Frontier Times Magazine

THE TAYLOR-SUTTON FEUD

2017-09-05

From Hunter’s Frontier Times, November, 1924

Did you ever hear of Jim Taylor? Not any Jim Taylor, but the Jim Taylor who, although only 18 years of age, was conceded to be the quickest man with a gun that ever ranged the prairies between the Panhandle and the Gulf, rounding up unbranded steers. Did you ever hear of the Taylor-Sutton feud, which for more than fifteen years tore DeWitt, Victoria and Calhoun counties? Of the unnumbered single combats and pitched battles to which it led? Of the shootings, the hanging and sudden deaths? And, finally, of the dramatic escape of the principal figures which moved through the stirring scenes of the fend? If not, it is safe to say that you have never visited Cuero, Victoria or Port Lavaca.

The feud started just after the close of the civil war, how, nobody remembers exactly. But then the cattle country was not fenced, the herds had increased during the four years of strife, and when their owners returned from the frontiers of war nearly one-half the cattle upon the ranges were unbranded. Naturally their division afforded any number of chances for disagreement, and disagreement in those days was a dangerous thing.

In DeWitt county there was a family by the name of Taylor, and another by the name of Sutton. Both were in the cattle business and both employed a large number of cowboys. They were the first to fall out. Everything would probably would have blown over with only a few minor shooting affrays among cowpunchers had not some of the Suttons, or their irresponsible sympathizers, in revenge for some real or fancied wrong, determined to cast the balance upon the credit side of the hook once for all. They loaded their six-shooters and one evening about dusk crept into the cornfield that lay just behind the Taylor homestead. They had brought a cow-bell with them and as they crept among the corn they rang at appropriate intervals. An old man of about 60, the grandfather of the boys who afterwards were to become the actors in a real sanguinary drama of revenge, heard it and, thinking that the cows had gotten into the field, went down to drive them out. He was shot and killed, probably before those in ambush recognized the fact that he was the hoary-haired sire, and not their enemies themselves. But after the shooting DeWitt county was aflame. Every man who had not already taken sides promptly did so or was forced to now, and the feud was on in earnest.

This happened when Jim Taylor, several years the junior of the other two brothers, Bill and Bob, was still a mere child. But the next fifteen years of his life was passed amid scenes of the utmost violence. The older inhabitants of Cuero will tell you that in the days just prior to 1875 not a week passed without its killing. Some will mention the pitched battle that occurred in the streets of the town immediately after the shooting of "Old Man" Taylor, the father of the three boys. Others, whose sympathies perhaps are still with the other side, will recall how a doctor by the name of Brazell, and his son, were haled from their beds one dark night by a mysterious party of horsemen, and were murdered in cold blood. Some still say they were shot; others that their bodies were found the next morning hanging from the limbs of a live oak tree.

But for the names of those who perpetrated the deed they will one and all refer you to the Bexar county criminal records. They will tell you that three of the six had been condemned to hang, that happened to be denied, and that the scaffold—the scaffold that was used in the Bexar county jail until the time it was remodeled several years ago—had been built, when an exceedingly resourceful lawyer—and one who afterwards became governor of the state,—discovered that the indictment closed with the words "against the peace and dignity of the statute," whereas it should have read "against the peace and dignity of the state," and how, upon this technicality. all of the culprits got off scot free.

In those day Indianola was the chief port of Texas. The town does not exist today; it was wiped out in 1875 by a storm similar to the one that struck Galveston in 1900. One might wander along the coast between Alamo Beach and Port O'Connor—might pass and repass over the sand-strewn site of the prosperous seaport—and never know that it was once the shipping point for the greatest cattle country in the world, that it had railroads and banks and warehouses and long piers where the curious old-fashioned side wheel steamers of the first Morgan line used to berth. But as it was the shipping point the Taylors and the Suttons were familiar figures upon the streets. It is said that every time they drove a herd of cattle down, as soon as Dan Sullivan, who is now a well known banker of San Antonio, had made out the bills of lading, they would proceed to get drunk and shoot up the town in great style. Jim Taylor always accompanied his older brothers on these trips.

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But, although before he was only 18 the boy had "killed his man" more than once, he was not of the rowdy type. Those who knew him describe him as mild-mannered, with a calm and thoughtful expression but with steady, steel-grey "gimlet" eyes that seemed to bore their way into one's very mind. They say, too, that he had never forgiven the death of his father or of his grandfather, but that he seemed always to be nursing his revenge. And it was not long until his opportunity came.

