CHAPTER IX

People of Note

The early circumstances and opportunities of a man’s life naturally constitute most important and powerful agents in shaping his future character, forming generally a groove or channel down which his life and habits will unconsciously, if not inevitably, drift. Not only is this true with regard to their power in the formation of human character, but the scenes and condition of boyhood and early manhood form an ideal world that abides in an old man’s heart forever, growing nearer, clearer, and dearer. Whatever changes may be wrought upon our country by enterprise and progress, in their might and energy, there are no times like the old times to us, and we linger fondly and constantly amid the scenes and struggles of a past that was full of interest and activity, as well as danger, to the old settlers. Alas! The friends and fellow soldiers of my youth and mature manhood are passing rapidly from earth, and it is truly said that the company of Texas veterans grows smaller day by day.

Amid the struggles and dangers through which the old settlers in Texas passed, no family bore a more heroic part than did the Hornsbys. I often think what an interesting and valuable record would be contained in a detailed account of their thrilling experiences here, but the silence of death and time is fast pushing the old scenes off, till some of the names we should revere and cherish as part of our state’s life and history fall on the ear like an echo of an echo, and too often one might search in vain for grateful mention of them anywhere in the annals of our current histories.

A few words of what I know of this brave family may prove interesting to those who love our large and growing state, and who still find solid food for thought and gratitude in the thrilling scenes of her past history. All the old veterans and all the true young Texans must forever be interested in these things so closely connected with our country’s present greatness. Of course, I cannot begin to wander away back into the times of strife and bloodshed and give in detail the many trying scenes through which this brave pioneer family passed.

Coming to Texas at an early day they at once identified themselves with her in all her struggles for independence and freedom, always being among the first to strike for her defense and preservation. A large family, consisting of five boys and two girls, they came and took hold of the rough wild life as true men and women, having the courage and the good sense to adapt themselves to all its circumstances. And as the years rolled on, they mastered the many difficulties and trials of the situation, rising above its discouragements.

The new era of peace and prosperity found them all alive and prosperous, and now comes the tragedy all untimely and terrible as such things always are. It was after 1845. A time of peace was here. Men had almost forgotten the old days, when savages lurked in cruel malice, waiting for the unwary and the helpless. The youngest boy, Daniel, and a Mr. Adkinson went out fishing on the river. Mike Hornsby, who told me this incident, says he remembers very distinctly the morning they left home. He was a very small child, but begged and cried to accompany his Uncle Daniel on the fatal excursion. His request was refused, but the desire and grief with the added horrors resulting fixed the facts upon the child’s mind.

The two young men went unarmed, without fear or suspicion, and soon settled down to fish under a high bluff on the river’s bank. No note of warning mingled with the liquid flow of the winding waves; no whisper of treachery or murder came in the south wind’s kiss—no shadow dimmed the spring sunshine. But from behind, a cruel death came suddenly and surely. A band of Comanches slipped up and announced their deadly purpose by sending a shower of arrows down upon their unarmed and helpless victims. Hemmed in as they were on the river’s brink, the water was their only refuge and into its depths they sprang, and made vigorous strokes for the opposite bank. Immediately at their heels came the band and into the river they also plunged. The lifeless bodies of the unfortunate young men bore terrible evidence of the ending of that dark day’s deeds.

It seemed that they would come in reach of young Adkinson and strike or cut him with their sharp arrows and spikes, as his body was badly gashed, and finally coming to shallow water they overtook, killed, scalped, and as a crowning outrage, disemboweled him. His body was quickly and easily found. It was a harder matter to learn anything of the fate of young Daniel Hornsby, however. From all signs he escaped the ruthless touch of their barbarity, and they never caught him at all. Mercifully the cooling waters had closed over him, giving him peaceful escape from so violent a death. After considerable difficulty, delay, and agonizing suspense, the poor dead boy was drawn from his watery grave and thus came the highest sacrifice borne by this heroic family!1

Texas history holds the name of Colonel Jack Hays prominently among those of her brave soldiers. Coming from Tennessee to Texas before her annexation to the United States, he was commissioned by President Houston to raise a ranging company for the protection of the western frontier. This is said to be the first regularly organized company of rangers in the service of this western country. John Wilbarger, in his recent Indian Depredations in Texas, says, “With this small company, for it never numbered more than three score men, Colonel Hays effectually protected a vast scope of frontier country, reaching from Corpus Christi, on the gulf, to the head waters of the Frio and Nueces Rivers.”2

