Before dark a servant came in with a bunch of cane, each piece about twelve inches in length. He laid the pieces of cane on a chair, got a knife, split them, took out tallow candles, and lighted up the house. Mother had candle moulds. She asked Mrs. Dyer why she did not send and get them. Mrs. Dyer said she had never used candle moulds. She and her mother, Mrs. Stafford, used cane, or dipped candles.
As soon as the house was lighted, a negro man came in with a fiddle and commenced playing. The young people began dancing, and one of the boys asked me to dance. I never had danced; had been at a ball in Harrisburg, but did not dance, and had not seen any dancing but one time before we came to Texas. Then I thought it was horrible. It was New Year's night, 1830. We were living in St. Louis, Missouri. Some masked negroes came to father's house and danced the old year out and the new year in. I looked on and watched the different figures till I thought I could dance. Mr. Harvey Stafford asked me to be his partner in an old Virginia reel. I went on the floor and danced till morning. Mrs. Dyer told mother that dancing was the only amusement the young folks had in Texas. We went home next morning delighted with the ball.
Father returned from San Felipe. He had found the land office closed and could not transact any business. He met several friends from Missouri, among them James Kerr, a cousin of mother's. He said there was much excitement among the people in San Felipe. Stephen F. Austin had been a prisoner in Mexico since December 10, 1833. Father said there would be trouble with Mexico, as she had ordered the arrest of several of the most prominent men in Texas. He didn't have much confidence in Spanish justice or Mexican laws. He had been in the War of 1812 between England and the United States, and had seen Washington city after it was burned by the English. He was in Richmond, Virginia, when the theatre burned. He didn't attend it that night, but saw the horrors of that calamity. He resigned his position as surgeon in the army and went to Cuba for his health. He was arrested, put in prison, and remained there three years, not being released till peace was proclaimed between England and the United States. Mexico belonged at that time to Spain.
Mr. Travis sent sister and me a Sunday school book. There had been a Sunday school in San Felipe, but it was closed by the Catholic priest, Father Muldoon. R. M. Williamson sent us side-combs to pay us for the use of our playhouse. Mr. Travis sent mother word that there was not a bible for sale in San Felipe.
May, 1834.—Death of a little Boy.
There was a sad accident near our house. Mr. M— was out with his children gathering moss, when his little boy fell out of the cart. One wheel passed over the child's chest. When his father went to him he was breathing. The accident happened near Mr. A—'s fence. Mr. A— came for father and mother, and Mrs. A— helped Mr. M— home with his children. When father and mother got there the child was dead.
There was no lumber to make a coffin nearer than Harrisburg. Mother had a large dry goods box, and Mr. A— used it to make a coffin. Mrs. M— didn't have anything nice to bury the child in. Mother had some nice clothing. She had lost two children in St. Louis in the year 1831. One was a babe, the other a boy four years old. She used my little brother's clothes to lay out the corpse. The next day we all went to the funeral. Mrs. M— and children rode in a cart with the corpse. Mother and Mrs. Dyer and their children rode in Mr. Dyer's cart. The men went on horseback. They buried the child near Mrs. Roark's. Father, Messrs. A—, Dyer, Cottle and Sam Bundick filled up the grave. There was no singing nor praying over the dead.
It was late in the evening when we got home. Mrs. Roark had prepared dinner for us before we left her house. She had a good dinner, but no bread nor coffee. Mr. M— and family would not take dinner with her. Mr. M— seemed to be indignant. Mother asked Mrs. M— to stay all night with her, as it was dark and the road was very bad and there was a creek to cross, but Mrs. M— declined. A— and M— had to travel the same road, as they lived near each other. Mr. A— stopped at our house. He told father he believed it was M—'s intention to murder him. He said when the accident happened he was ploughing near the fence. He heard the children screaming, but couldn't see them, the timber was so thick. When he got to the road the oxen were walking and feeding on the grass. He stopped them. The children said their brother had fallen out, and he went back to the child just as the father did. M— said he was gathering moss, had seen a deer, and was trying to shoot it. He asked him to go for the doctor, but had not spoken a word to him while he was making the coffin and burying the child. Father told him he didn't think M— was a man that would commit murder. A— didn't appear to be satisfied. He went home by Mr. Dyer's and did not pass the road near M—'s any more, though the distance was three miles by Mr. Dyer's.
