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For the first time in thirty-six hours Mrs. Jones now, dismounted, and knowing that sleep would soon overcome her as there was no tree or brush to which she could fasten the horse, she tied the end of the rope around her waist, threw herself on the ground and in a moment was fast asleep. How long she had slept she does not know, but the sun was high in the heavens when she was roused by the clattering of horses feet. Looking up she was terror struck to find that she was completely surrounded by a large party of Indians. Worn down as she was by her long ride and her nerves unstrung by anxiety and the hardships she had undergone the shock was too great for her and she fainted. When she regained consciousness the Indians placed her on a horse and started with her to their camp, which was not far off. On their arrival there they left her under charge of the squaws, who prepared some food for her and gave her a buffalo robe for a bed. It was several days before she was able to walk about camp. She soon learned that her last captors belonged to Lone Wolf's band of Kiowas. These Indians treated her much more kindly than the Comanches, but as she did not think they would ever voluntarily release her and although she had not the remotest idea of her locality or of the direction or distance to any white settlement she was determined to take advantage of the first opportunity to make her escape from them.

Some time after she was captured by these Indians a party left camp, going off in a northerly direction, and in five or six days they returned bringing back with them some ears of green corn. She knew the prairie tribes did not plant corn, and she felt confident this party had visited a white settlement in a northerly direction not more than three days travel from where they were encamped.

Late one night after all was quiet in camp and everything seemed auspicious for carrying out the purpose, she cautiously crept from her bed and went to where she knew the Indians had staked their horses. Having caught and saddled one, she was in the act of mounting him, when several dogs rushed out after her and by their barking created such a disturbance in camp that she thought it most prudent to return to her lodge, which she reached without having been seen by anyone.

On a subsequent night however, fortune favored her, and selecting a good horse she rode off in the direction the Indians had taken when they brought back the ears of green corn. Guided by the sun and the stars at night, she was able to keep her course and after three days of hard riding, anxiety, fatigue and hunger, she came to a large river. The stream was swollen to the tops of its banks, the current coursed like a torrent along the channel, and she thought her tired horse would he unable to stem it; but after surmounting the many difficulties she had already encountered, she was not to be turned aside by this formidable obstacle. She let her wearied animal rest and graze for awhile, then mounting him again the dauntless woman dashed into the turbulent stream and with great difficulty the faithful steed bore her in safety to the opposite bank.

Giving her horse a few moments rest, she again set forward, and had gone but a short distance when to her inexpressible delight she struck a broad wagon road, the first and only trace of civilization she had seen since she left her home in Texas. Nothing, she said, ever gave her so much pleasure as the sight of this road, for she felt confident that it would lead her to some settlement of her own race; and her anticipations were more speedily realized than expected, for a little while afterwards she saw a long train of wagons slowly coming.

At the sight of this train her feelings overpowered her, and she wept tears of joy while offering up sincere thanks to the Almighty for delivering her from a bondage more dreadful than death. She hurried on and soon met the foremost wagon, which was driven by a Mr Robert Bent who had charge of the train. He was very much astonished to meet a young woman traveling all alone on horseback in that wild country, with no covering on her head save her long hair, which was hanging in disheveled locks upon her shoulders.

When she came up, Bent stopped his wagon and asked her where she lived and to what place she was going. She replied that she lived in Texas, and that she was on her way to the nearest settlement. At this response he shook his head incredulously, and said she must be mistaken, as the nearest point in Texas was some five or six hundred miles distant. She however, reiterated her statement, and described to him briefly the leading incidents of her capture and her escape from the Indians. Still he was inclined to doubt the story she told him, thinking possibly she might be insane. He informed her that the river she had just crossed was the Arkansas, and that she was then on the Santa Fe road, fifteen miles west of Big Turk Creek, where she would find the most remote frontier settlement. He then gave her some provisions, and after thanking him for his kindness, she proceeded on her way.

When Bent reached Fort Zara he called on the Indian agent there and told him about meeting Mrs. Jones on the road. By a curious coincidence it happened that the agent was at that very time holding a council with the chief of the incidental band of Indians from whom Mrs Jones had just escaped and the chief had given him a full history of the whole affair, which seemed so impossible to the agent that he was not disposed to credit it until his account was confirmed by Mr. Bent. The agent at once dispatched a man to follow the woman and conduct her to Council Grove where she was kindly received, and remained for some time hoping through the agent to gain some intelligence of the two children she had left with the Comanches, but no tidings could be obtained. They were eventually found, however, ransomed and sent home

By reference to the map of the country over which Mrs. Jones traveled, it will be seen that the distance from the place of her capture to where she struck the Arkansas river, could not have been less than five hundred miles, and the greater part of her route was through an immense desert plains unvisited except by occasional bands of Indians.

Her escape from the Indians and her equestrian feats were most remarkable, and the accounts herein given of them seems almost incredible, and yet there are those still living in Texas to whom the facts are well known, and who can authenticate the truth of the foregoing narrative.

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THE HORRORS OF INDIAN CAPTIVITY - PART THREE

2018-02-01

JOHN HENRY BROWN

(Continued. Read PART TWO here)

Omitting Mrs. Horn's mental tortures on account of her children, she avers that the sufferings of Mrs. Harris were much greater than her own. That lady could not brook the idea of menial service to such demons and fared badly. They were often near together and were allowed occasionally to meet and mingle their tears of anguish. Mrs. Harris, generally, was starved to such a degree that she availed herself of every opportunity to get a mite of meat, however small, through Mrs. Horn.

In about two months two little Mexican boys, who were prisoners, told her a little boy had arrived nearby with his captors and told them his mother was a prisoner somewhere in the country. By permission she went to see him and found her little Joseph, who, painted and his head shaven excepting a tuft on the crown, recognized her at a distance and ran to her overflowing with cries and tears of joy. She was allowed to remain with him only half an hour. I draw the veil over the heart-rending scene of their separation.

It was four months before she heard of John, her elder son, and then she saw him passing with a party, but was not allowed to go to him. Sometime later, however, when the different bands congregated for buffalo hunting, she was allowed to see him. Time passed, and dates cannot be given, but Mrs. Horn records that "some of Captain Coffee's men came to trade with the Indians and found me." They were Americans and made every effort to buy her, but in vain. On leaving they said they would report to Captain Coffee and if anyone could assist these captives he could and would. Soon afterwards he came in person and offered the Indians any amount in goods and money, but without avail. Mrs. Horn says: "He expressed the deepest concern at his disappointment and wept over me as he gave me clothing and divided his scanty supply of flour with me and my children, which he took the pains to carry to them himself. It is, if possible, with a deeper interest that I record this tribute of gratitude to Captain Coffee because, since my strange deliverance, I have been pained to learn that he has been charged with supineness and indifference on the subject; but I can assure the reader that nothing more can be unjust. Mrs. Harris was equally the object of his solicitude. The meeting of this friend in the deep recesses of savage wilds was indeed like water to a thirsty soul, and the parting under such gloomy forebodings opened anew the fountain of grief in my heart. It was to me as the icy seal of death fixed upon the only glimmering ray of hope, and my heart seemed to die within me, as the form of him whom I had fondly anticipated as my delivering angel, disappeared in the distance."

(The noble-hearted gentleman thus embalmed in the pure heart of that daughter of sorrow, was Holland Coffee, the founder of Coffee's Trading House on Red River, a few miles above Denison. He was a member of the Texan Congress in 1838, a valuable and courageous man on the frontier, and to the regret of the country was killed a few years later in a difficulty, the particulars of which are not at this time remembered:) Colonel Coffee, formerly of Southwest Missouri, but for many years a citizen of Georgetown, Texas, was a brother to the deceased.)

Soon after this there was so great a scarcity of meat that some of the Indians nearly starved. Little John managed to send his mother small portions of his allowance and when, not a great while later, she saw him for the last time he was rejoiced to learn that she had received them. He had been sick and had a sore throat, but she was only allowed a short interview with him. Soon after this little Joseph's party camped near her and she was permitted to spend a day with him. He had a new owner and he said he was then treated kindly. His mistress, who was a young Mexican, had been captured with her brother and remained with them, while her brother by some means had been restored to his people. He was one of the hired guard at the unfortunate settlement of Dolores, where Joseph knew him and learned of his captivity and that his sister was still with the savages. By accident this woman learned these facts from Joseph, who to convince her, showed how her brother walked, he being lame. This coincidence established a bond of union between the two, greatly to Joseph's advantage. As the shades of evening approached the little fellow piteously clung to his mother, who, for the last time, folded him in her arms and commended his soul to that beneficent God in whose goodness and mercy she implicitly trusted.