From a number of his brave adventures and raids I have procured the following account from my old fellow soldier, [Cicero] Rufus Perry,* who participated in the scenes herein described. The old soldiers call it “Hays’s Fight on the Pinta Trail,” which took place near the head of Salado Creek. In the summer of 1844 a company of only thirteen men under Colonel Hays started from camp at Hackey Madea in search of Indians. After traveling for some time, they discovered five Indians some distance off, close to a thicket. Instead of attacking these five, Hays came right on through the brush and charged the main band, which was forming line behind the others. The Indians charged, too, and ran right through our lines two or three times. Three or four warriors would come together. Here Colt’s five-shooter was first used—two cylinders and both loaded. The Indians were astonished and terrified at the white men shooting their “butcher knives” at them, and soon retreated in confusion and dismay. One of the boys killed their chief and this added to their consternation. However, they fought as they retreated, the running fight continuing for about ten miles. Sam Walker and Ad Gillespie determined to kill one Indian apiece and started after them. The Indians, resorting to an old trick, fell in behind them and speared the both severely, but both got well, and lived to give faithful service for Texas afterward. Finally both of them were killed in the Mexican War.

In the fight two horses and saddles were taken, but not one Indian. On the next day two of the men, Peter Fohr3 and Andrew Erskine,⁴ who were left at camp during the fight, saw five Indians coming toward the camp and killed all of them. Peter Fohr was killed and Andrew Erskine wounded. See what odds here! Eleven white men against sixty Indians out in the open prairie, and back at camp two white men against five Indians!—and this was only one adventure of the many through which they passed.

In 1847 General Winfield Scott called for volunteers. Colonel Hays took half the force and made a raid into Mexico while [Col. Peter H.] Bell held the other half on the frontier for protection. The first fight of any note made by Hays in Mexico occurred then, and the whole campaign or raid was full of interest. At Vera Cruz they took line of march for Mexico City, and being the first soldiers after Scott they naturally anticipated an attack all the time. Their fears were, however, unfounded and from Puebla they were ordered one hundred miles south.

The object of this raid was the capture of Mexican robbers. At this time the guerrilla band might have been termed an organized army, working systematically and with telling effect upon the peace and prosperity of Texas. Traveling thus far without sign of danger or trouble of any kind, the officers grew very lenient—even lax—and our men enjoyed every privilege.

At Matamoros they found abundant quantities of whiskey and various Mexican drinks, as well as government stores and fine horses stolen and held by the guerrillas. The bowl went merrily around, and next morning they marched back for Puebla, thoroughly out of fighting trim in every respect, and seldom did soldiers ever march in greater confusion and disorder.

Captain [Jacob] Roberts’ company was in advance, and the “lively” little squad suddenly received a charge from a guerrilla band, numbering about eight hundred! They retreated in double-quick time back to the main army. General Walter P. Lane ordered the discharge of artillery, and the men who manned the cannon were too drunk for action! There was no time for deliberation or delay. The need of the hour was action, prompt and voluntary. Hays and two or three others, dismounting, fired the cannon and then charged with about one hundred men right into the enemy’s ranks. Meanwhile, excitement and danger had in a measure sobered the men. As the fight continued up a long slant or hill, Lieutenant Ridgeby, a brave soldier and an officer from the United States Army, called out, “Boys, I am shot all to pieces!” Upon being urged to go back and find a doctor, he answered, “No, I will fight till I die,” which he did.

At the top of the hill they received a fresh charge from another band, and Hays ordered a retreat. Now they fought between two guerrilla forces, and soon it was a hand-to-hand fight, in which the Texans and Mexicans were all mixed and commingled, going and coming. Captain Roberts had his horse shot from under him just as the retreat commenced, and several of our men were killed, but another discharge of artillery finally dispersed the Mexicans.

At Matamoros a good many oxcarts had been “pressed” and loaded with government arms, and now on the homeward march the teams began to fail, until at night orders were received to burn the carts, break the sabers, and destroy all the confiscated property, which had become only an impediment to the progress of the army. It was very dark and a slow, miserable drizzle made the surrounding night seem indeed “a darkness to be felt,” as the blaze of the burning carts flared and flashed in the gloom. Just as the fire was getting under good headway a fresh charge from an unknown enemy came, and men stood in doubt while bullets whistled up and down. The volley was quickly over, however, and upon investigation loaded muskets were found to have been burned with the carts, causing the “fresh charge.” Marvelous to say, nobody was hurt.