This ended the second act in the A— M— tragedy.
May, 1834.—Ben Fort Smith's African Negro.
We had quite an excitement and considerable fright in this month. Father and brother were in Harrisburg, having work done by the blacksmith. There came a man with a letter from Mr. Smith notifying father and the men in our neighborhood that one of his Africans had run away. They had followed the negro to Mr. Shipman's and there had lost his track. He had a large knife he had stolen, also a flint and steel for striking fire. Uncle James Wells was at home at the time, but the next day Mr. Stafford sent for him to help raise the cotton gin. Mother requested him to come home before night, as she was afraid of the runaway negro, as he would probably come to our house to get something to eat. Uncle said if we fastened the door no one could get in. The house was two stories high, and was built of hewed logs. It had a brick chimney and two doors and three windows all fastened inside with heavy wooden shutters. The doors were made of heavy timber put together with wooden pins and with wooden bars across. No iron was used except in the fireplace and in nailing down the floor.
When Uncle James left he said if he didn't get home mother need not be uneasy, for the negro would be afraid to come near the house. We did not worry much about the negro till late in the evening. Mother said if she could fasten the doors outside she would go and stay all night with Mrs. Dyer. Mr. Dyer had moved out of the bottom and built a new house one mile from ours.
Mother milked the cows before night, fetched in water and the axe, barricaded the doors and windows, and prepared to go to the upper rooms. There were no stairs, and we had to use a ladder. She took the gun, axe, and water up, put out the fire, carried the babe up and then sister, and by this time it was dark. I carried up candles to last all night. Sister and babe were both screaming, but stopped crying when mother brought up a light. She drew up the ladder and placed it over the opening. The babe and sister went to sleep. Mother said for me to go to bed. I was not sleepy, but went. She sat up knitting. I could not sleep, for I thought it was neglecting mother for me to go to bed. Father said I was my mother's right hand. He would tell me when he was leaving home to take good care of mother and the children.
We had not been still more than an hour when the dogs began barking. Mother set the light in a box and hung blankets around it to darken the room. We knew by the fuss the dogs were making somebody was in the yard. I was very much frightened till mother told me she thought it was impossible for anybody to get in, and that if anyone did, she would shoot when she could see, if he attempted to come up.
We did not have long to wait, but soon knew it was the runaway negro. He fought the dogs and ran them under the house. He talked and yelled, but we could not understand his gibberish. The dogs attacked him several times, but he would whip them, and they would run under the house, bark, howl, and whine. Both the children woke up and added their cries to the horrid din. The negro tried to open the doors and windows. He tried to break them down with a fence rail. Mother would have shot if she could have got sight of him. He stayed in the yard nearly all night, and then robbed the chicken house. We could hear the chickens when he carried them away. Mother hissed on the dogs, and they followed him some distance. She waited till they came back, then moved us down to the room below. She did not open the doors; she said she would sleep, and if the negro returned would shoot at him.
She had slept only a few minutes when there was another commotion among the dogs. It was daylight. We could see through an opening between the logs two men with a cart and oxen, and mother opened the door. The travelers were Germans, Mr. Habermacher and son, Stephen, from Harrisburg, going to Mr. Stafford's to work on the cotton gin. It was a great relief to see them. They had met father, and he said he would be home the next day. The old gentleman could not speak English, but the son could. They had camped near our house and had heard the dogs and thought they were after game. They said the negro must have heard them as they were singing. The Germans stayed with us till Uncle James came home. They expected to have gotten to our house by eight o'clock, but could not see the house.
Father came home. He had bad news. Mexico had sent more troops to Anahuac and a man-of-war to blockade the port at Galveston Island.