In the latter part of 1874 the head of the Sutton family, a man of about 35, yielding to the importunities of a relative, whose name was Slaughter, decided to sell out his interests in DeWitt county and to return to Georgia. which was originally his home. Everything had been arranged, the money paid, and the two men with their wives had made the journey from Cuero to Indianola in safety. Passage to New Orleans had been booked on the old side wheeler St. Mary and the day of sailing had arrived. A few minutes before the boat was to leave the pier the party went aboard. The luggage had been taken up the gangplank, the men had handed the women from the main deck through the narrow passage into the salon. Those who were present say that the boat had cast off and that the two men were standing in the entrance to the passage through which the women had just disappeared, when three horsemen galloped down the pier, dropped their lines, sprang from their mounts and opened fire with their long barrelled Colts revolvers. Both Sutton 'and Slaughter fell mortally wounded, while Jim Taylor and the two men who were with him mounted their horses and rode out of town, stopping on the way, however at a saloon, where, over their drinks, they calmly told those assembled that the Taylor-Sutton feud was at an end.

Of the trio only Jim Taylor was captured. There were exciting times in Indianola when he was brought there and lodged in the county jail. Feeling ran high and once it was rumored that a train load of armed men were coming from Cuero to release the prisoner. The train did come, but when the posse descended the steps they found themselves looking down the barrels of a score of shotguns. People were getting tired of the "two-gun" men. Jim Taylor was sent to Galveston for safe keeping.

His trial was set for September and when it came up a special squad of the old Washington Guard of Galveston was detailed to take him back to guard him during the trial. They held the boy in the courthouse: they ware afraid to keep him in jail. Some say that the defense had finished its argument, others that the jury had gone out and that the betting in the saloons of Indianola was 9 to 1 for the conviction of this young man who had taken the law into his own hands, when--

That morning the wind was blowing from the northwest. By noon it had increased to such fury that the waters of Matagorda bay were two feet deep in the main street of the city. By four in the afternoon some of the more poorly built shanties had collapsed and been swept away, and still the storm showed no signs of abating. All during the afternoon the guards stuck valiantly to their posts, and Jim Taylor sat quietly on his cot in the courtroom listening to the elements without. At dusk, the wind seemed to increase in violence. Dwellings and stores began to crumble: the waters rose and the courthouse itself seemed in imminent danger of falling about their ears before the men from Galveston left their charge to assist those who were struggling in the streets.

During the night of horror that followed, families were annihilated: homes and fortunes were swept' away -- a city was destroyed and during the storm Jim Taylor disappeared.

It was long thought that he was drowned along with the hundreds of others that perished, until years afterwards, some who had known him before the storm saw him in San Antonio.

Then again he disappeared. Many think that he is still alive, but where, they do not venture to say.

EYE-WITNESS DESCRIBES HURRICANE-DEVASTATED GALVESTON, 1900

2017-08-25

J. Marvin Hunter, Sr.

Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, June, 1948

In the world's great tragedies that of Galveston stands remarkable. In no other case in history has a disaster met with such courage and fortitude; in no other case in history were the people of the whole world so responsive to the call for help for the helpless. There have been heavy blows and there have been times when the waters of the bay and the Gulf met in the Galveston streets, but the storm of September 8, 1900, is without parallel. The storm did not come upon the city without warning. The same storm, less ferocious perhaps, had swept along the South Atlantic coast several days before. It had its origin in that breeding place of hurricanes, the West Indies, and after swirling along the Florida and Carolina shores, doubled on its tracks, entered the Gulf, came racing westward and developing greater strength with each hour and centered all its energies upon the Texas coast near Galveston. On September 7th there was official warning of the approach of a severe storm but no one expected such a tempest as was destined to devastate the city. Such warning as was given was rather addressed to mariners about to go to sea than to those living on shore. Simultaneously with the approach of the hurricane was a great wind from the north, known locally as a "Norther." This developed at Galveston about 2 a.m. on September 8th. The approaching hurricane from the east and southeast had been driving a great wall of water toward the shore at Galveston. The tremendous windstorm from the north acted as a counter force from Galveston Bay on the one side of the city and the storm in the Gulf hurled its battalions of waves upon the beach side of the city. Early in the day the battle between these two contending forces offered a magnificent spectacle to a student of scenery of nature. As long as the north wind held strong the city was safe. While the winds dashed great volumes of water over the wharves and flooded some streets in the business portion of the city and the waters of the Gulf on the other side of the city encroached upon the streets near the beach, there was no particular fear of serious consequences, but about noon the barometer, which had been very low, suddenly began to drop at a rate that presaged a storm of tremendous violence.

Following this came the warning that the wind would, before many hours, change from the north to the southeast and to the fury of the wall of water being driven upon Galveston by the approaching hurricane would be added all the tremendous force of the wind that had previously acted as a partial check to the Gulf storm.