Some time in June, 1837, a little over fourteen months after their capture, a party of Mexican traders visited the camp and bought Mrs. Harris. In this work of mercy they were employees of that largehearted Santa Fe trader, who had previously ransomed and restored Mrs. Rachel Plummer to her people, Mr. William Donoho, of whom more will hereafter be said. They tried in vain to buy Mrs. Horn. Although near each other, she was not allowed to see Mrs. Harris before her departure, but rejoiced at her liberation. They had often mingled their tears together and had been mutual comforters. Of this separation Mrs. Horn wrote: "Now left a lonely exile in the bonds of savage slavery, haunted by night and by day with the image of my murdered husband, and tortured continually by an undying solicitude for my dear little ones, my life was little else than unmitigated misery, and the God of Heaven only knows why and how it is that I am still alive."

After the departure of Mrs. Harris the Indians traveled to and fro almost continually for about three months without any remarkable occurrence. At the end of this time they were within two days' travel of San, Miguel, a village on the Pecos, in Eastern New Mexico. Here an Indian girl told Mrs. Horn that she was to be sold to people who lived in houses. She did not believe it and cared but little, indeed dreaded thereby she might never see her children, but hope suggested that as a prisoner she might never see them again, while her redemption might be followed by theirs. A great many Indians had here congregated. Her old woman friend in reply to her questions told her she was to be sold, wept bitterly and applied to her neck and arms a peculiar red paint, symbol of undying friendship. They started early one morning and traveled until dark, encamping near a pond. They started before day the next morning and soon reached a river, necessarily the Pecos, or ancient Puerco, which they forded, and soon arrived at a small town on the margin, where they encamped for the remainder of the day. The inhabitants visited the camp from curiosity, among them a man who spoke broken English, who asked if Mrs. Horn was for sale and was answered affirmatively by her owner. He then gave her to understand that if he bought her he expected her to remain with him, to which, with the feelings of a pure woman she promptly replied that she did not wish to exchange her miserable condition for a worse one. He offered two horses for her, however, but they were declined. Finding that he could not buy her, he told her that in San Miguel there was a rich American merchant, named Benjamin Hill, who would probably buy her. Her mistress seemed anxious that she should fall into the American hands, and she was herself of course intensely anxious to do so.

They reached San Miguel on the next day and encamped there. She soon conveyed through an old woman in the place, a message to Mr. Hill. He promptly appeared and asked if she knew Mrs. Harris, and if she had two children among the Indians. Being answered in the affirmative, he said: "You are the woman I have heard of," and added, "I suppose you would be happy to get away from these people." "I answered in the affirmative, when he bid me 'good morning,' and deliberately walked off without another word, my throbbing bosom swelled with unutterable anguish as he disappeared."

For two days longer she remained in excruciating suspense as to her fate. Mr. Hill neither visited nor sent her anything, while the Mexicans were very kind. On the morning of the third day the Indians began preparations for leaving, and when three-fourths of the animals were packed and some had left, a good hearted Mexican appeared and offered to buy Mrs. Horn, but was told it was too late. The applicant insisted, exhibiting four beautiful bridles, and inviting the Indian owning her to go with her to his house near by. He consented. In passing Hill's store on the way, her mistress, knowing she preferred passing into American hands, persuaded her to enter it. Mr. Hill offered a worthless old horse for her, and then refused to give some red and blue cloth which the Indians fancied, for her. They went to the Mexican's house and he gave for her two fine horses, the four fine bridles, two fine blankets, two looking glasses, two knives, some tobacco, powder and balls, articles then of very great cost. She says: "I subsequently learned that for my ransom I was indebted to the benevolent heart of an American gentleman, a trader, then absent, who had authorized this Mexican to purchase us at any cost, and had made himself responsible for same. Had I the name of my benefactor I would gratefully record it in letters of gold and preserve it as a precious memento of his truly Christian philanthropy."

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It was shown in the sequel that the noble heart to which the ransomed captive paid homage, pulsated in the manly breast of Mr. William Donoho, then of Santa Fe, but a Missourian, and afterwards of Clarksville, Texas, where his only surviving child was residing in 1894. His widow died there in 1880, preceded by him in 1845.

The redemption of this daughter of multiplied sorrows occurred, as stated. at San Miguel, New Mexico, on the 19th of September, 1837, one year, five months and fifteen days after her capture on the 4th of April, 1836, on the Nueces river in Texas.

On the 21st of September, to her surprise, Mr. Hill sent a servant requesting her to remove to his house. This she refused. The servant came a second time saying, in the name of his master, that if she did not he would compel her to do so. A trial was had and she was awarded to Hill. She remained in his service as a servant, fed on mush and milk and denied a seat at the luxurious table of himself and mistress until the 2nd of November. A generous hearted gentleman named Smith, residing sixty miles distant at the mines, hearing of her situation, sent the necessary means and escort to have her taken to his place for temporary protection. She left on the 2nd and arrived at Mr. Smith's on the 4th. The grateful heart thus notes the change: "The contrast between this and the house I left exhibited the difference between a servant and a guest, between the cold heart that would coin the tears of helpless misery into gold to swell a miser's store, and the generous bestowal of heavenly friendship which, in its zeal to relieve the woes of suffering humanity, gives sacred attestation that it springs from the bosom of `Him, who, though he was rich, yet for our sakes became poor that we, through His poverty, might become rich.' "

Her stay in the home of Mr. Smith was a daily repetition of kindness, and she enjoyed all that was possible in view of the ever present grief over her slaughtered husband and captive children.

In February, 1838, she received a sympathetic letter from Texas, accompanied with presents of clothing, from Messrs. Workman & Rowland, Missourians, so long honorably known as Santa Fe traders and merchants, whose families were then residing in Taos. They advised her to defer leaving for Independence until they could make another effort to recover her children and invited her to repair, as their guest, to Taos to await events, and provided the means for her doing so, placing her under the protection of Mr. Kirkindall (probably Kuykendall, but I follow her spelling of the name.) "But," she records, "friends were multiplying around me, who seemed to vie with each other in their endeavors to meet my wants. Other means presented themselves and I was favored with the company of a lady and Dr. Waldo."

She left Mr. Smith and the mines on the 4th of March, 1838, and after traveling in snow and over rocks and mountains part of the way, arrived at Taos on the 10th. From that time until the 22nd of August her time was about equally divided between the families of Messrs. Workman and Rowland, who bestowed upon her every kindness. She now learned that these gentlemen had formerly sent out a company to recover herself and Mrs. Harris, who had fallen in with a different tribe of Indians and lost several of their number in a fight. Her friend, Mr. Smith, had performed a similar service and when far out his guide faltered, causing such suffering as to cause several deaths from hunger, while some survived by drinking the blood of their mules. While Mrs. Horn remained with them these gentlemen endeavored through two trading parties to recover her children, but failed. A report came in that little John had frozen to death, holding horses at night; but it was not believed by many. Mrs. Harris and Mrs. Plummer reached Missouri under the protection of Mrs. Donoho. On the 2nd of August all efforts to recover her children having failed, leaving only the hope that others might succeed, Mrs. Horn left in the wagon train and under the protection of Messrs. Workman and Rowland. She was the only lady in the party. Nothing unusual transpired on the journey of 700 or 800 miles, and on the last day of September, 1838, they arrived at Independence, Missouri. On the 6th of October she reached the hospitable home of Mr. David Workman at New Franklin.

This closes the narrative as written by Mrs. Horn soon after she reached Missouri and before she met Mr. Donoho. Her facts have been faithfully followed, omitting the repetition of her sufferings and correcting her dates in two cases where her memory was at fault. She sailed from New York on the 11th of November, 1833, a year earlier than stated by her, hence arrived at Dolores a year earlier, and consequently remained there two years instead of one, for it is absolutely certain that she arrived there in March, 1834, and left there in March, 1836. I have been able also, from her notes, to approximate localities and routes mentioned by her from long acquaintance with much of the country over which she traveled.

Mr. Donoho, in company with his wife—a lady of precious memory in Clarksville, Texas, from the close of 1839 until her death in 1880—conveyed Mrs. Plummer, one of the captives taken at Parker's Fort, May 19, 1836, and Mrs. Harris from Santa Fe to Missouri in the autumn of 1837. He escorted Mrs. Plummer to Texas, left his wife and Mrs. Harris with his mother-in-law, Mrs. Lucy Dodson, in Pulaski county, Missouri, and then hastened back to Santa Fe to look after his property and business, for he had hurried away because of a sudden outbreak of hostilities between the New Mexicans and Indians tonnerly friendly, and this is the reason he was not present to take personal charge of Mrs. Horn on her recovery at San Miguel. When he reached Santa Fe, Mrs. Horn had left Taos for Independence. Closing his business in Santa Fe he left the place permanently and rejoined his family at Mrs. Dodson's. Mrs. Horn then for the first time met him and remained several months with his family. Prior to this her narrative had been written, and she still saw little of him, he being absent on business. Mrs. Harris had relatives in Texas, but shrank from the idea of going there; and hearing of other kindred near Boonville, Missouri, joined them, and soon died from the exposure and abuse undergone while a prisoner of the savages. Mrs. Horn soon died from the same causes while on a visit, though her home was with Mrs. Dodson. Both Mrs. Harris and Mrs. Horn were covered with barbaric scars—their vital organs were impaired, and they fell the victims of that accursed cruelty known only to savage brutes.