The runaway negro stayed in the neighborhood several months. The men tried to capture him, but did not succeed. A Mr. Battle made friends with the negro and fed him and tried to get him in the house, but he was too smart. Mr. Battle caught him and tried to tie him, but the negro cut Mr. Battle severely. He then left our neighborhood, crossed the Brazos and Colorado rivers, and made his way to the Navidad bottom. He was often seen by travelers, and was called the Wild Man of the Navidad. It was said there was a negro woman with him, but some said it was an Indian squaw. Others said a schooner loaded with Africans had been lost on the western coast and several negroes had made their escape. I never heard anything more about the African. 16 Father said he would have thought mother was only scared if the negro's footprints had not been seen in the yard, and the rail he used in trying to force an entrance. We children did not get over the fright for many days.
May, 1834.—School near Oyster Creek.
Father, while in Harrisburg, engaged a school teacher, a Mr. David Henson. He had just arrived. A schooner from New Orleans with emigrants for Austin's colony had run the blockade at Galveston Island and landed at Harrisburg. I remember the names of some of them: Clinton Harris, son of John R. Harris, deceased; Mr. Mann, wife and two step-sons; Flournoy Hunt; Sam Allen; Mr. Pruitt and two daughters; and Mr. Kokernot and wife, young married people, were among them. Mr. Kokernot was German, his wife French.
Mr. Doby brought dry goods and groceries. One of the Iiams boys came home with father and brother. He stayed a few days. Brother Granville went back with him and brought out the school teacher. He was an Irishman, old, ugly, and red-headed.
The next thing was a schoolhouse. There was a log house halfway between the place where we lived and Mr. Dyer's. It had been used for a blacksmith shop. The floor was made of heavy hewed logs, called puncheons, and there were no windows nor any shutter to the door. Father and Mr. Henson canvassed the neighborhood to make up the school. Mr. Dyer's three children, William, Foster, and Harvey, and Mr. A—'s three went. Mr. M— would not subscribe. We three children, with four young men, Leo Roark and his brother Jackson, Mr. Calder and Harvey Stafford made up the school. Mrs. Roark did not send her daughters. She said she would send them in the fall, as the boys would then have to gather the crops. Brother and I were the only children that could read and write. The young men and brother could cipher.
June, 1834.
School commenced the first of June. We had a good teacher, but he was out of his proper place in Texas. There were but few schoolbooks among the people. The teacher made the multiplication table upon pasteboard. Mother gave her bandbox for the purpose. Father had a fine assortment of books, but few schoolbooks.
The crops were very promising. There were plenty of roasting ears for cooking. We had been three months without bread. By the last of June the corn was too hard to cook. Uncle James said that if he had a piece of tin he could make a grater. Mother gave him a tin bucket. He unsoldered it, drove holes in it with a nail, fastened it on a board, and grated meal for supper. Mother gave part of the bucket to Mrs. Dyer. None of our neighbors had tinware; they used wooden vessels. Mrs. Roark had a Mexican utensil for grinding corn, called a metate. It was a large rock which had a place scooped out of the center that would hold a peck of corn. It had a stone roller. It was hard work to grind corn on it, but the meal made good bread. Some of our neighbors had small mills called steel mills. Mr. Bell had a mortar scooped out of wood, with a hanging pestle and sweep which had to be pulled down. The weight of the sweep would lift the pestle. It was fun for the children to pull the sweep down and see it go up. When the neighbors would meet, the first word would be, “Is your corn getting hard? Have you had any bread? Send to my house and get meal or corn.”
We were in high spirits. Our school was doing well. Everybody had plenty of bread and potatoes and other vegetables. Mr. Gallatin, from Harrisburg, came to stay with us. He was sick and came for medical advice. Father knew him in Missouri. He brought us children some pretty sea shells. He rode a gentle pony, and he said sister and I could ride the pony to school.
The men in the neighborhood were preparing to celebrate the Fourth of July. They were to have a barbecue and ball. The ladies were to have a quilting and the young people anticipated a fine time, as invitations had been sent to other settlements.