To those who previously had no fear, the certainty that the wind would change came as the first real note of wafting. With the first shifting of the wind the waters of the Gulf swept over the city. Houses near the beach began to crumble and collapse, their timbers picked up by the wind and waves and thrown in a long line of battering rams against the structures. Men, women and children fled from their homes and sought safety in higher portions of the city, or in buildings more strongly built. Some were taken out in boats, some in wagons, some waded through the waters, but the flood rose so rapidly that the approach of night found many hundreds battling in the waters, unable to reach places of safety. The air was full of missiles. The wind tore slats from roofs and carried them along life wafers. The waves, with each succeeding sweep of the in-rushing tide, brought a greater volume of wreckage as house after house toppled and fell into the waters. So tremendous was the roar of the storm that all other sounds were dwarfed and drowned. During the eight hours from 4 p. m. until midnight, the hurricane raged with a fury greater than words can describe. What height the wind reached will never be known. The wind gauge at the weather bureau recorded an average of 84 miles an hour for five consecutive minutes, and then the instruments were carried away. That was before the storm had become really serious. The belief that the wind averaged between 110 and 120 miles an hour is as good information as was obtainable.

Nothing so exemplified the impotency of man as that storm. Massive buildings were crushed like eggshells, great timbers were carried through the air as though they were of no weight, and the winds and waves swept everything before them until their appetite for destruction was satiated and their force spent.

How many lives were sacrificed to the Storm King has never been determined. The census taken in June preceding showed that Galveston had a population of 38,000. Outside the city limits on Galveston Island there were 1,600 persons living. The dead in the city exceeded 5,000. Of the 1,600 living outside the city limits, 1,200 were lost. This frightful mortality 75 per cent—outside the city was explained by the fact that most of the people there lived in frail structures and had no place of comparative safety to take refuge in. It was estimated that at least 7,000 lives were lost, and property damage amounted to between $25,000.000 and $850.000,000.

For a week Galveston was under martial law. There was no disorder. There was some robbing of the dead by ghouls. This was checked by a punishment swift and sure. The city rose from its ruins as if by magic. Street after street was cleared of debris. A small army of men worked from early morn until the shadows of night descended to lift the city from its burden of wreckage. Then when danger of epidemic seemed past, attention turned to commerce. The bay was strewn with stranded vessels. Monster ocean steamers weighing thousands of tons, had been picked up like toys, driven across the lowlands, and thrown far from their moorings. One big steamer was hurled through three bridges; another, weighing 4,000 tons, was carried twenty-two miles from deep water and dashed against a bayou bluff in another county. The great wharves and warehouses along the bayfront were a mass of splintered broken timbers.

But the mighty energy of man worked wonders. Marvelous to say, under such conditions, a bridge two and a half miles long was built across the bay within seven days and Galveston, which had been cut off from the world. was once more in active touch with all the marts of trade and commerce. An undaunted neople strove as only an indomitable people can strive, to rehabilitate the city. Dark and dreary days were crowded into Galveston's life with horror unspeakable. It is an inexorable law of nature that after the storm comes the radiance of a glorious sunshine.

We have many eyewitness accounts of the Galveston disaster, and could devote pages of Frontier Times to a description of the terrible storm. John A. Rockfellow, of Arizona, in his book. "Log Of An Arizona Trail Blazer," published in 1938. gives an account which we publish below, because it gives the experience of an outsider, who, with his family, barely missed death in the Galveston tragedy:

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GALVESTON

The year 1900 was a wet one for the State of Texas. In April a large dam at Austin gave way. In September the terrible West Indian storm, working slowly westward across the Gulf of Mexico, culminated about Galveston taking the lives of eight thousand people. Though living in Arizona, it was the fate of my family to have experiences in both these catastrophes. My wife, with three small children, had started to visit our old home in western New York, but was stopped in Texas by the flood waters from the broken dam. The train was moved here, there, thither. When they finally arrived in Buffalo, New York, they were not only hungry but much in need otherwise. I joined them the first of August and we planned to return by boat from New York to Galveston. We sailed from New York, September first on the Mallory line steamship "Comal." The master, Captain Evans, was a very able commander, a native of Cape Cod, the home of real seamen. It was a fine trip and we made many pleasant acquaintances among the sixty or seventy passengers. On the night of the eighth we nosed into the outer circles of the storm which at that time was driving the Gulf of Mexico into Galveston bay and wrecking the town. We didn't suffer much on shipboard, however.

All next day the sea was very rough but the wind had moderated. We were standing on and off at the harbour mouth at daylight on the following morning. The usual light to guide us in was gone, and the water under us was of a most peculiar color. The entrance is between two long lines of pilings that narrow the outlet of the bay and keep the bottom scoured deep enough for large vessels. When it was light enough, we entered the opening and met a current running like a millrace from the bay into the gulf. The water covered the tops of the pilings which should have extended four feet above the normal water line.