In verification of the facts not stated by Mrs. Horn, because when writing they were unknown to her, I have the statements of Dr. William Dodson and Mrs. Lucy Estes of Camden county, Missouri, brother and sister of Mrs. Donoho, who were with all the parties for nearly a year after they reached Missouri.

A copy of Mrs. Horn's memoirs came into my possession in 1839, when it had just been issued, and so remained until accidentally lost many years, believed to have been the only copy ever in Texas. The events described by her were never otherwise published in the State. This is not strange. Beales' Colony was neither in Texas at that date, nor in any way connected with the American colonies or settlements in Texas. It was in Coahuila, Mexico, though now in the limits of Texas. When its short life terminated in dispersion and the butchery of the retreating party on the Nueces, the Mexican army covered every roadway leading to the inhabited part of Texas, before whom the entire population had fled east. None were left to recount the closing tragedy except the two unfortunate and (as attested by all who subsequently knew them) refined Christian ladies whose travails and sorrows have been chronicled, both of whom, as shown died soon after liberation, and neither of whom ever after saw Texas.

The novelty of this history, unknown to the people of Texas at the time of its occurrence, has moved me to extra diligence in search of the truth and the whole truth of its elucidation. As a delicate and patriotic duty it has been faithfully performed in justice to the memory of the strangely united daughters of England and America, and of those lion-hearted yet noble-breasted American gentlemen, Messrs. Donoho, Workman, Rowland and Smith, by no means omitting Mrs. Donoho, Mrs. Dodson and children, nor yet the poor old Comanche woman—a pearl among swine—who looked in pity upon the stricken widow, mother and captive.

Lamenting my inability to state the fate of little John and Joseph, and trusting that those who come after us may realize the cost in blood through which Texas was won to civilization, to enlightened freedom and to a knowledge of that religion by which it is taught that "Charity suffereth long and is kind, beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, doeth all things, and endureth all things," I do not regret the labor it has cost me to collect the materials for this sketch.

(We learned a few years ago that Earl Vandale, of Amarillo, Texas, had in his possession a copy of the pamphlet written and published by Mrs. Horn in 1838. This is no doubt the Memoirs of Mrs. Horn, which John Henry Brown mentions in the above. —Editor.)

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THE HORRORS OF INDIAN CAPTIVITY - PART TWO

2018-01-30

JOHN HENRY BROWN

(Continued. Click here to read part one)

"For some time before her capture Mrs. Harris had been suffering greatly from a rising in her breast, from which her infant was denied nourishment, and it had been tenderly cared for by Mrs. Horn. Though the little innocent was now dead, the mother, in addition to brutal treatment otherwise, suffered excruciatingly in her breast, the heartless wretches for days not allowing Mrs. Horn to dress it. But finally she was permitted to do so and had the sagacity to dress and cover it with a poultice of prickly pear cactus leaves, than which few things are better. Its effect was excellent. Both ladies almost, and the little boys entirely, denuded of clothing, their bodies blistered and the skin peeled off, causing intense suffering.

From the scene of slaughter the savages traversed the country between the lower Nueces and the lower Rio Grande, killing all who came within their power. They came upon the body of a man apparently dead for a month, which from Mrs. Horn's statement I have no doubt was that of Dr. James Grant, the Scotchman, previously mentioned as associated with Dr. Beales, who was killed by Mexican cavalry near the Agua Dulce creek, twenty or thirty miles beyond the Nueces March 2, 1836, some distance from the spot where his men were slain, he and Colonel Reuben R. Brown having been chased four or five miles from their party, Grant killed and Brown captured, to be imprisoned in Matamoras until the following December, when he and Samuel W. McKneely, who was captured at San Patricio by the same party, escaped and made their way into the settlements of Texas —Brown afterwards living at the mouth of the Brazos and commanding a Confederate regiment in the civil war, and McKneely deceased in 1889 at Texarkana, Texas. They also passed the bodies of those killed at the original point of attack, the Indians saying they were "Tivos," or Americans. This event, together with the night surprise at San Patricio, the killing of some, the capture of others, and the escape of Colonel Frank W. Johnson, David J. Toler, John H. Love, and James M. Miller, was the disastrous termination of what is known in Texan history as the Johnson and Grant expedition, part of a wild and disorganizing series of measures set on foot or countenanced by the faction ridden council of the provisional government of Texas against the wise and inflexible opposition of Governor Henry Smith and General Sam Houston, and culminating in the surrender and subsequent slaughter of Fannin and nearly 400 noble and chivalrous men. During this raid in that section the Indians caught and killed a very genteel, well dressed Mexican, then surrounded and entered his house, killing his young wife and two children, and then rushed upon a neighboring house and killed two men near it and one inside. At another time along a road they waylaid and murdered a handsomely dressed Mexican and his servant. As another portion of them rushed across a creek when, through the timber, Mrs. Horn saw them advancing upon a man who exclaimed, "Stand back! Stand back!" but seemed to have no arms. Numerous guns fired, all apparently by the Indians, when all of the party, four or five in number, lay dead upon the ground. So far as Mrs. Horn could determine all were Americans. This occurrence, and the surrounding facts, considering the locality and the fact that no party of Americans could have been there from choice, can only be explained on the hypothesis that these men had escaped from prison in Matamoras, and without arms were endeavoring to return to Texas, for only through these two captive ladies could it have been made known and this they had no opportunity of doing excepting after their recovery and through the narrative from which these facts are collected. Neither was ever afterwards in the settled parts of Texas, and indeed never were before, excepting on the trip from Copano via Goliad and San Antonio to the Rio Grande.

On another occasion, after traveling for a short distance on a large road, evidently leading to Matamoras, they arrived near a rancho, near a lake of water. The main body halted and a part advanced upon the house which, though near, could not be seen by the captive ladies, but they heard the fight going on, firing and defiant shouts for a considerable time, when the Indians returned bearing two of their comrades severely wounded and showing that they had been defeated and feared pursuit. They left the road and traveled rapidly all night, and then made no fire. On the following day they moved in haste as if apprehensive of attack. They made no halt until night, and then for the first time allowed the prisoners water and a small quantity of meat. After two hours of travel the next morning, to the amazement of the captives, they arrived at the spot where their husbands and friends had been murdered and where their naked bodies still lay, untouched since they left them, and only blackened in appearance. The little boys, John and Joseph, at once recognized their father, and poured forth such wails as to soften any but a brutal, savage heart. They soon passed on to the spot where lay the bodies of Mr. Harris and the young German, who, Mrs. Horn says, fell upon his face and knees, and was still in that position, being the only one not stripped of his clothing.

Starting next morning by a different route from that first pursued, they traveled rapidly for three days and reached the spot near where they had killed the little Mexican and his family and had secreted the plunder from his house and the other victims of their barbarity. This, Mrs. Horn thought, was on the 18th day of April, 1836, being the fifteenth day of their captivity. This being but three days before the battle of San Jacinto, when the entire American population of Texas was on, or east of the Trinity, abundantly accounts for the fact that these bloody tragedies never became known in Texas; though, as will be shown further on, accidentally came to my knowledge in the year 1839, while in Missouri.

Gathering and packing their secreted spoils, the savages separated into three parties of about equal numbers and traveled with all possible speed till the middle of June, about two months. Much of the way was over rough stony ground, provisions scarce, long intervals without water, the sun on the bare heads and naked bodies of the captives very hot, and their sufferings were great. The ladies were in two different parties.

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The narrative of Mrs. Horn, during her captivity, abounds in recitals of cruelties towards herself, her children and Mrs. Harris, involving hunger. thirst, mental labor, stripes, etc., though gradually lessened as time passed. To follow them in detail would become monotonous repetition. As a rather extreme illustration the following facts transpired on this long march of about two months from the extreme Southwest Texas (it it supposed) the headwaters of the Arkansas.

