Recollections of Early Texas (21 page)

The whites stood on the bank and shot at them as they swam for the opposite side, killing all forty of them, except some four or five who escaped. Some of the warriors would try to turn and shoot from the water with their bows, but this did not work.

This band of Indians was supposed to have been the same party that attacked Captain Bartlett Sims* while he was out surveying and killed two of his men.
⁷

This raid seemed to have been exactly what was needed, and did much toward securing peace and safety along the frontier. A bare record of this and similar raids, where the Indians were the sufferers, would arouse some sympathy for the savages, perhaps, in the minds of those unacquainted with the terrible outrages and murders perpetrated by them upon our early settlers. We, however, who have lived amid the horrors of their cruelty and have gone out to find and bury the maimed and disfigured bodies of our friends who were victims of their hatred, can understand and recall the indignant and burning desire to pursue the savages and rid our country of such persecution and death.

It seems but justice to insert a few words by way of tribute to Judge N. W. Eastland,* now a resident of Bastrop County, who has given and suffered much for Texas. He is now eighty-two years old, having served under Andrew Jackson in the Seminole War. He came to Texas in 1833, and has been a devoted and active participant in all of her struggles and triumphs since then. A gentleman of fine military education, of varied experience, and rare conversational powers, he is even now, despite his extremely advanced age, agreeable and entertaining, giving in detail and from personal experience, many important incidents connected with our past history.

Two sons and a brother went out from the old man's
house to battle for Texas, and were killed. His oldest son, Robert M. Eastland, a man of sterling qualities, was killed in the Dawson Massacre, but made a brave and heroic struggle for his life. Nat [Nathaniel W.] Faison,* who is still living, saw him fall. He says Robert Eastland was first struck by a grapeshot, which broke his leg just above the ankle. In this condition he leaned against a mesquite tree for support and fought on, loading and shooting several times, until the Mexicans crowded on him and killed him.

By the way, Judge Eastland had quite an interesting experience about the time of Fannin's massacre in 1836, which is worthy of note. He joined Fannin's body of men near Goliad, just as the officers were about to hold a council as to what measures of action to adopt. Having been an old friend and roommate of Fannin at West Point, he was invited to be present at this council of officers, by Fannin, whose tent served as council chamber. The discussion was hot and earnest. At last a vote was taken as to whether they should take immediate action—that is, go on that night, evacuate Goliad, and attack the Mexican force of cavalrymen, then about six miles off, or wait until daylight for further action. The latter motion prevailed, although a number of the officers, together with Eastland, were in favor of the former plan. Alas! If they had pursued that plan, Fannin's unfortunate band might have been spared their terrible fate, for the Mexican forces would have been surprised; besides, during the night they received heavy reinforcements under General Urrea, thus increasing the fearful odds that awaited the brave band of Texans, whose names will be cherished among the many martyrs to Texas' liberty.

They waited for daylight, and after evacuating Goliad started east to attack the army. Judge Eastland belonged to the advanced guard, a company of cavalrymen under Albert C. Horton, whose name is not unknown to Texas history, and
whose conduct some have criticized, though unjustly, for he acted as he was compelled by circumstances.
⁸
Truly, “a small incident brings wonderful results,” and Eastland's experience, then, is a case in point. His horse having foundered, his company left him, and he thought he would have to remain with the main army. An old soldier seeing his trouble, however, informed him that nothing was better medicine for a foundered horse than running, and advised him to try it, saying he might thereby not only cure the animal but also overtake his company. So putting out at full speed he did accomplish both results, and was once more at his proper post in Horton's company.