I said to Captain Evans, "Does this mean that another dam has broken loose as the one at Austin did in April?"

He replied, "The water from Austin darn wouldn't have raised Galveston Bay an inch. I can't understand this."

Right away we met floating debris of all kinds and were startled to see a human body, and then many more. Once inside, we were even more shocked. There was not a vessel afloat or a human being in sight. The docks were wrecked. At the Mallory dock, the pilings were supporting a good sized schooner that had floated up on them and had there stuck tight. In front, another schooner had sunk and was on its side, the masts sticking out dangerously into the harbor.

We came to anchor near enough to the wrecked dock to hear some words from a man who came as far toward us as he could. He was the husband of one of the passengers. Later we learned that he had reached Galveston, which is situated on an island, by swimming from pier to pier on a wrecked railroad trestle. We had stopped at Key West, a quarantine port, and were not supposed to land until given permission by a health officer, but no such officer was in sight. A sister ship, the Alamo, was grounded about a quarter of a mile away; soon her captain came in his gig and ranged up alongside. He volunteered to go and look for a health officer and in a few words gave us the story of the storm.

Then a long rowboat manned by four oarsmen ranged up. The stern seat was occupied by an Associated Press reported who was starting for Houston at the upper end of the bay, to take the story of the disaster to the world. He kindly offered to carry telegrams for any of us to be sent to friends.

This was very pleasing to us and nearly everybody got busy. The telegram I wrote was delivered to my father three days later and was a great relief to our friends in New York State.

We hadn't been at anchor more than half an hour when another steamship, the Pensacola, steamed in and anchored a short distance from us. A couple of hours later we saw the flag of our neighbor ship set at half-mast. It seems that her captain, having noted the warning signals which were hoisted some hours before the hurricane, and thinking that his ship would be safer at sea than in the bay, had steamed out into the gulf. Before leaving, however, he had sent his wife and daughter ashore. The building in which they took shelter was wrecked and the ladies were drowned. This explained the flag flying at half-mast.

After a long delay, the captain of the Alamo returned with permission for us to land. The anchor was hoisted and the ship was brought alongside a dock that was in fair condition — though the floor planking had been washed away. Most of the men on the passenger list went ashore. With one of them I picked my way up into the business section, climbing over wreckage, the worst that can be imagined. Cart loads of bodies were being gathered and taken to a barge at one of the best of the wrecked docks. A small tug boat had been floated and was hauling the death barge out into the gulf where the bodies were dropped overboard.

The fronts of the stores on the ground floors had been broken by the flood but the most substantial buildings were intact. It was in the residential district that houses had been wrecked or partly demolished. On the gulf side of the island a tier of three or four entire blocks had been absolutely cleaned of houses, and the wreckage had been washed back till it formed a barricade as high as the roofs of two-story buildings. A citizens' committee had been organized with headquarters at one of the hotels and had taken the city in hand.

That afternoon a small excursion steamer came down from Houston loaded with supplies, surgical and general. It even brought ice. This steamboat was later to take us away. Besides the thousands of dead, many more in number were injured and private homes that had survived were filled with the injured.

On board the "Comal," Captain Evans called us together and said, "We can't put you ashore with no place to go, so for the present stay with us on the boat."

Much of the ship's cargo was commandeered by the citizens' committee for the use of the town. That night we heard frequent shots in the town. Much looting was going on and the guards were shooting. Next morning many gruesome incidents were related. One man had been taken with his pockets bulging with human fingers bearing rings. He had been looting the dead. His captors were not long in disposing of him. During the day we learned that railroad men were relaying the track with frenzied haste, from Houston, and that probably refugees could be taken over the road the next day.

We made application to the committee for permits and about thirty were granted to Comal passengers, those having children. We were to take the little steamboat that had come with supplies from Houston and be ferried across the bay to Texas Point. Our party was given an early breakfast and set ashore; the steamship having been anchored out in the bay again. At the embarking place we walked the slippery timbers of the old wharf. and then down on the funeral barge that had carried.the dead bodies to sea, from which we were to climb a gangplank to the excursion steamer.

But, no, the boat was loaded to the guards and not a foot of space was available. The captain of the boat harangued the crowd, telling them that no one could go except those with permits, and the boat could not carry even the present load. It was no use; no one would stir. Our party stood on the awful smelling barge and debated. Soon we heard the tramp, tramp of men in uniform above us, and we saw on the collar of the commander and on his shoulder-strap the insignia which showed him to be a captain. The master of the steamboat had sent for him.