Much of the route, as before stated, was over rough and stony ground, "cut up by steep and nearly impassable ravines, with deep and dangerous fords." This is Mrs. Harris' language and aptly applies to the headwaters of the Nueces, Guadalupe, the Conchos and the sources of the Colorado, Brazos and Red Rivers, through which they necessarily passed. At one of the deep fords little Joseph Horn slipped from his mule while ascending the bank and fell back into the water. When he had nearly extricated himself, a burly savage, enraged at the accident, pierced him in the face with a lance with such force as t o throw him into deep water and inflict a severe wound just below the eye. Not one of the demons offered remonstrance or assistance, but all seemed to exult in the brutal scene. The little sufferer, however, caught a projecting bush and succeeded in reaching the bank, bleeding like a slaughtered animal. The distracted mother upbraided the wretch for his conduct, in return for which he made the child travel on foot and drive a mule the remainder of the day.

When they halted for the night he called Mrs. Horn to him. With a knife in one hand and a whip in the other. he gave her an unmerciful threshing, but in this, as in all of her afflictions, she says: "I have cast myself at His feet whom I have ever been taught to trust and adore, and it is to Him I owe it that I was sustained in the fiery trials. When the savage monster had done whipping me, he took his knife and literally sawed the hair from my head. It was quite long and when he completed the operation he tied it to his as an ornament, and I suppose, wears it yet. At this time we had tasted no food for two days, and in hearing the moans of my starving children, bound as on every night with cords, I laid down, and mothers may judge if they can, the measure of my repose. The next day a wild horse was killed and we were allowed to partake of the flesh."

The next day, says the captive lady, they came to a deep, rapid stream. The mules had to swim and the banks were so steep the riders had to dismount at the edge of the water to enable them to ascend. They then soon came to the base of a mountain which it was difficult to ascend. Arriving at the summit they halted, when a few of the Indians returned to the stream with the two little boys and enjoyed the barbaric sport of throwing the little creatures in until life would be almost extinct. Reviving them, they would repeat the torture and this was done time and again. Finally they rejoined the party on the mountain, the children being unable to stand, partially unconscious and presenting a pitiable spectacle. Their bodies were distended from engorgement with water, and Joseph's face was terribly swollen. Water came from their stomachs in gurgles. Let Eastern humanitarians bear in mind that this was in the spring of 1836, before the Comanches had any just pretense for hostility towards the people of Texas (however much they may have had in regard to the Mexicans) and that this narrative comes, not from a Texan, but from a refined English lady, deeply imbued with that spirit of religion whose great pillars are "faith, hope and charity." My soul sickens in retrospective contemplation of that (to the uninformed) somewhat plausible gush of philanthropy which indulges in the pharisaical "I am holier than thou" hypocrisy at home, but soars abroad to lift up the most inferior and barbaric races of men!—a fanatacism which is ever blind to natural truth and common sense on such subjects—ever the fomentor of strife rather than fraternity among its own people—and which is never enjoying the maximum of self-righteousness unless intermeddling with the affairs and convictions of other people.

Referring to the stream and mountains just described, and the probable time, in the absence of dates, together with a knowledge of the topography of the country, and an evidently dry period, as no mention is made in this part of the narrative of rain or mud. it is quite certain that the stream was the Big Wichita. The description, in view of the facts, admirably applies to it and to none other.

On the night of this day, after traveling through the afternoon, for the first time Mrs. Horn was allowed the use of her arms, though still hound around the ankles. After this little unusual happened on the journey until the three parties again united. Mrs. Harris, when they met, seemed barely to exist. The meeting of the captive ladies was a mournful renewal of their sorrows. Mrs. Harris' breasts, though improved, were not well, and her general health was bad from which with the want of food and water, she had suffered much. The whole band of four hundred then traveled together several days, until one day Mrs. Horn, being in front and her children in the rear, discovered that those behind her were diverging in separate parties. She never again saw her little sons together, though as will be seen, she saw them separately. They soon afterwards reached the lodges of the band she was with, and three days later she was taken to the lodge of the Indian who claimed her. There were three branches of the family, in separate tents. In one was an old woman and her two daughters, one being a widow; in another was the son of the old woman and his wife and five sons, to whom Mrs. Horn belonged; and in the third was a son-in-law of the old woman. The mistress of Mrs. Horn was the personification of savagery, and abused her captive often with blows and stones, until in desperation Mrs. Horn asserted her rights by counterblows and stones and this rendered the cowardly brute less tyrannical. She was employed constantly by day in dressing buffalo robes and deer skins and converting them into garments and moccasins. She was thrown much with the old woman, who constituted a remarkable exception to the general brutality of the tribe. In the language of the captive lady: "She contributed generally by her acts of kindness and soothing manners to reconcile me to my fate. But she had a daughter who was the very reverse of all that was amiable and seemed never to be at ease unless engaged in some way of indulging her ill humor towards me. But, as if by heaven's interposition, it was not until I so won the old woman's confidence that in all matters of controversy between her daughter and myself, she adopted my statement and decided in my favor."

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THE HORRORS OF INDIAN CAPTIVITY - PART ONE

2018-01-29

JOHN HENRY BROWN

Before narrating the painful scenes attending the attempt to form a colony of Europeans and Americans on the Rio Grande, about thirty miles above the present town of Eagle Pass, begun, in New York in November, 1833, and terminated in bitter failure and the slaughter of a portion of the colonists on the 2nd of April, 1836, a few precedent facts are condensed for the intelligent and comprehensive understanding of the subject.

Dr. John Charles Beales, born in Aldborough, Suffolk county, England, May 20, 1804, went to Mexico, and in 1830 married the widow of Richard Exter, an English merchant in that country. She was a Mexican lady, her maiden name having been Maria Dolores Soto. Prior to her death Mr. Exter had become associated in certain empresario contracts for introducing colonists into the northern or rather New Mexico, with Stephen Julian Wilson, an English naturalized citizen of Mexico.

In 1832 Dr. Beales and Jose Manuel Roquella obtained from the State of Coahuila and Texas the right to settle colonists in the following described limits:

Beginning at the intersection of latitude 32 degrees north with longitude 102 degrees west from London, the same beginning the southwest corner of a tract petitioned for by Col. Reuben Ross; thence west on the parallel of latitude 32 to the eastern limit of New Mexico and the provinces (the State) of Coahuila and Texas, to a point twenty leagues (52 2-3 miles) south of the Arkansas river; thence east to longitude 102 on the west boundary (really the northwest corner) of the tract petitioned for by Col. Ross; thence south to the place of beginning. Beales and Roquella employed Mr. A. LeGrand, an American, to survey and mark the boundaries of this territory and divide it into twelve or more blocks. LeGrand, with an escort and proper outfit, arrived on the ground from Santa Fe, and established the initial point, after a series of observations, on the 27th day of June, 1833. From that date until the 30th of October he was actively engaged in the work of running lines north, south and west over most of the territory. In the night eight inches of snow fell, and on the 30th, after several days' examination of its topography, he was at the base of the mountain called by the Mexicans "La Sierra Oscura." Here, for the time being, he abandoned the work and proceeded to Santa Fe to report to his employers. Extracts from that report form the base for these statements:

Neither Beales and Roquella nor Col. Reuben Ross ever proceeded further in these enterprises; but it is worthy of note that LeGrand preceded Capt. R. B. Marcy, U. S. A. twenty-six years in the exploration and survey of the upper waters of the Colorado, Red, Canadian and Washita rivers, a field in which Capt. Marcy has worn the honors of first explorer from the dates of his two expeditions, respectively, 1849 and 1853. LeGrand's notes are quite full, noting the crossing of every stream in all of his 1800 to 2000 miles in his subdivision of that large territory into districts or blocks number 1 to 12.

LeGrand, in his diary, states that on the 14th of August: "We fell in with a party of Riana Indians, who informed us they were on their way to Santa Fe for the purpose of treating with the government. We sent by them a copy of our journal to this date."

On the 20th of August they visited a large encampment of Comanche Indians, who were friendly and traded with them.

On the night of September 10th, in the country between the Arkansas and the Canadian, five of the party, Kimble, Bois, Baseboth, Boring and Ryan, deserted, taking with them all but four of LeGrand's horses.

On the 21st of September, near the northeast corner of the tract they saw to the west, a large body of Indians. This was probably in "No Man's Land," now near the northeast corner of Sherman county, Texas.