Toward the last of June our neighborhood was in a state of excitement. A large company of Mexicans arrived with a drove of horses for sale. The Mexicans pretended they did not understand English. All the men were confident that they were spies. Mr. Leo Roark could speak some Spanish, and he acted as interpreter. The men kept on with their preparations for the Fourth of July, but they were very cautious in their conversation, as they were confident the Mexicans understood every word that was said. The Mexicans were very friendly and kind, and there were two or three of them that seemed to be perfect gentlemen. They visited the people and made very liberal offers in trying to sell horses. They would sell on time and return in the fall for the money. Leo Roark went with them to interpret. They paid him well for his time and wanted him to travel with them, but his mother would not give her consent.
July, 1834.
The Fourth of July was a fine day. The barbecue was near Mr. Dyer's house, and the quilting and ball were at the house. The ladies spent the day in conversation and work, the young people dancing in the yard, the children playing under the trees, and the men talking politics. There was no political speaking, as the Mexicans were present. The politicians and lawyers from San Felipe and Harrisburg were there, but had little to say. The people were very anxious about Stephen F. Austin, as he was in Mexico, a prisoner. Three of the Mexicans ate dinner and were very sociable. One of them danced a Virginia reel, but the others could not dance anything but waltzes, and our young ladies did not waltz.
Well, it was a grand affair for the times. The young people thought it magnificent. The music was two fiddles, played turn about by three negro men. One negro man got an iron pin and clevis, used at the end of a cart tongue or plough beam, and beat time with the fiddles. Another man beat a tin pan. Well, the young people danced to that music from three o'clock in the evening till next morning.
Mother went home with her family before day. Everybody else stayed all night. We ate barbecued meat, all sorts of vegetables, coffee, fowls, potatoes, honey, and corn bread, but no cakes, as there was no flour in the country. The whiskey gave out early in the evening, and there was no fuss or quarreling. Everybody went home in a good humor, none more so than the negro musicians, as they were paid for playing the fiddles and beating the clevis and tin pan.
This was the second time we attended a Fourth of July celebration in Texas. The first time was in Harrisburg. I remembered the Fourth of July celebrations in St. Louis. I had seen the militia parade, drums beating, flags flying, cannon firing, but the glory was not to be compared with that of the Fourth of July in the year 1834, near Stafford's Point on the Brazos, about fifteen miles from Harrisburg.
The Mexicans left shortly after the Fourth. They separated into three divisions, one party going to Brazoria, the others to Anahuac and Nacogdoches. The Mexicans behaved well while they were among us. They spent money freely, and paid for all they needed, but the people were glad when they were gone. They did not sell many horses in the neighborhood.
Mr. Gallatin swapped his gentle pony for a wild horse. Father tried to persuade the old man not to swap, but he would not be advised. He had the wild horse tied to a tree till the Mexicans were gone. One of the Mexicans put a big saddle on the pony, with a girth and bridle made of hair, lariat, blanket, bottle gourd, and other things too numerous to mention, then got on and stuck his big spurs in the pony's side, struck it with a quirt, and started. Sister and I cried all day about the pony. Mother was provoked. She said she would have bought the pony if Mr. Gallatin would have sold it. The next night the wild horse broke the lariat and ran off. We children were glad it was gone. Uncle James and three of the young men tried to find it, but could not.
August, 1834.—One of the Neighbors leaving Texas.
Mr. Stafford left Texas in June, and his wife was to leave in a few days. They had some property in the United States that required their attention. Mrs. Stafford came to see mother. She said she would not return to Texas, as she did not intend to bring any more slaves to Mexico. She was Mr. Stafford's second wife, and had two small children. They were to travel over land, as she was going to take a negro man and woman with her. She could have gone on the schooner from Anahuac, but would have been arrested in New Orleans for bringing slaves into the United States. She had friends in San Augustine near the boundary line between Mexico and the United States, and they were to help her. Father advised her to leave the negroes. He said she might have trouble, as the United States government had Monroe Edwards under arrest for running negroes into the States of Louisiana and Mississippi. She said the man was anxious to go, that he had parents living in Louisiana, near where she was going. She had a good hack and two mules to travel with. All the neighbors gave her letters to mail to friends in the United States. Adam Stafford was to go with her to Lynchburg on the San Jacinto river. He had cotton on the schooner at Harrisburg, but could not send it out till he got a permit from the custom-house officer at Anahuac. Mexico had a revenue cutter at Galveston Island. All the neighbors were sorry to see Mrs. Stafford go.