The army captain spoke kindly to us and advised us to go up on the wharf, as the barge would be overcrowded in a few minutes. We climbed up on the wharf and watched. The captain with his squad crowded aboard the boat and ordered all ashore whether with permits or not. No one stirred. He repeated his order. No one moved. Then we heard, "Fix bayonets!"

The butts of rifles hit the deck in unison, and on went the bayonets. Another order was issued to the soldiers, and then the crowd moved fast. A few were pricked to speed them up, but in less time than it takes to tell it, the crowd was on the barge and scrambling up on the dock. Then the captain placed four men at the gangplanks with muskets crossed and told those that had permits to come on, but added with emphasis for no one to come on who had no permit. No count was kept of the number that embarked, but it was found that almost three hundred people were on the boat, which was intended to hold not more than two hundred and fifty. However, none were sent ashore and the boat pulled away.

Our "Comal" party gave three rousing cheers for the good old craft as we passed her at anchor, and got a toot from her whistle in answer. The sandy bottom of the bay had shifted much and choked the former channel, so that at one time there was but six inches of water under our keel. Our landing place was a long pier running out a quarter of a mile into the shallow bay. As all the planks were washed away, we walked on stringers about twelve inches wide. We had brought only light hand baggage, leaving our trunks to be forwarded by the Mallory people. They reached us in Arizona about two weeks later. Walking the long pier, I carried my two-year old boy on my shoulders.

On shore we waited in most intense heat for hours, but finally a train came creeping along. The weight of the engine and cars would cause the rails to sink out of sight and fountains of muddy water to spurt up. The train brought scores of people, expecting to reach Galveston, and they made a rush for the pier to board the waiting steamboat which had brought us over. But at the shore end of the pier a guard from the squad of soldiers had orders not to allow anyone aboard. The crowd begged and threatened, but no use. One fellow would say, "But I represent the press:" another, "I have kinfolks there." The answer was, "There are too many hungry and homeless people in the city now' and your friends are either alive or dead, and you can't do them any good. You would only be another person to be cared for."

When the crowd saw it was no use pleading and that there was no use trying to get by those boys with bayonets, they made a rush for the train. We three hundred would have filled the coaches, but with this crowd of curious sightseers they were packed. Some of our children were put aboard through the windows. Slowly the train crawled through the mud. We were soon out of sight of the water but for miles inland we saw small craft of every description, high, but not dry, for the ground was almost a bog. One large dredge, the "Cameron," heavy with powerful machinery, was squatting in the mud many miles from the bay.

We passed through groves of good sized pine trees, every one of which had been broken off about half to two-thirds of its height from the ground, not blown over the roots or broken off at the butt, as I have generally seen such trees when they have been swept by a tornado. Arriving at Houston at about five p.m., we were met by throngs anxious to hear the extent of the disaster, and many asking for friends and relatives. Our "Comal" party separated there, all going in different directions.

I with my family, boarded a westbound Southern Pacific train at ten p.m. Texas is a fine state, but the dry mesas of New Mexico and Arizona seemed like home, and our humble home seemed like a real palace when we arrived. Our friends greeted us as arisen from the dead. One newspaper editor informed me he had written my obituary and that it was in the hands of the compositor when he heard of our arrival. During the subsequent years he has several times reminded me that this obituary still hangs on the hook, ready for use when needed.

1875 - MIGHTY HURRICANE DESTROYS TEXAS PORT CITY

2017-08-24

Written by James W. Hatch, San Antonio, Texas

From Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, October, 1925

In September, 1875, district court was being held at Indianola, the county seat of Calhoun county. There were two murder trials on the docket at this term of court, first that of William Taylor, charged with the killing of Gabriel Slaughter on board a Morgan steamship laying at the dock at Indianola, and the other being Joe Blackburn, charged with stage robbery and first degree murder. Most of the men of Calhoun, county had been summoned as jurors to sit on one or the other of these cases, but being under age I escaped summons. My brother, D. W. Hatch had been summoned and drawn as a juror.

Calhoun county, which is a peninsula, takes in an of Salura Island and a part of Matagorda Peninsula. Indianola, in 1875, was the leading seaport of the Gulf Coast, and supplied all the country adjacent.

Court had been called and jurors sworn for the term. Without warning, a West India tornado struck the place, but as there had been other storms of similar nature in the past, the people did not get frightened until it was too late to escape to the prairie and mainland. The county jail was located in the courthouse yard, and when water to the depth of several feet rolled in great seas through Main Street it was believed the prisoners in the jail would drown in.their cells if left there, so Sheriff Busch brought them into the courthouse and his deputies stood guard over them. Soon the great wharves and large timbers from the shipways began floating through the city. Waves mountain high formed before a wind having a velocity of one hundred miles an hour, and the heavy floating timbers acted as battering rams against the houes, knocking them to pieces as though they were but cardboard.