On the night of September 27th, twenty miles west of the northeast corner of Sherman county, they were attacked by a body of Snake Indians. The action was short but furious. The Indians evidently expecting to surprise and slaughter the party while asleep, left nine warriors dead on the ground. But the victors paid dearly for their triumph; they lost three killed, McCrummins, Weathers and Jones, and Thompson was slightly wounded. They buried the dead on the 28th and remained on the ground until the 29th. The country over which this party carried the compass and chain, between June 27th and October 30th, 1833, measured about 1.900 miles, covers about the western half of the present misnamed Texas Panhandle, the western portion (or strip thereof) of the present New Mexico, the western portion of "No Man's Land," and south of the Panhandle to latitude 32. The initial or southeast corner (the intersection of longitude 102 with latitude 32), judging by our present maps, was in the vicinity of the present town of Midland, on the Texas and Pacific Railway, but LeGrand's observation must necessarily have been imperfect and fixed the point erroneously. It was, however, sixteen miles south of what he called throughout the "Red River of Texas," meaning the Colorado or Pasigono, while he designates as "Red River" the stream still so called.

Dr. Beales secured in his own name a right to settle a colony extending from the Nueces to the Rio Grande and lying above the road from San Antonio to Laredo. Next above, extending north to latitude 32, was a similar privilege granted to John L. Woodbury, which extended, as did a similar concession to Dr. James Grant, a Scotchman, naturalized and married in Mexico (the same who was killed by the Mexican army on its march to Texas in February, 1836, in what is known as the Johnson and Grant expedition, beyond the Nueces river), and various others. Dr. Beales entered into some kind of partnership with Grant for settling colonists on the Rio Grande and the Nueces tract, and then, with Grant's approval, while retaining his official position as empresario, or contractor with the State, formed in New York an association styled the "Rio Grande and 'Texas Lane Company," for the purpose of raising means to encourage immigration to the colony from France, Ireland, England and Germany, including also Americans. Mr. Eggerton, an English surveyor, was sent out first to examine the lands and select a site for locating a town, and the first immigrants. He performed that service and returned to New York in the summer of 1833.

The Rio Grande Land Company organized on a basis of capital "divided into 800 shares, each containing ten thousand acres, besides surplus land." Certificate No. 407, issued in New York, July 11, 1834, signed Isaac A. Johnson, trustee; Samuel Sawyer, secretary, and J. C. Beales, empresario, with a miniature map of the lands, was transmitted to me as a present or memento, as the case might be, in the year 1874, by my relative, Hon. Wm. Jessop Ward, of Baltimore, and now lies before me. As a matter of fact, Beales, like all other empresarios under the Mexican colonization laws, contracted or got permission to introduce a specified number of immigrants (800 in this case) and was to receive a given amount of premium land in fee simple to himself for each hundred families so introduced. Otherwise he had no right to or interest in the lands, and all lands not taken up by immigrants as headrights, or awarded him as premiums within a certain term of years from the date of the contract, remained, as before, public domain of the State. Hence the habit generally adopted by writers and mapmakers of styling these districts of country "grants" to A, B, or C, was and ever has been a misnomer. They were in reality only permits.

The first, and so far as known or believed, the only body of immigrants introduced by Dr. Beales, sailed with him from New York, in the schooner Amos Wright, Captain Moore, November 11, 1833. The party consisted of fifty-nine souls, men, women and children, but how many of each class cannot be stated.

On the 6th of December, 1833, the Amos Wright entered Aransas Bay, finding nine feet of water on the bar; on the 12th they disembarked and pitched their tents on the beach at Copano and there remained until January 3, 1834, finding there only a Mexican coast guard consisting of a corporal and two men. On the 15th of December Don Jose Maria Cosio, collector of customs, came down from Goliad (the ancient La Bahia) and passed their papers and goods as correct and was both courteous and kind. Throughout the remainder of December, January and February there were rapidly succeeding wet and cold northers, indicating one of the most inclement winters known to the inhabitants, flooding the coast prairies and causing great discomfort to the strangers, who, however, feasted abundantly on wild game, fish and waterfowl.

On the 20th Dr. Beales, his servant, Marcelino, and Mr. Power started to Goliad to see the Alcalde, Don Miguel Aldrete, and procure teams for transportation, the roads being so flooded that, although the distance was only about forty miles, they did not arrive till the 22nd. Returning with animals to draw their vehicles, they arrived at Copano late on the 31st of December, having halted both in going and returning at the Irish village of Power's and Hewetson's infant colony, at the old mission of Refugio.

The party left Copano on the 3rd of January, 1834, and after numerous vexations and minor incidents, arrived at Goliad, crossed and encamped on the east bank of the San Antonio river on the 16th, having thus left behind them the level and flooded coast lands. Dr. Beales notes that, while at Goliad, "some of the foreigners in the town, the lowest class of the Americans, behaved exceedingly ill, endeavoring by all means in their power to seduce my families away." But only one man left, and he secured his old mayordomo (overseer or manager), John Quinn, and a Mexican with his wife and four children, to accompany the party. He also notes that on Sunday (19) a Carancahua Indian child was baptized by the priest at Goliad, for which the collector's wife, Senora Cosio, stood godmother.

On the 20th of January, with freshly purchased oxen, they left for San Antonio and after much trouble and cold weather, arrived there on the 6th of February. A few miles below that place (a fact stated by Mrs. Horn, but not found in Beales' diary), they found Mr. Smith, a stranger from the United States lying by the roadside terribly wounded, and with him a dead Mexican, while two others of his Mexican escort had escaped severely wounded. They had had a desperate fight with a small party of Indians who had left Mr. Smith as dead. Dr. Beales, both as a physician and good samaritan, gave him every possible attention and conveyed him to San Antonio, where he lingered for a time and died after the colonists left that place. While there a young German couple in the party married, but their names are not given.

On the 18th of February, with fifteen carts and wagons, the colonists left San Antonio for the Rio Grande. On the 28th they crossed the Nueces and for the first time entered the lands designated as Bears' Colony. Mr. Little carved upon a large tree on the west bank, Los Primeros colonos de la Dolores pasaron el dia 28 Febrero, 1834," which being rendered into English is; "The first colonists of the village of Dolores passed here on the 28th of February, 1834," many of them, alas, never to pass again.

On the 2nd of March Mr. Eggerton went forward to Presidio de Rio Grande to examine the route, and returned to report that the best route was to cross the river at that point, travel up on the west side and recross to the proposed locality of Dolores, on Las Moras Creek, which is below the present town of Del Rio and ten or twelve miles from the northeast side of the Rio Grande. They crossed the river on the 5th and on the 6th entered the Presidio, about five miles from it. Slowly moving up on the west side, by a somewhat circuitous route and crossing a little river called by Dr. Beales "Rio Escondido," the same sometimes called Rio Chico, or Little River, which enters the Rio Grande a few miles below Eagle Pass, they recrossed to the east side of the Rio Grande on the 12th and were again on the colony lands. Here they fell in with five Shawnee Indian trappers, two of whom spoke English and were not only very friendly, but became of service for some time in killing game. Other Shawnee trappers frequently visited them. Here Beales left a portion of the freight, guarded by Addicks and two Mexicans, and on the 14th traveled up the country about fifteen miles to a creek called "El Sancillo," or "El Sanz." On the 16th of March, a few miles above the latter stream, they arrived at the site of the purposed village of Dolores, on the Las Moras creek, as before said to be ten or twelve miles from the Rio Grande. The name "Dolores" was doubtless bestowed by Dr. Beales in honor of his absent wife.

Preparations were at once undertaken to form tents, huts and cabins by cleaning out a thicket and building a brush wall around it as a fortification against the wild Indians who then, as for generations before and fifty years afterwards, were a terror to the Mexican frontier. On the 30th, Dr. Beales was unexpectedly compelled to go to Matamoras, three or four hundred miles, to cash his drafts, having failed to do so in Monclova. It was a grave disappointment, as money was essential to meet the wants of the people. Beyond this date his notes are inaccessible and subsequent events are gleaned dimly from other sources. It must suffice to say that without irrigation the colonists, in the remainder of 1834 and all of 1835, failed to raise crops, and though guarded part of the time by a company of Mexicans, employed for that purpose, were ever uneasy lest they should be attacked by the savages. As time passed dissatisfaction arose and the colonists in small parties left the settlement, at one time four families leaving, all probably to the Mexican towns of Monclova, Santa Rosa and San Fernando, but of their ultimate fate no information is at hand. From Mrs. Horn's narrative it is learned that after many had left and some time in the winter of 1835-6, a new settlement of seven men and a boy (their nationality not given), some thirty or forty miles distant, while two of the men were absent for a few hours, were attacked. Four of the men and the boy were killed, the fifth man left for dead and all of them scalped. The wounded man, much mutilated, was conveyed to San Fernando, about twenty miles distant, one arm amputated and scalpless, only to exist as an object of pity and charity.

This last calamity determined all the remainder excepting Mr. Power and seven others, to abandon the country and return to the gulf and their native lands. Power and party went to San Fernando, in vain to await the arrival of other immigrants. What became of them is not known.