September, 1834.
Our school closed the last day of August. The young men and boys had to gather the crops. Cotton picking was the order of the day. Everybody was at work, and the only discontented person among us was Mr. Gallatin. He could not get over the loss of his horse. Our school teacher, Mr. Henson, left the first of September. He said he would return during the winter.
Mr. Adam Stafford returned from Anahuac. He went with his step-mother to the Neches. He said she was getting along very well. Mother was glad to hear from Mrs. Stafford, for she had been very kind to our family. All the neighbors missed her. Mrs. Dyer and Mrs. Neal, her step-daughters, felt her loss very much.
Father went to Harrisburg. He had a bale of cotton and three or four hundredweight of hides. He made a large sleigh like those used in Missouri for driving on the snow. He had a gentle yoke of oxen. He loaded the sleigh with cotton and hides. Mr. Gallatin got ready to leave. He was well, but grieving about his horse. Uncle James and Leo Roark had spent ten days looking for the horse, but could not find him. They said he must have gotten with the mustangs.
Mother made a list of things she needed. Father asked us children what he should bring us from Harrisburg, and we gave him a list. He said it would take a large wagon to haul all we wished. He took our measure for shoes. Sister told him to get two pairs of shoes for each of us, two pairs of red shoes and two pairs for every day wear. He did not promise. He loaded the sleigh with one bale of cotton and the hides. Mr. Gallatin sat on the cotton. Both had guns, and they went prepared to camp. After an absence of several days, he returned with the red shoes and other necessaries we had been without for months, and also some old newspapers a gentleman gave him. The papers were published in New Orleans. He brought Brother Granville boots and a fine hat, and got clothes for the boys that were picking cotton. Father sold his cotton for a good price. After supper he took down his shot pouch and handed the babe a pair of blue slippers. He did not get flour. There was not a barrel of flour in Harrisburg, but there was a schooner detained at Anahuac, loaded with flour, salt, sugar, and other groceries.
Father got home late Saturday evening. We children were up early next morning. We were so happy over our new shoes we could not sleep. Uncle James and the boys laughed at us. Father said he had no idea how new shoes would run us crazy. Mother said she was not surprised, it had been such a long time since we had had any new clothing. When we came up to Harrisburg in the year 1833, sister and myself were the only little girls that had nice shoes. There was a shoemaker living at Harrisburg named Paddy Brown. His shoes were so ugly I said I would not wear Paddy Brown's shoes. The neighbors would join and tan deer and cow hides, but it was rough leather. When my nice shoes wore out I had to wear “paddies,” as we called Paddy Brown's shoes.
October, 1834.
The people were all very busy gathering their crops. It was the first year that father ever engaged in farming. He was well satisfied. He said if he were the owner of a wagon he would be one of the aristocracy. He said our neighbors were divided into three classes: those that owned wagons were the aristocracy; the second class owned carts; as he had a sleigh he belonged to the lower class. Mr. Cotie, a Frenchman, owned a big wagon and six yoke of oxen. He hauled freight from Brazoria to San Felipe. He said father was the only grandee among the people, as he rode in a sleigh.
There was no one that made wagons or carts. There was a wheel-wright and he had a turning lathe, but could not do heavy work. Some of the men sawed wheels from logs and made vehicles called trucks. Father was having work done on the house; he was going to take off the old roof and have it repaired. All the men and boys were to help. The young men said if mother would let them dance they would put the new roof on and clear the yard in one day. Mother consented, and all the men came except Mr. M—. He would not have anything to do with his neighbors. It did not take long to repair the house. The boards were three feet in length and six inches in width.
The boys went down in Mr. Shipman's settlement and fetched four young ladies. They with Mrs. Roark's four young daughters, were enough for dancing. Mr. Adam Stafford had sent a negro woman the day before to do the cooking. Before it was dark the dancing began. The girls and young ladies all had new dresses and shoes. I suppose I was the happiest child in the world that night. All the young men danced with me. There were five little girls aged from twelve to eight, and as there were only six young ladies and three married ladies to dance, the little girls came in for a great deal of attention.