As they left Goliad, they came first to the fresh trail showing the march of a larger reinforcement of Mexicans, and very soon could see Mexican spies going to and fro. Everything indicated not only the close proximity of the enemy, but eager interest and action. The company of scouts halted at a fire they found in their march, when suddenly a loud and terrible roaring was heard. Some said it was the noise of an approaching storm from the north, but it proved to be the tread of the Mexican army bearing upon Fannin's doomed band. This was indeed a critical situation. Horton's small company of men found themselves separated from the main army of Texans by a force of three or four thousand Mexicans. They stood helpless, but unhurt, until two or three charges had been made. They could see some sign of the brave fight made by Fannin's men, as ever and anon from the din and smoke of battle a Mexican horse would come charging back without a rider, but they knew the terrible
odds of the struggle, and felt that the fate of their fellow soldiers was sealed.

Meanwhile, they soon realized that lingering there would endanger their own lives, so they retreated. In the course of their retreat they met Carra Bahalle, a notorious and wealthy Mexican, who questioned them with interest concerning the cannonading, which he had heard. Fearing betrayal, they prudently withheld from him the true state of affairs, informing him that they supposed it to be a little fight at sea between Texas and Mexico. At the same time they repeated to him a current rumor that Houston was on his way with an immense army to attack Mexico. This company of scouts escaped almost miraculously, as it were, for after the war Eastland met Bahalle and learned that a Mexican force came to his ranch immediately after their departure, but made no pursuit, as Carra Bahalle, knowing nothing of the truth, simply repeated to them the report concerning Houston's coming.

Another family who ranked among the bravest and best of our Texas soldiers and pioneers was that of the Neills. Colonel James Neill, already spoken of, came to Texas in a time of war, but he already bore the scars of wounds received in service under General Jackson in 1812—he was wounded in the Battle of Horseshoe Bend, again in the taking of San Antonio, and also in the Battle of San Jacinto.

It is not recorded, but is nevertheless a fact that Colonel Neill fired the first gun for Texas at the beginning of the revolution—the famous little brass cannon at Gonzales.

A visit from his son, George Neill,
⁹
a man every whit
suited to the scenes of his early manhood, possessing by nature the faculty not only to endure, but even to enjoy the struggles of frontier life, brought up many old times and faces.

Talking with George Neill made me think of “mustanging.” I expect there are very few of the readers of my reminiscences who know the plan we used to pursue in taking the herds of wild horses that were wont to graze through these parts, and I imagine a few words in description thereof will not be uninteresting, at least to the young men and boys of Texas.

The first item was a mustang pen, or stronghold, which was built on some one of their regular passways, cautiously avoiding cutting timber, for at any sign of civilization a mustang is “off.” The pen was of very large, heavy logs, generally enclosing a small circle—small because it was important that the frantic herd should have little room for play—a very short run would give them striking force enough to knock down almost any wall, however strong. The wall was ten or fifteen feet high and raised from the ground all around, so that when the heavy bars were closed on the herd and a horse was to be taken out, men tied and dragged it out underneath the wall. Then attached to the sides were the “wings” which extended a mile or two in both directions, generally embracing the entire range.

The common little partridge net furnishes a very good illustration of the pen, plan, etc. Horses well-fed and fast were kept and trained for that special purpose, and the herdsmen going around “afar off” would ride in behind the herd, which would break for their lives, and then, “Away to the chase!” Sometimes the run was for miles and miles over hill
and valley, going at full speed and crowding considerably as we neared the bars.

Once a few of the boys had a whipping race back to their mustang pen, which is rather more amusing to us now than it was then to the runners.

In July of 1842 four men—George Neill, James Curtis,* and two Mexicans, went out on Plum Creek Prairie to herd and drive in mustangs, having first prepared a pen. As usual, they went on fine horses and without arms or any encumbrance, so that the run might be unhindered. When about fifteen miles from home they were surprised by a large band of Comanches. Nothing but the superior fleetness and endurance of their horses saved them from falling into the hands of the Indians, whose horses failed when about one and a half miles from the pen. All of the men except James Curtis were wounded, and arrows were sticking in all the horses when the race was done.