Of those stationed at the courthouse, the two first degree murder prisoners, William Taylor and Joe Blackburn, proved most heroic. Each of these men repeatedly sprang through the courthouse window and swam to the aid of some drowning man or woman, and each time succeeded in bringing the victim up to the window where willing hands on the inside pulled them through,

During this awful storm many courageous rescues were effected. For ten hours D. W. Hatch, Jr., stood lashed in an open window of the second story of the Dr. David Lewis home and with a rope lassoed struggling people as they floated past. It is said that he dragged between twenty and thirty through the window to comparative safety. Floating ship spars and heavy timbers were the constant menace to buildings not already demolished, but the Lewis building withstood the storm. After the storm had blown from the east for eighteen or twenty hours, the wind suddenly shifted to the north, and the high waters of the different bays now took a mad rush back to the Gulf. The Matagorda Peninsula lay in its way, and fifteen miles of this peninsula was carried into the Gulf, with many homes and families, among them being three pilots of Pass Cahallo, Captains Thomas and Elijah Decroe, together with their families. Higher up on the Peninsula lived two sons-in-law of Captain Thomas Decroe, John Humphries and Henry Pearserley. When the storm was over John Humphries was the sole survivor of his family, all the others having been swept from a raft on which they had taken refuge. Henry Pearserley had also built a raft, and luckily his raft was quickly carried to the mainland, where, beyond the hardship they had already endured, they were unhurt and found refuge.

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At the home of Captain Billie Nichols, his wife was desperately ill. Dr. John Leake was in attendance. At the height of the storm Mrs. Nichols had given birth to an infant. As the water raised higher in the house the bed on which she lay was repeatedly raised higher and higher to keep the sick woman and infant dry if possible. Realizing the peril that threatened, Captain Nichols and his son, Henry Nichols, began the construction of a strong raft, and when it was completed it was anchored in the lea of the house. When the raging waters continued to rise Captain, Nichols begged his son, Henry, to take Miss Dot Decroe and the young doctor on the raft and save themselves, but young Nichols refused to leave his mother, the doctor refused to leave his patient and Miss Decroe elected to remain with her friends and all die together. The sick mother added her entreaties to those of her husband, that her son try to save the life of the young lady who had so heroically stood by her through illness, and it was not until Captain Nichols, aided by Doctor Leake, placed Miss Decroe on the raft and then with united strength placed young Nichols on it and before he could jump off they cut the cable and set it afloat, that they could be started to safety. How long the Nichols home stood will never be known. That part of the peninsula where the house stood was carried into the Gulf by the receding tidal wave. When the wind changed to the north those drowned on the Matagorda Peninsula were carried into the Gulf and their bodies were never recovered. Those who were saved took rafts while the wind blew from the east and were carried to bay shores and lodged there. It is estimated that Henry Nichols and Miss Dot Decroe were afloat on the raft and then with united strength the raft was finally thrown out on the beach of Lavaca Bay they were both too exhausted to rise to their feet, and every vestige of clothing had been torn from their bodies. That they were living was due to the two brave men who had cut the raft loose. Captain Nichols had wisely placed rope loops on the raft for them to hold to in order to prevent being washed overboard.

Elijah Decroe, Jr., a nephew of Captain Thomas Decroe, living further up the peninsula, had saved himself and family by means of a raft. Those who remained of these peninsula people later moved in a bunch to Williamson county, near Georgetown. Miss Dot Decroe was later married to Dr. Paige of Georgetown.

At our home all was excitement. We were out of danger, but one of the family, D. W. Hatch was at Indianola, and we believed the place had been destroyed by the unprecedented storm. We realized it was impossible to go to aid of the storm victims until the wind shifted and carried the waters back to the Gulf. We secured every available barrel and loaded them into farm wagons and filled them with rainwater to be started to Indianola as soon as the storm ceased. This was done at the suggestion of Captain Sylvanus Hatch, who said if all of the people of Indianola were not drowned, the salt water from the Gulf would enter all tanks and cisterns there and ruin the drinking water. As soon as the wind shifted to the north I mounted my horse and started for Indianola. The wind was directly at my back, else my horse could not have kept his footing. When I reached the stricken city a sad spectacle greeted me. People who had not perished were excitedly looking for missing members of their families. My brother, D. W. Hatch, was calmly directing search and giving orders for relief. I informed him that our father would soon arrive with two wagon loads of water, and when it came, guards were placed over it and it was distributed equally to the needy. As soon as the wagons were unloaded they were sent back to the Hatch ranch for more water. I gave my brother my horse and returned to the ranch in one of the wagons. At the beginning of the storm three sailboats were at Port Lavaca, and they had been run under bare poles up into the Navidad river and escaped injury. When the storm was over, the owners of the boats ran down to Port Lavaca to collect every empty barrel from the four stores of that place, and returning to the river they filled the barrels with fresh water and carried it to Indianola. Our ranch wagons brought in about twenty or thirty women and children to the ranch. I secured another horse and returned to Indianola. There were only three horses that survived the Indianola storm, and they belonged to Sheriff Busch and two draymen. These horses had been saved by leading them up a stairway to the second floor of a building. On my return I joined my brother's crowd to search over the prairie of the flooded distrIct for people living or dead who had been carried there on floating wreckage. We buried the bodies where we found them without coffins. If the body could be identified by anyone in the party the name was written on the headboard. A fence picket was driven at the head and foot of each grave. These bodies were later disinterred, placed in coffins and properly buried in the Indianola cemetery. The bodies of the drowned persons were invariably found nude.