Father asked the young men why there were no weddings. He said he had been nearly a year among them and there had been but one. That was Mr. William Neal and Miss Mary Stafford. One young man said that they were waiting for the priest to come from Mexico, as it would be too much trouble to be married the second time. When there was no priest among the people, those who married had to sign a written contract to remarry when the priest came round. It often happened that the priest performed the marriage ceremony for the parents and baptized the children at the same time. He would spend three or four days in the neighborhood. The people would gather, and then there would be religious service, weddings, dancing, feasting, and a good time generally. I often wished the priest would come around so that there could be a wedding in our neighborhood.
All pleasures must end, and our ball came to an end very unexpected to me. Two of the girls and myself, about four o'clock in the morning went to an outhouse used for storing cotton and sat down to talk. I lay down and went to sleep. The next thing I knew the sun was up. Everybody had gone home and mother was calling sister and me to breakfast.
November, 1834.—The A— and M— Tragedy.
The enmity between Messrs. A— and M— culminated in murder. There had been a spell of cold weather and a severe rain storm. It was the first cold weather since we had been in Texas. All outdoor work stopped. Father was going to Harrisburg with a load of cotton, but the cold weather prevented him. He had been sick for several days. One Sunday after dark Mr. Dyer came to the gate and called for father. He was sick in bed, and Uncle James went to the gate. We were not surprised, as it was not uncommon to call for the doctor. After a few minutes uncle came in and Messrs. Stafford, Dyer, Neal, A—, and Harvey Stafford were with him. Mother set chairs for them, but they would not be seated. Mr. A— stepped to the bed and told father he had shot M—. He said he did not think he had killed him, and he wanted father to go and assist him in getting Mr. M— home. He said he was hunting, and found a place in his back fence where bears had passed through. He set his gun down against a tree and was going to fix the fence, when he turned around and saw M— in the act of shooting at him. M—'s gun missed fire. As he was trying to shoot the second time, A— got his gun. As M— fired, he stumbled. A— fired at the same time. His shot struck M— in the left side. M— had killed a deer and had it tied on his back. After he fell to the ground he asked A— to take the deer off his back and go for the doctor. Mr. A— did as requested, put his coat under M—'s head, and dragged the deer away, so that if wolves were near they would not trouble the wounded man. After making Mr. M— as comfortable as circumstances would permit, he went home, told his wife what had happened, saddled his horse, went to the house of Mr. Neal, his near neighbor, and asked Neal to go with him to Mr. Dyer's. Mrs. Neal went with him, as she had no one to stay with her. When they got to Mr. Dyer's they found the two brothers, Adam and Harvey Stafford, there, and asked them to go to the assistance of Mr. M—. They thought it advisable to get the doctor and all go together. Our house and Mr. Dyer's were on the edge of the prairie, and the other families lived in the bottom. It was only one mile between the two houses.
Father said he could not go, and advised them to get five men to go, and if they found M— alive, to carry him home, and, if dead, to guard the body till they could get men from Mr. Shipman's neighborhood. The men were all young; three of them were married. Harvey Stafford said that he would go for assistance. The others returned with Mr. A—. All of them appeared to be scared, as it was the first time that that had ever happened in the neighborhood. After a couple of hours, Mr. Cotie and the Roark boys came and said Harvey Stafford sent them. Father told them to go near Mr. M—'s house and see if he had been carried home; if not, they were to come back to our house and wait for Mr. Shipman. They returned after a half hour and said that M— was dead. They could see a torchlight near A—'s house, and found the men waiting. They had made a fire, gathered cane for torches, and had A—'s cart and oxen ready to carry the corpse home.
After midnight Mr. Shipman and sons, Edward and John, came. They stopped to warm, for it was very cold weather. Mr. Shipman said he did not know what to do. Father told him he was the oldest man and had resided longest in the neighborhood, so he must hold an inquest, take down evidence, arrest Mr. A—, put him under guard, and send him to Harrisburg to the Mexican alcalde. The Messrs. Shipman went on after warming and drinking coffee. Father said he would go in the morning and make an examination of the body and would give a certificate of death.