This brings us to the sad story of the murder of the twelve colonists and the captivity of Mrs. Harris, Mrs. Horn and two children. Mrs. Horn has been several times mentioned in this narrative and before proceeding with it, her history previous to leaving New York, on the Amos Wright, November 11, 1833, may be briefly stated from her own notes. The youngest of ten children of Mr. Newton, she was born in 1809 in Huntingdon, sixty miles north of London, her parents being respectable and sincerely pious people. When three years old she was left fatherless. Her mother successfully fulfilled her double mission and trained all her children in the strictest principles of virtue and religion. At the age of 18 this baby daughter, on the 14th of October, 1827, in St. James Church, Clerkenwell, London, married Mr. John Horn, who proved to be all, as husband and father, that her heart desired. They settled in Arlington, No. 2 Moon Street, Giles Square, London. Her mother resided with her till her death in 1830. Mr. Horn was well established in the mercantile business in a small establishment. After this many English people of small means were migrating to America to improve their condition. Mr. Horn was seized with the same desire and, after due deliberation, they sailed from London July 30, 1833, in the ship Samuel Robinson, and arrived in New York on the 27th of August. They took lodgings at 237 Madison Street, and Mr. Horn procured a satisfactory clerkship with Mr. John McKibben. About this time Dr. Beales, from Mexico was in New York preparing for the colonization trip to the Rio Grande, already described. Omitting many strange incidents and forebodings of evil—presentiments, as generally expressed on the part of Mrs. Horn, they sailed on the voyage as has been narrated, November 11, 1833.

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On the 10th of March, 1836, the disconsolate party which we are now to follow, left Dolores with the intention of reaching the coast by way of San Patricio, on the lower Nueces. It consisted of eleven men, including Mr. Horn, his wife and two little sons, John and Joseph, and Mr. Harris, his wife and baby girl about three months old, probably the only child born at Dolores—in all fifteen souls. To the Nueces, by slow marches, they traveled without a road. Santa Anna's invading hosts had but recently passed from the Rio Grande on the Laredo and Matamoras routes to San Antonio and Goliad. The Alamo had fallen four days before this journey began, and Fannin surrendered near Goliad nine days after their departure, but these ill fated colonists knew of neither event. They only knew that the Mexicans were invading Texas under the banner of extermination of the Americans, and they dreaded falling into their hands almost as much as they dreaded the wild savages. They remained on the Nueces near a road supposed to lead to San Patricio several days, protected by thickets, and while there they saw the trains and heard the guns of detachments of Mexican soldiers, doubtless guarding supply trains following Santa Anna to San Antonio.

They resumed their march from the Nueces on the San Patricio trail on April 2nd. Early in the afternoon of the 4th they encamped at a large lake, containing fine fish. Not long afterwards, while the men were occupied in various ways and none on guard, they were suddenly attacked by fifty or sixty mounted Indians, who, meeting no resistance, instantly murdered nine of the men, seized the two ladies and three children, plundered the wagons, and then proceeded to their main camp, the entire party numbering about 400, in an extensive chaparral two or three miles distant. Here they remained until the next morning, tying the ladies' hands, feet and arms so tight as to be extremely painful. Next morning before starting, a savage brute amused his fellows by tossing the infant of Mrs. Harris into the air and letting it fall to the ground until it was killed. Next they brought into the presence of the ladies, Mr. Harris and a young German whom they supposed to be dead, but were only wounded. Compelling the heartbroken wife and the already widowed Mrs. Horn to look on, they shot arrows and plunged lances into the two men until they were dead, all the while yelling horrid shouts of exultation. The mind directing the pen recording this atrocious exercise of savage demonism, as it has been recorded, and has yet to record innumerable others, involuntarily turns with inexpressible disgust to the sickening twaddle of that school of self-righteous American humanitarians who utter eloquent nonsense about the noble savage and moral suasion, and dainty food at public expense, as the only things needful to render him a lamb-like Christian.

(To read PART TWO, click here)

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THE CAPTURE OF MRS. WILSON

2017-09-07

From Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, June, 1924

In the spring of 1853 a party of immigrants started from Northeast Texas overland to California. There were ten or twelve men, one lady and two little boys, aged ten and twelve years. The lady, Mrs. Wilson, was a young bride, formerly Miss Jane Howard, born in Missouri but reared in Texas. The little boys, Hugh and _____, were brothers of her husband whose father, Mr. Wilson, Sr., was also in the party.

The only satisfactory account of the trip was recently furnished me by Mr. A. A. Pittuck, a worthy, intelligent and honorable employee of Texas Farm and Ranch, who was on the plains about the same time in a party of about 100 gold hunters. He kindly furnished me the facts in regard to the emigrant party as he gathered them at the time

I wrote Gov. Merriwether, now nearly ninety years old, but with vigorous mind, on the 31st of December for his recollection of the facts. He replied to me on the 18th of January (present 1889) a very full account. From all the sources of information, I condense the more material facts.

The party traveled without serious adventure until they reached the Guadalupe mountains, where, at night, a portion of their horses were stolen by Indians. The men, eight or ten in number, pursued them next morning, were ambushed and all killed except a man named Hart, who escaped slaughter, and reached the camp to inform the young bride that her husband and his father were among the slain. Those left were Mrs. Wilson, the two little boys, a Mexican, a German teamster and Mr. Hart. They proceeded on to El Paso and after a short stay, started back. About fifty miles before reaching Ft. Phantom Hill, considering it safe to do so, Mr. Hart left them and proceeded on to the settlements. On the following day the party consisting of Mrs. Wilson, Hugh Wilson and his brother, the German and the Mexican were suddenly assaulted by fifteen Comanches. The Mexican was killed; the German was scalped and left as dead, but revived, reached Phantom Hill and recovered. The lady, with the boys, and all the portable effects were carried off.

From the letter of Governor Merriwether I am enabled to give a succinct account of the subsequent fate of Mrs. Wilson:

She was treated with great brutality by the brutal savages, who traveled over the plains and finally along a trail for two or three weeks. She was compelled repeatedly to mount wild horses or mules and was often thrown to the ground, greatly to the delight of the wild brutes. Finally, they compelled her to walk until, by continuous ill treatment, she was greatly weakened. On arriving at a spring, on the borders of a desert, they killed wild game in some quantity and compelled her to cook the meat for a three days' trip over the waste before them. The Indians allowed her to prepare some for herself and told her to start ahead on the trail before daylight. In gathering wood not far from the spring she had discovered a stump of a large cottonwood tree seven or eight feet high, and in stripping the bark from it, found that it was hollow. Starting quite early on the trail she traversed about three miles; then coming to a locality covered with tall grass, she determined to make an effort to escape. She entered the grass, made quite a circuit and concealed herself. When deemed safe she sought and found the hollow stump, climbed to its top and entered it retaining the meat she had cooked. The presumption is that the Indians started after daylight, traveled many miles before they realized that she had escaped and probably made no pursuit.

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She remained in the stump by day and went to the spring at night till her meat was exhausted. Then she found food in the raw flesh of a few frogs about the spring, two or three terrapins, besides a snake, of course without cooking, as she had no means of making a fire. So she remained until weakened by starvation, she found herself unable to get out of the stump. In that hopeless and perishing condition, she remained three days, when she discovered through a hole in her prison, five men at the spring, who proved to be Pueblo Indians. She tried to call to them but her voice was too weak. After a time, one of the men, seeking fuel approached quite near, when she feebly called to him. He fled in terror telling his friends at the spring that the devil was in the stump. The whole party, under arms, surrounded it, and after due consideration, discovered and rescued her. They had to carry her in their arms. Their kind treatment soon revived her. But they remained with her five or six days. They were seeking the Comanches for trade and left her with a small supply of provisions, a gourd of water and a blanket for cover at night, saying they would return in three or four days and take her home with them. But they were gone nine days and on returning found her again in a perishing condition. It was two or three days before they could move her and then she was placed on an Indian "drag litter " made of two poles fastened on either side of a horse at one end while the other ends dragged on the ground. Between the poles behind the horse, an inclined couch was made of buffalo robes, and on that for six days, she was transported until they arrived at their village. Her captors had denuded her of nearly all her clothing and had brutally beaten her with stripes. She was also barefooted.