From Puebla on to Mexico City, where Scott held headquarters, they traveled slowly but surely. At dusk one evening they marched for Toulon Singo. Traveling in a gallop across a mountain it was wonderful to note the variations of temperature or climate, even in a single night. At dark they left tender young orange shrubs, with leaves just “wooed from out the bud” by the balmy air and dewy freshness of springtime. On they galloped, and at midnight they found themselves in an icy winter clime on the summit of the mountain, the weather literally freezing cold. Still forward and daylight revealed to them a glorious summer land, where they could gather ripe oranges in passing.

Finding no guerrillas at Toulon Singo, they kept an unbroken march on to Secqualtapan, about one hundred miles distant, and there they found a very large guerrilla band, quartered or stationed over the town. By thorough and cautious reconnoiter of the place they soon learned the whereabouts of the different guerrilla quarters, and the command scattered, different companies going to different localities.

Colonel Ford was adjutant. Captain Roberts being sick, his company was commanded by Lieutenant Dan Grady,* my neighbor, who is another loyal and devoted Texan, the greater part of whose life has been spent in active service for our state. His company charged upon one of the guerrilla quarters, and one man was instantly killed and several were wounded. The Mexicans had every advantage, being safely housed, and Grady soon ordered Private Swope to fire their quarters. Climbing from the tremendous gate to the stone wall, thence the shingles were easily fired, as the roofs were very low. No sooner did the shingles blaze than a white flag was shoved out in token of surrender. The bodies of the dead, with the quarters, were burned by the time the prisoners and wounded could be taken out. This occurred in one of those long dry spells so common in that section, and timber burned like powder. Sheets of burning shingles were raised by heat and flame and borne to adjacent roofs, which in turn would blaze and burn like a flash. Destruction of the town was so rapid that the army had to tear down buildings in order to save quarters for the night. Upon leaving the next morning, another touch of the match, another blaze, and the army of Texans looked back as they marched out to see only a mass of smoke and ashes, where yesterday stood a town.

Our entire body of men were cavalry, while the captured guerrilla forces were on foot, but commanded by their own officers, who quirted them along as if they had been beasts of burden, keeping them in a trot along with the cavalrymen, meanwhile bearing the wounded men on litters. Four men were thus hurried forward with a litter until broken down, then four fresh ones would pass under and take the burden, while the tired ones would trot on without a halt in ranks! And thus the march was continued to headquarters in Mexico City.

While there one of our men, an old gray-haired Dutchman, was found in one of the hardest, roughest portions of the city, murdered—terribly cut and mutilated. Our soldiers avenged his death by killing a few in the immediate locality. This in turn aroused others, until about forty Mexicans were killed as a result of the death of the old Dutchman.

Five or six hundred soldiers collected and were eager to rob the whole place and kill its inmates, and only firm interference of the officers subdued the spirit of insubordination until they reached Texas soil again.

Now came one of the last, as well as most effectual raids ever made against the Indians. It occurred in 1847. Captain Samuel Highsmith5 had commanded a company under Hays during the Mexican War. It was detached to protect the frontier, which was still often and severely troubled by Indian invasion. The company was stationed near what is known as the “Enchanted Rock,” fourteen miles from Fredericksburg, on Crabapple Creek. This rock, by the way, is a very remarkable freak of nature, being solid granite and covering an area of six hundred and forty acres of land, it is studded here and there with a kind of glittering material that resembles diamonds.

All through this vicinity the Indians had found easy victims among the German settlers. Captain Highsmith, camping on Crabapple Creek, sent out a small scouting party, consisting of white men and one Delaware Indian. Returning in a short time they reported a large Indian trail coming from the Fredericksburg vicinity.

Highsmith started out immediately with his company, following the trail with all possible speed. They soon came upon about forty Waco Indians encamped on the Llano River. The warriors were at dinner and did not perceive the whites until they were right on them and in gunshot distance. Highsmith, however, thought it best to parley, wishing to discover the character and intentions of the band before any attack was made upon them. So John Connor, the Delaware scout,6 was appointed spokesman and interpreter. He first called for the chief of the Wacoes. Upon appearance of the old chief a few questions were asked, which the chief answered in a surly, defiant manner. Connor, seeing that they were hostile, warned Highsmith to open fire upon them.

Noting the words of the Delaware, the Waco chief, helpless to give other aid to his men save that of warning, placed his hand behind his back and motioned for his men to run. Seeing the preparations among the whites for battle, he himself turned to run, but was killed instantly by Highsmith as he turned. When this happened the Indians retreated in disorder and confusion with the whites at their heels, firing as they ran. Without thought of anything but their great and imminent danger, the Indians ran to the river, which was one hundred yards wide at that point, and plunged wildly into its depths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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