Mother and father did not sleep much that night. It was a horrible calamity to happen so soon after the ball at our house. It was then remembered that M— had passed our house twice that night with his gun, but as every man carried a gun it did not attract attention. Mother had invited his family to the ball. Father had asked Mr. M— to help repair the house, but he said it was impossible, as he had two bales of cotton picked out and lying on the ground, and would have to haul it to the gin, for Mr. Stafford had promised to have it ginned that day.
Early next morning Uncle James came for mother. He said Mrs. M— accused all the men in the neighborhood of murdering her husband. She said she had suspected M— would kill A—, but did not suppose the neighbors would murder her husband.
A— helped to carry the corpse home and waited near the house till the men had prepared it for burial. He went with them to Mr. Stafford's to make the coffin. He was the only carpenter in the neighborhood.
Mother and Mrs. Dyer did all they could for Mrs. M—; father was not able to go out the next day. The burial was at Mrs. Roark's. The funeral procession came by our house, Mrs. M— and the children riding in the cart and sitting on her husband's coffin. Mr. Dyer sent his cart for her to ride in, but she would not use it.
The men carried the prisoner to Harrisburg. He was tried before Judge Burnet and acquitted.
This was the fourth act in the A—M— tragedy.
When the men returned they were very much discouraged. Mexico had sent a ship to blockade Galveston and to compel the people to ship their cotton from the port of Anahuac. The schooners could not come direct to Harrisburg, as Mexico had threatened to garrison that place. This order from Mexico worked a great hardship on the people, as it compelled them to haul their cotton to Brazoria, the principal commercial town in Texas.
All the men in the neighborhood, as soon as they got home, prepared to go to Brazoria. Mr. Cotie was going to haul cotton for Mrs. M—, father, and Mrs. Roark. He had a large wagon as big as a schooner. He came overland with the Roark family from Missouri in the year 1824.
December, 1834.
Father and the other men started for Brazoria on the 25th of November. They said they would be home in three weeks. There was not a white man left in the neighborhood except Adam Stafford. A negro man drove his wagon, and Harvey Stafford the cart. Messrs. Dyer, Neal, and Bell were their own drivers. Father drove the sleigh loaded with peltry. He waited for those who lived above to come on. When the caravan arrived it was a laughable sight for us children. When we were living in St. Louis we had seen twenty and thirty large wagons at a time, with six or eight mules, going to Santa Fe and military posts on the frontier. It was early in the morning when the wagons came in sight. All had loaded the day before at the Stafford gin. Mr. Cotie was in the lead. His wagon had been painted blue, and had a canvas cover. It was an imposing sight with six yoke of oxen. The Stafford wagon came next, and father's sleigh was in the rear. Uncle James had hired Mrs. M—'s cart and oxen to haul his cotton and had left the day before to go with the Messrs. Shipman. Mrs. M— was not disposed to have anything to do with her neighbors. She had no relatives in Texas. She had four little girls too small to be any help. She would have driven her cart and oxen and hauled her cotton to Harrisburg herself if she could have put a bale of cotton on the cart. Mr. Cotie told her he would haul it and not charge her a cent, but would get what supplies she needed and would bring receipts and money to show how he had disposed of the cotton.