On the arrival of Sheriff Busch at the courthouse after the storm, Joe Blackburn: and William Taylor were standing in the crowd in the courthouse yard. All thought of the deputies to take any precautions with these men had been abandoned. Sheriff Busch was talking to the crowd and describing how he had saved his favorite horse, when Joe Blackburn snatched the sheriff's pistol from its scabbard and turning the gun on the chief deputy he ordered him to unbuckle his pistol belt and let it fall to the floor. William Taylor secured the gun and got the sheriff's horse while Blackburn kept the crowd covered until they could mount and leave. A mile from town they met Guy Michot, a negro, and forced him to dismount and give his horse to Taylor. The negro lost no time in complying with their demands. Taylor then gave the negro a ten dollar bill and told him to inform Sheriff Busch that they appreciated his kind treatment of them while they were in jail and that in two or three days they would return the guns and horses. According to promise the horses and guns were duly returned, with a liberal present for the negro. Taylor and Blackburn made good their escape and were never again apprehended. William Taylor was probably one of the three men who killed Ruben Brown at Waco later.

It can never be known exactly how many people were drowned at Indianola, Matagorda Peninsula, Salura and other Gulf shore islands. Indianola was filled with strangers from the interior of the state who had come to the coast to bathe and fish. Identification of the dead bodies was made possible through rings and earrings as the bodies were disinterred and placed in coffins. Relatives were required to make oath to the jewelry.

Although Indianola was partially rebuilt after the storm of 1875, the people's confidence in the safety of the place was gone, and capital could not be invested there. The reason the place was not wholly abandoned in 1875 was because of the beef shipping industry over the Harrison Morgan Steamship line. A few southern men rallied around this industry, the steamship and railroad companies repaired the cattle wharfs, and the railroad company kept its machine shops and turntable there.

In 1886 Indianola was the scene of a second storm which, though it did not last as long as the storm of 1875, exceeded it in violence. Railroad rails were picked up from the roadbed with ties attached and blown through the air a full quarter of a mile and landed on end in Powder Horn Lake, where they stand to this day as mute evidence of the velocity of the cyclone of 1886. There were fewer casualties in this later storm as there were fewer people to become victims. Those who lived through the second storm decided to abandon the place for all time, with the exception of one old negro man called Uncle Peyton, and Port Lavaca once more became the county seat.

Sherman Cyclone Wrought Havoc - H. L. Piner

2014-03-24

Sherman Cyclone Wrought Havoc 36 Years Ago

H. L. Piner

[Due to approaching tornado season in Texas, we thought the following account, from J. Marvin Hunter's Frontier Times, August, 1932 would be of interest]

THIRTY-SIX YEARS ago a tornado in many respects unparalleled in cyclonic history swept through Sherman, killing fifty-six persons out-right, fatally mangling ten others, sending fifty-eight more to hospitals and maiming scores who were cared for in private homes.

For several days the meteorological conditions had been favorable to cyclonic development—unusual humidity, variable winds of freaky fickleness and force, very high daily temperature, remarkably cool nights and a persistently low barometer. From noon until 4:15 p.m. when the storm struck Sherman, there was a stifling atmospheric condition that made breathing difficult. At the signal station the barometer stood at the danger point. Immediately preceding the onslaught of the tornado there was a heavy downpour of rain.

The tornado originated in a cloud about twenty miles southwest of Sherman. The tornado funnel wormed its way out of the lower edge of this earth, apparently feeling its way, reminding the observer of a huge elephant's trunk in search of food.