These races for life were not uncommon, however, along in those times, and many men were not even allowed to run for their lives, but surprised and overpowered, fell without warning or help. Ah! “The voice of many a brother's blood called from the ground,” as it were, to us who knew them, seeming to plead for at least the simple boon of remembrance. Hard lives were suddenly cut short, and the manner of their deaths was hardest of all. There is a queer but strong sympathy which sometime forces my mind to dwell upon, work out, and try to record the details of these sad tragedies of my early days, and it seems to me the names of men who thus fell, innocent, brave, and defenseless, should at least be enrolled among the great ones of the earth.

CHAPTER X

Recollections at Random

In the remainder of my personal reminiscences of Texas history, I will say that I do not henceforth confine myself to Bastrop County, but will speak of men and circumstances as they came into my life, were connected with my experience, and now come into my memory. Perhaps they may come with irregularity and confusion, but they are none the less vivid and true, and this record is given with the double desire of casting a mite into the
Treasury of Truth
and rescuing from threatened oblivion incidents of interest connected with the history of Texas.

I will first tell of the Karankawa Indians,
¹
whom I have never mentioned, and whose career among us was not without interest. They might well have been termed giants, for they were most magnificent men in size and strength, seldom below six feet in height. They lived for the most part along the coast and were most remarkable in their skill as fishermen.

When on the warpath their costume and general appear
ance were quite peculiar and striking. Each warrior painted one-half of his face black and the other red. Then he was entirely naked except for a breechclout or apron, with its long sash, bordered with tassels and fringes, almost touching the ground behind.

He carried a bow as long as he was tall, with arrows of proportional length, with which he could kill game a hundred yards distant. I knew an instance of the terrible force of these arrows which is worthy of note. Aimed at a bear, three years old, that had taken refuge in the top of a tree, it went through the brute's body and was propelled forty or fifty yards beyond.

It was said by early settlers that they were cannibals, and I remember the experience of one man which corroborated the truth of this report. He was a large, fleshy Scotchman, John Lawrence by name, who worked on Mother's place, and I have often heard an account of this adventure from his own lips. A band of Karankawas having captured him, they immediately began preparations to eat him, declaring, with evident sincerity, that he was, “A nice fat man—good.” The fire, which was to roast or broil him, was beginning to burn and, being securely tied, Lawrence was already anticipating the excitement and novelty of such a death, when he was rescued by a party of white men. He always believed that they would certainly have feasted on his huge form, and felt, as it were, that he was snatched from their jaws.

They frequently came to Matagorda and other interior points, and generally assumed a friendly attitude toward the Americans, but were always bitter in their hostility against Mexico. This was not without cause, for in the early settlement of Matagorda many of them were murdered and cruelly treated by the Mexicans, and it is a well-known fact that an Indian seldom forgets or forgives an injury.

A company of Mexicans came into Matagorda for the
purpose of trading, without fear or any evil design. They barely escaped with their lives, for a band of these Karankawas, under their old chief, Hosea Marea, all painted and armed for battle, appeared upon the scene and would have killed the entire company of traders without delay or mercy, but for the timely intercession of the Texans.

At length, they began to show a spirit of hostility toward Texas. I cannot now give details of all the murders and invasions of which I knew them guilty, but two of them are especially fresh in my mind, and will serve to mark the cause of their defeat and subjugation.

Five men had brought a boatload of supplies for immigrants, and were lying near the mouth of the Colorado, when they were surprised by a band of the Karankawas and all killed except one, a Mr. Clark,
²
whose escape seems almost a miracle. Receiving a shot which broke his thigh, he crawled out of the boat into a canebrake, and lay there alone and defenseless, bleeding terribly. In this condition he was striving to stop the fearful flow of blood from his wound, when hearing a slight noise, he looked out and saw two dogs coming upon his trail. His chance for escape seemed indeed a desperate one now, for he felt confident that the Indians had put the dogs upon his tracks, but his relief may be imagined as time passed and no pursuers came. He was in a short time picked up by Americans, and lived to engage in many of the after-struggles of our country, being alive at the close of the Confederate War, when last heard from.