The men had been absent but a few days from home when a large tribe of Indians came and camped between our house and Mrs. Roark's. There were two or three hundred men, women, and children. They came in the night. They had a large drove of Indian ponies. One squaw came to the house to buy corn. She said they were good Indians. She could speak English. She said they lived at the Waco village at the falls of the Brazos river, and were going to Harrisburg to sell hides. They had a great many buffalo hides and bear skins. The women and children in our neighborhood were afraid of them. Mrs. Roark had a perfect horror of Indians. It was only five years since they had murdered her husband. Mrs. Dyer's experience with good Indians had been very trying. Mr. Dyer located land on the Colorado river, and was living there in the year 1825. One day he was at work in the bottom ploughing. The corn-field was not in sight of the house. Some Indians came and said, “Indian heap good, want something to eat.” She gave them bread and milk, and while they were eating she left the house and ran with her babe to the bottom to her husband. They went into the thick cane and waited till night. Then they went near enough to the house to see if the Indians were gone. They could not see them, and went to the house. The good Indians were gone, but had robbed the house of clothing, provisions, and side saddles, and had carried off the cows and calves. When Mrs. Dyer first saw the Indians she was in her stocking feet. She did not stop to put on her shoes, and they carried them off. They stole one horse. Mrs. Dyer did not nurse her babe, but reared it by hand. She had no near neighbor. She was without a morsel to eat and had only a little milk she had carried in a bottle when she ran from the house. They left their house after dark with the intention of going to Morton's Ferry on the Brazos, fifty miles from where they lived. Mr. Dyer was walking, and she riding and carrying the babe. She had to ride a man's saddle. They traveled all night, stopping only on the San Bernard to let the horse feed. They were nearly starved, and the babe was suffering greatly. They had gone above the Fort Bend road. They went on to San Felipe and got there that night. They received assistance, rested a few days, and then went to Mr. Stafford's. He was Mrs. Dyer's father. He would not consent for them to return to the Colorado, but gave them land to settle on.
Father and the men got home the last of the year 1834, well pleased with Brazoria, but found the people in great excitement. Mexico had landed soldiers at the mouth of the Brazos, and had established a garrison at Velasco. There had been a meeting of the people at Columbia. Their object was to call a convention to meet at San Felipe, the capital of Texas.
Father stayed one night at Mr. W. J. Russell's, where he met Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Russell's brother. Mr. Bennet came to Texas at the time father did. He had been sick ever since we were shipwrecked, in the year 1833. He said if he was back in Kentucky with his negroes nothing on earth could induce him to come to Texas. Father said Mr. Bennet would die, as he had consumption.
The farmers sold their cotton for a good price and bought family supplies to last nearly a year. It was a great relief when the men got home.
January, 1835.
The Indians did not trouble anybody. They traded basket moccasins embroidered with beads. If they had been so disposed, they could have murdered the men, as there were twenty Indians to every white man. Mother said she was not scared about the Indians. She had gone through such a night of horror with the runaway negro, she did not think anything could scare her. She said that within a period of two years she had been shipwrecked, threatened by the wolves and buzzards, frightened by Ben Fort Smith and his Africans, and beseiged by the runaway negro, and did not think fate had anything else of the kind in store for her.
Father, Uncle James Wells, and Harvey Stafford came home together. Mr. Cotie sent Mrs. M—'s supplies by Uncle James, as he was to take her cart and oxen home in the morning. Mr. Cotie's wagon was too cumbersome to drive in the bottom. Early next morning Mr. Cotie came to go with Uncle James to give Mrs. M— her money and settle with her. She was so peculiar he wanted a witness to the settlement. She had four bales of cotton and the weight was near two thousand pounds. He had bought flour, sugar, coffee, and other things. Harvey Stafford was a wild boy aged eighteen years. He offered to go, saying that the widow was his special charge. If she had any more cotton to sell or wood to cut, he was the man to do it. Father told him that it would be best to wait for her daughters to grow up. He said no, he wanted the whole family. Mr. Cotie settled with Mrs. M— without any trouble.
Mrs. M— was not twenty-five years old, and was very handsome. * * * The neighbors did all they could to make her comfortable. They would have sent her to friends in the United States if she would have gone. She distrusted everybody. Her husband had not located land. He had bought twenty acres from Mr. Stafford, and had built a small house, but had not made the first payment at the time of his death. Mr. Stafford offered to pay for the house, buy her corn, cattle, and hogs, and send her and her children to her father * * *. She would not go, but commenced ploughing. Her husband had leased the ground for three years. The men went and ploughed and planted the crops for her. Mr. Adam Stafford said he would send his negroes to cultivate the land if others would help. All agreed to help but father. He said he would attend her family in sickness, furnish medicine, and not charge her a cent. The other men said they were willing.
February, 1835.
Uncle James decided not to live with us this year. He was going to oversee at the Stafford plantation.
Mr. Cotie and Uncle James teased Harvey