During the formation of the parent, cloud in the southwest another cloud was moving toward it from the northwest. Between these two clouds there was a magnificent electrical display in a greenish cloudbank along the western horizon. With spectacular vividness sheet lightning kept the heavens illuminated, during which time frequent fiery zigzag bolts of intense brightness flashed down into the earth.

About five miles southwest of the city the second cloud dashed into the tornado's face as if it would devour the aerial monster. For one minute there was an absolute pause in the funnel's movement. The two colossal wind-demons were in a contest for supremacy. Two hundred yards above the earth clouds rolled upon clouds with appalling hisses and groanings. Long ghoulish arms of sooty blackness shot out into the surrounding atmosphere, their ragged fingers seeming to clutch at everything. within their reach. Objects that had been sucked into the vortex now whirled and tumbled and spun as if a dozen voices were juggling in them.

It is easy to exaggerate the force and velocity of a storm that is shaking the life out of you over an open grave. Various estimates gave the progressive movement of the storm a velocity of 70 to 100 miles per hour. The vortical velocity, determined by the regular recurrence of certain sounds in the whirl of the funnel, was estimated at 500 miles per hour. These estimates were only opinions without positive and definite means of proof. But the tremendous force made obvious from objects driven through trees or lifted through the air indicate an inconceivable velocity. An hour after leaving Sherman and rising into the air the funnel dipped and reappeared as a tornado in Oklahoma.

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South of the town a stone weighing 500 pounds was carried 225 feet. A piece of marble two feet long from a monument was found a mile north of the shaft from which it was broken. A sawed scantling was driven through the heart of a tree. A reliable citizen declares that stones weighing 250 pounds each were lifted out of the creeks and hurled into his farm. These stones contained iron ore. A piece of iron weighing 200 pounds wa s found more than 300 feet South of the place where it had lain. A piece of iron from Houston street bridge weighing 200 pounds was carried 250 feet and driven several feet into the ground. The massive irons from the Houston street bridge were snatched from their supporting columns and twisted into fantastic shapes as if they had been straws.

From a side view of the cloud it was smoky black. From a front view it. was a bright copper color that shaded into black at the sides. A young woman who was caught up and carried several hundred feet described the interior of the funnel as a hollow cylinder whose walls were of the dazzling brightness of polished copper in intense illumination.

Mary Nash Institute and North Texas Female College, just across the street from each other, were in direct line with the path of the storm. A rumor had gone abroad that these institutions had been demolished. In these colleges were at least. 400 girls. Throughout the night after the tornado and all next day parents from a distance thronged each campus seeking information. When it was found that all were safe, strong men stood irk speechless gratitude while their daughters clung to them and wept for joy.

Every tornado has its freak incidents, many of which test the credulity of persons who only hear about them but never see them. This one perpetrated its share to hold its own with all others. A ball of fire was seen in the wake of the funnel. Vegetation sieemed to have been scorched. Leaves crumbling in the fingers like those of December, in some instances when rubbed between the hands.

The storm manifested a peculiar fondness for metallic substances. Circular iron bands around flower pots were taken away while the flowers were not damaged. Wagon tires were wrung from wheels and twisted into odd shapes. The funnel bounded from a bluff over a valley, leaving a field of young corn unhurt in the creek bottom.

A splinter was driven through six cans of concentrated lye. A piano was found covered with a carpet and still in good tune. A dead snake was wrapped many times around the limb of a surviving tree.

A trunk top was found thirty-five miles north of Sherman bearing the owner's name. A cabinet phonograph was picked up thirty miles away. A platform scales was drawn out of its bearings and strewn along the ground. A doctor was caught up and whirled in the storm. When he went up he had silver in his pockets. When he came down he had neither silver nor pockets. Next day a friend brought in a vehicle wheel. It was all that was left of the doctor's buggy. His horse was found half a mile away stripped of his harness. A rural teacher's voucher was picked up thirty miles north. A woman had two metallic milk coolers at the end of twenty foot ropes in a well. The coolers were drawn out and carried away, while the ropes were beaten to a frazzle on the ground at the well.

The tornado vortex that drew everything within its reach into its greedy maw blew the hearts of men together. That one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin elicited sympathies that were swiftly translated into helpful action. The living suffered the agonies of the dying. Merchants forgot their merchandise. Clerks abandoned their counters. Professional men rushed from their offices. Into the scene of death and devastation swift. moving feet carried willing hands. Caste and class disappeared.

For almost a week, with hasty meals and little sleep, every physician in the city was ceaselessly active. Physicians from other towns came nobly to the aid of local doctors and surgeons. A Sherman citizen received from the Weather Bureau in Washington a blank containing many questions concerning the storm and these were supplemented by a special request for a report of his own personal observations. In reply he stated that at the time for making observations he was running so fast that he had no opportunity for making observations of scientific value.

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