A detachment of United States dragoons under a Lieutenant whose name is said to have been Adams and whose wife was in the party, passed the village on a hurried march, and being unable to take Mrs. Wilson along, advised the chief to notify Governor Merriwether at Santa Fe. Mrs. Adams gave her a dress and such articles as she could spare. On being informed, Governor Merriwether, (I quote from his letter to me) says:

"I sent my son, Raymond, with two horses, back with the Indian messenger, to convey the white woman (for he did not know her name) to Santa Fe. On her arrival she presented the most pitiful spectacle I had ever seen. She was in rags, emaciated, and her mind somewhat disordered. I sent for Mrs. Smith, the wife of the Baptist missionary, and requested her to go to the store of Webb & Kingsbury and get whatever she needed. After being comfortably clothed and cared for her mind soon resumed its natural brightness and then, at different times, she repeated to me the story of her life and sufferings, as I communicate them to you. Her back and shoulders were still sore from the blows of her savage captors. I expended nearly $300 for her relief and in the spring of 1854 sent her to Texas. The United States at first refused to allow my account, including $50 paid to her rescuers, but finally paid it. Hearing of this refusal Governor Pease sent me a cheek for the amount, but at that time the government had allowed my account and I returned the check to him."

Governor Pease acted under a special act of Feb. 4, 1854, appropriating $5,000 for the rescue of captives among the Indians, specially authorizing the governor to use "so much as might be necessary to restore Mrs. Jane Wilson, now in the town of Santa Fe, to home and friends."

Mrs. Wilson safely arrived in Texas but I am unable to speak of her subsequently. Several years after their capture, little Hugh Wilson and his brother, through what instrumentality I have been unable to learn, were returned to civilization and were among their kindred in Hunt county.

(Editor's Note:—The above sketch was written nearly 50 years ago, but the name of the writer is unknown to us.)

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WHITE SQUAW OF THE COMANCHES - TRAGIC TALE OF CYNTHIA ANN PARKER

2017-07-26

By J. Marvin Hunter

From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, March, 1927

MORE than 90 years, 91 next May to be exact, have gone by since Cynthia Ann Parker was lost to civilization. In the days when old Fort Parker was destroyed the great empire state of Texas had a population of only 30,000. They were harassed by over 5000 hostile, redskins, chief of whom were the Caddoes and Comanches. Over 8000 semi-civilized Indians roamed the prairies, the most friendly being the Choctaws and the Chickasaws. Most of the frontier history is rapidly passing away as the old pioneers, one by one, cross the great divide. Like the lost mines of the adventurous Spaniards, vast historical wealth is irretrievably lost for the want of some one to put to record the rich reminiscences of the men and women who laid the foundations of this great land of ours.

It was my good fortune to know and talk with one of the veterans who was with the rangers that captured Quanah Parker. From him I got this story of the White Squaw and her boy—chieftain of all the Comanche tribes. I am indebted to Henry C. Puller of Brownwood, for some facts which relate to the fall of old Fort Parker. To A. W. Meredith of Wills Point, vice president of the Van Zandt County National Bank, I am grateful for some facts concerning the final resting place of Cynthia Ann Parker.

In the fall of 1833 the Parker family moved from Cole county, Illinois, to Texas. The elder Parker was a Virginian by birth, lived for a while in Georgia, but raised his family principally in old Ledford county, Tennessee. It was from this country, in 1818, that he moved to Illinois—then a country in the far west. To speak of Texas, even in the '30s, was but to mention the land beyond the setting sun. It had a far away sound. But the elder Parker and his sons dreamed of the distant land on the frontier. And they came to build their altar-fires in a howling wilderness. And what is wore strange, they came to be massacred by the Comanches whose savage braves were destined to be ruled by the blood of the very family they sought to wipe out in that terrible raid.

These pioneers built Parker's fort on the headwaters of the Navasota, then about 60 miles above the settlements. It was a block house, built of rough-hewn logs, for the protection of the people in case of an Indian raid. It was nested about a mile west of the river and about two and one-half miles northwest of the present site of Groesbeck, Texas. The fort was established in 1834. At the time the Indians made their deadly raid —May 19, 1836.—the following were in the fort: The Parkers, Plummers, Nixons, Kelloggs, Frodts, Dwights, and the Faulkenburgs, Mrs. Duty, Silas Bates, a Mr. Lunn and Abram Anglin—representing 22 adults and some 15 or more children. They were all in the fort on the night of the 18th - the night before the raid. Mr. Fuller states that local legend and history unite in saying that at least 500 Comanche Indians attacked the fort and killed practically every person there, a few managing to make their escape. The death list consisted of Elder John Parker, Silas Parker, Ben Parker, Sam Parker and Robert Frodt. The people who were dangerously wounded were Mrs. John Parker, Granny Parker and a Mrs. Duty. After burning the fort the Indians carried the following away as captives: Mrs. Rachel Plummer, daughter of James Parker, and her little son, James Plummer, 2 years old; Mrs. Elizabeth Kellogg, Cynthia Ann Parker, 9 years old, and her little brother, John Parker, children of Silas Parker.

It was 9 o'clock on the morning of May 19, 1836—the tragic day, like so many others that have made Texas a soil redeemed by her martyrs' blood. What would the mighty history of the great southwest be were it not for these bloody chapters that tell of the fall of forts and recount the heroism on such fields as Goliad and San Jacinto! To tell the story of these battles and our Alamo around our firesides is but to teach our sons they are born of Spartan blood.

James W. Parker, Nixon, the Faulkenburgs, Bates and Anglin, were off to the fields some distance in the Navasota bottoms. Suddenly, as if rising from the very dust, hundreds of Indians were seen riding towards the fort. They came within three hundred yards and, having halted, raised a white flag. Benjamin Parker went out to treat with them. He came back and said he believed the Indians intended to fight, but that he would treat with them again. He went —but he never returned. Pandemonium set in. Amidst savage war-whoops and blood-curdling screeches, the whole band charged the fort, now defended by only two men. Execution was speedy and horrible. It was the common story of an Indian massacre.

From this sad rehearsal let us turn away to follow the fortunes of those few who lived even to be carried into captivity. For there was a mother who was compelled to lift her nine-year-old, daughter Cynthia Ann, and her brother, John, up behind a warrior. The Indian turned his pony's head to the faraway Comanche land. As he faded from view, Cynthia Ann was torn from her mother's arms, only some day to rock on her bosom a baby born to rule the warriors that stole his mother in the years of the long ago.

Mrs. Kellogg was taken captive and fell into the hands of the Keechies. Six months thereafter some Delawares bought her from these Indians for $150. They carried her to Nacogdoches, where General Sam Houston paid them a ransom of $150—all they paid and all they asked. One of the most revolting crimes at the fall of the fort was the murder of Elder Parker. Having surrounded him with his own family, they stripped, tomahawked and scalped him before their eyes. On the way to Nacogdoches one of Mrs. Kellogg's rescuers slightly disabled a skulking Indian. She instantly recognized him as the slayer of the Elder Parker. Without judge, charge or jury, the redskin was given quick passage to his happy hunting grounds.

William Donoho, a big-hearted American merchant in Santa Fe, New Mexico, aided by some traders on the old Santa Fe Trail, redeemed Mrs. Rachel Plummer from an unspeakably brutal capacity. These traders found her in the wild fastnesses of the Rocky mountains so far north of Santa Fe that it took 17 days to reach that frontier town. After a year and six months of awful captivity she was given a royal reception. In a short while Mr. Donoho and his good wife carried her to her brother-in-law, a Mr. Nixon of Independence. Missouri. In 1858 Mr. Nixon took Mrs. Plummer to her father's house. Twenty-one months of captivity had worn away. During all this while she did not know the fate of her baby from whom she was separated, and the child born six months afterward was cruelly murdered in her presence. There is a remarkable thing about Mrs. Plummer's history. She was born on the 19th, married on the 19th, captured on the 19th, ransomed on the 19th, reached Independence on the 19th, and died on the 19th' of the month. Her baby, lost on the fall of Fort Parker, was ransomed and carried to Fort Gibson late in the year of 1842. His grandfather reached home with him in February, 1843. He grew to be one of the most respected citizens of Anderson county. Texas. This leaves Cynthia Ann and and John Parker, who were held in captivity by different tribes—the girl by the Comanches, and the boy probably by the Kiowas.

John Parker reached manhood and became a noted warrior. His tribe planned a campaign beyond the Rio Grande. On the raid John captured a beautiful, dark-eyed senorita and made her his wife. While yet a captive she fell madly in love with him, as only a Spanish maiden can. John became desperately ill with the smallpox. The whole cowardly tribe fled in consternation, leaving him to die alone—but they took his senorita. The Spanish girl was haunted by visions of her suffering warrior-lover. Not counting danger nor distance she escaped and fled to his side. He got well— and, in perfect disgust, quit his tribe forever to make his home with the people of his faithful captive-wife. In all the romance of our early history there is no page quite so beautiful as this. It is the story of love's conquest over the heart of an American pioneer schooled in all the savage discipline of the Comanches and the Kiowas—the wild Arabs of the New World.

At the fall of Fort Parker, on the morning of May 19th, 1836, Mrs Parker was forced to lift her little nine-year-old daughter, Cynthia Ann, up behind a heartless savage, as has been recited before. He rode away to the hunting grounds of the wild Comanches. Twenty-four years and seven months rolled by until her recapture, December 18, 1860. in other words, Cynthia Ann was 34 years old when seen again. No word was had from her in this awful lapse of a quarter of a century. Long, long before her recovery, she had been given up as one dead. But we must know some events that strangely brought about the purely accidental discovery of Cynthia Ann, by which she was once more restored to a civilization from which she had long since been weaned.

It was now 1858, Major Earle Van Dorn, with some United States dragoons, was preparing to leave Fort Belknap. The famous Van Dorn campaign against all the hostile tribes was now opening.

Sul Ross, afterward a household word in Texas, was only 18 years of age and on his college vacation, he took command of 135 friendly Indians—Wacoes, Tehuacanoes, Toncahuas and Caddoes. Van Dorn readily accepted their services when tendered, and they entered on the celebrated campaign. Ross, and his command took the lead. Van Dorn with his dragoons and supply train brought up the rear. When Ross reached the Wichita mountains he sent a trusty Waco and a Tehuacano to scout the Wichita village, 75 miles east of the Wichita river. He hoped to find the camp of the savage Comanches whose raid had worked such awful havoc on old Fort Parker. The scouts were amazed to find that Buffalo Hump and his band of Comanches were in the village trading and gambling with the Wichitas. When night fell they stole two Comanche ponies and hurriedly carried word to Sul Ross. Buffalo Hump was the one chief among all the hostile tribes against whom Van Dorn's expedition was directed. Ross had a hard time to make Van Dorn trust the word of his scouts. At last he persuaded Van Dorn to make a forced march with his dragoons against the village.

The sun was just rising on the first day of October. Van Dorn, with his dragoons, and Sul Ross, with his 135 redskins, struck the Wichita village like thunderbolts out of a clear sky. Buffalo Hump and his powerful band were almost wiped off the face of the earth in the first assault. Van Dorn's command fought like demons, for they saw afresh the scenes of old Fort Parker. Many prisoners were taken, among them being "Lizzie." She was a white girl for whom not a solitary relative was ever found, nor a single soul who could give the faintest recognition. Sul Ross adopted, reared and educated her with all the tenderness of a father. She reached a graceful womanhood, married and died among the flowers and sweet perfumes of southern California.

The next great epoch in the frontier history of the southwest was the battle of Pease river, where, after the dragging years of a quarter of a century had gone by, Cynthia Ann Parker lifts her form above the horizon of a civilization from which she had long since faded away.

When the leaves began to fall in 1860, a powerful band of Comanches made a terrible raid through Parker and adjacent counties. Under the leadership of Chief Nocona they spread ruin and disaster along their war trail. Sul Ross, now a captain of the Texas Rangers, 20 dragoons from the regular army, and 70 citizens out of Palo Pinto county, took the Indians by complete surprise at their camp near Cedar mountains, on the headwaters of Pease river. They were packing their horses preparatory to the desertion of camp when Sul Ross and his command swept down upon them like a whirlwind. In less than half an hour he had killed or captured everything in sight except Nocona, who, with an Indian behind him, broke for the mountains six miles away. On a swift pony, the chief's squaw, with her baby in her arms, rode beside him. Ross and Killiher pursued them like devils. Ross soon came within range and killed the Indian riding behind Nocona. It proved to be a woman, hidden under a great buffalo robe. In her fall she unhorsed the chief by a death grip. A deadly combat was drawn between Sul Ross and the Comanche chieftain. At last a shot from his revolver broke the Indian's right arm and he could no longer pull the bowstring. The ranger then shot him through the body. Walking deliberately to a tree, he leaned against it and began to sing the death-chant—the only privilege a redskin ever begs of his foe. Rangers having arrived, Nocona was commanded to surrender. He answered by a vicious thrust with his lance. A rifle ball brought the death song to an abrupt close. And Nocona's lance, war bonnet and shield were hung among the trophies in the old state capitol.

The squaw and the child captured by Lieutenant Killiher proved to be Nocona's. The trained frontiersmen at once discovered that she was a white woman bronzed from the winds and the suns of the plains, that her eyes were blue and that she was weeping. They told her not to cry, that they would not harm her. For 25 years an unbroken search had been made for the missing girl of old Fort Parker. Somehow, it dawned upon them that they had found Cynthia Ann Parker in the fallen chieftain's wife. Under like conditions, it is said that the Indian neither laughs nor weeps. He is steely indifferent to any emotion that stirs the white man's breast. But she said she was crying not for her self, but for her two boys, as she thought, slain in the battle. She was carried to the settlements and readily identified as the long-lost Cynthia Ann Parker.

A quarter of a century in the wigwams of the Comanches had made her as perfect an Indian as she had been born around the campfires. She had forgotten every English word. Civilization was so unbearable to her that she sought every chance to escape. A close watch had to be kept upon her for days and days. Slowly the recollection of childhood scenes stole upon her savage sense. At last she became contented in her brother's house in Anderson county, Texas. While she, in some measure, adjusted herself to the ways of civilization yet so long as she lived Cynthia Ann Parker kept up her Comanche worship of the Great Spirit.

Her little "Prairie Flower"—the babe that rode with its mother alongside Nocona's fatal flight—died. In less than two years Cynthia Ann Parker was laid beneath the flowers that bloomed on the grave of her little barbarian, Mr. Meredith of Wills Point, Texas; a fellow citizen in those distant days, related this to me: "Subsequent to Cynthia Ann's capture by Sul Ross's brigade, she lived in the lower part of Van Zandt county, Texas, in 1861-62, with her brother who moved from there to Anderson county where she died. Afterwards the United States government made an appropriation to have her remains moved to Oklahoma and buried beside her son's body—Chief Quanah Parker.

Her two sons did not fall in the battle of Pease river. Several years afterward one died on the great plains of Texas. The other son lived to become the great Comanche chief—Quanah Parker. He was born near Wichita Falls, in 1854. He ruled his people on their reservation in the old Indian Territory, now the progressive State of Oklahoma. He spoke the English tongue, was quite advanced in civilization and owned a well-stocked ranch. Mr. Henry C. Fuller writes:

"Quanah Parker died at his home three miles northwest of Cache, Okla., in the spring of 1911. A daughter, Esther, and two sons also sleep by his side. The eldest daughter of Quanah Parker, Neda Parker Birdsong, bought the old home place and is now living there. The house is a large 1-room frame building, built about 30 years ago, by S. B. Burnett of Fort Worth, who had a large tract of grazing land in that immediate section leased at that time, and who was for many years a close personal friend of Quanah Parker. The names and addresses of the sons and daughters of Quanah Parker are: Mrs. Edward Clark, Lawton, Okla., Baldwin Parker, Indiahoma, Okla., Mrs. Bessie Parker Asenap, Indiahoma, Okla., and White Parker, Lawton, Okla."

Thus ends the tragic story of a girl who made the circuit of all the savage west. She died an alien among her own. She forever longed for the wild freedom of the Estacadoes. She dreamed of an Indian lover brave enough to sing his death song. She and her little "Prairie Flower" —her little barbarian— sleep side by side, dreaming of the moonlit plains and the gurgling streams.

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WHITE BOY BECOMES AN INDIAN

2016-02-19

Narrative by Charles Morris, of Kerrville, Texas

A family by the name of Fischer lived just below the Morris Ranch in Gillespie county in the early days, and in about 1868 the Indians made a raid through that section and carried off one of the Fischer boys. The red men were in the habit of coming in frequently, during the light of the moon, to steal horses and settlers throughout that section suffered much through these raids. The Fischer boy, at the time of his capture, was about twelve years old, and he was carried to the Indian Territory, where he grew up in the Indian camp and became one of the tribe. Years later he was found by the United States soldiers and was returned to his people. They dressed him in civilized garments and used every effort to make him contented,but he had become so thoroughly Indianized that he returned to the tribe after staying with his parents only three or four weeks. The young man had married an Indian girl, and thoughts of his wife and children off in the Indian Territory, and the wild life he had been raised to, called him back; civilization had no attractions for him. His father tried to get him to bring his wife and children and live with him, but he refused, saying the white people would always look upon his wife as a squaw, and she would not be happy there. His father gave him a horse to ride, and he made the trip back to his Indian, friends with a party driving cattle to St. Louis. Nearing his tribe in the Territory, he bade his friends goodbye, and exchanging his white man's clothing for the Indian garb, he rode away to his squaw and his papooses.

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