3 Years Among the Comanches (Memoirs). Nelson Lee
Читать онлайн книгу.
the country was in an unsettled state. For a long period of time a system of border warfare had existed between the citizens of Texas and Mexico, growing out of the declaration of independence on the part of the young republic. Marauding parties from beyond the Rio Grande kept the settlers of western Texas in a state of constant agitation and excitement. Besides these annoyances, the inhabitants of other sections were perpetually on the alert to defend themselves against those savage tribes which roamed over the vast region to the north, and which, not infrequently, stole down among the settlers, carrying away their property and putting them to death.
This condition of affairs necessarily resulted in bringing into existence the Texas Rangers, a military order as peculiar as it has become famous. The extensive frontier exposed to hostile inroads, together with the extremely sparse population of the country, rendered any other force of comparatively small avail. The qualifications necessary in a genuine Ranger were not, in many respects, such as are required in the ordinary soldier. Discipline, in the common acceptation of the term, was not regarded as absolutely essential. A fleet horse, an eye that could detect the trail, a power of endurance that defied fatigue, and the faculty of “looking through the double sights of his rifle with a steady arm,”—these distinguished the Ranger, rather than any special knowledge of tactics. He was subjected to no “regulation uniform,” though his usual habiliments were buckskin moccasins and overhauls, a roundabout and red shirt, a cap manufactured by his own hands from the skin of the coon or wildcat, two or three revolvers and a bowie knife in his belt, and a short rifle on his arm. In this guise, and well mounted, should he measure eighty miles between the rising and setting sun, and then, gathering his blanket around him, lie down to rest upon the prairie grass with his saddle for a pillow, it would not, at all, occur to him he had performed an extraordinary day’s labor.
The compensation received from government at that time was one dollar a day, and finding no other employment which seemed to me more remunerative or attractive, I joined Captain Cameron at San Patricio, then ranging in the vicinity of the Rio Grande. He was a Scotchman—a noble and brave man—who in very early life had left his native heather, and in the course of time established himself on the banks of the Nueces. During the disturbances which distracted the country, his intelligence, chivalry, and force of character naturally drew towards him the attention of his fellow citizens, as one upon whom they might lean for protection. His company consisted of forty-five men. My first experience in Indian warfare was an engagement with a roving band of Comanches, whom we suddenly encountered near Casa Blanca, during one of our excursions beyond the Nueces. They were put to flight after a sharp interchange of bullets on one side and arrows on the other; not, however, until I had become most emphatically impressed with a due sense of their brave and warlike character. They are a numerous and powerful tribe whose range extends from the headwaters of the Guadaloupe to the base of the Rocky Mountains, and of whose habits, dispositions, and mode of life I shall have much to say before this narrative concludes.
A short time subsequent to this adventure we obtained information that a considerable body of Mexicans had crossed the border and were somewhere in our vicinity. While on the lookout for them, we met, one day, the forces under General Davis, at Panta Clan. His company, having listened to extravagant rumors relative to the great number of Mexicans on the march, some of them rating it as high as three thousand well-armed and effective men, had become alarmed. During the night the most of them flocked to our encampment near by, discussing the all-absorbing question of the probable whereabouts of the enemy. At this very time, while we were indulging in all manner of surmises, the wily Mexicans had crept into their camp, and seizing every description of property on which they could lay their hands, retired without loss or molestation. The next morning, however, they presented themselves and offered battle, and though far outnumbering our united forces, we compelled them to retreat after a contest of two hours, taking from them, in addition to the spoils of the previous night, more than forty mules.
Though little was said about it at the time, a story eventually spread abroad that General Davis did not bear himself with becoming bravery on this occasion. It was alleged he abandoned his quarters, permitting the Indians to plunder them without resistance, through cowardice. Years after, while a candidate for office of delegate to the convention from his district on the Trinity, his political opponents endeavored to compass his defeat by representing him a poltroon at the battle of Panta Clan. Happening to be present at a barbecue where the subject was discussed, I was called upon to give my version of the affair, and in a political speech, the first and last I have ever made, fully exonerated him from the charge. My testimony seemed to be satisfactory, and the general was elected. He is now one of the largest landholders and most respected and prominent citizens of Texas.
It was not long after the Panta Clan engagement, while we were in the vicinity of Seguin, that Ben McCullough, with sixteen others including myself, were detached from the main body and sent out as spies. McCullough was a brave fellow, a tall, straight man, over six feet high, rawboned, light, sandy hair, extremely reserved in manner, with keen black eyes which shone like diamonds. We presently struck a wide trail leading to the south, and following it, soon came in sight of some seven hundred Comanches, near the Lavaca River. Unable to cope with so formidable a body, we hovered in their vicinity, keeping them constantly under observation. They continued their march in the direction of the coast until they reached, at length, the settlement of Lindville, on Matagorda Bay, which they attacked and burned, killing four men, and carrying away three women as prisoners. From a distant height we witnessed this affair, entirely unable to render any effectual resistance. Runners, however, were dispatched in hot haste to General Burleson on the Colorado, conveying information of what had transpired, and requesting reinforcements.
True to his chivalrous nature, Burleson, who never waited a second call when danger was to be met or a duty was to be performed, sent forward as many as he could; so that, by the time we had tracked the marauders on their retreat as far as Plum Creek, our numbers had increased to three hundred. There we resolved to attack them.
In concluding upon the plan of attack, our great object was to rescue the captured women. It was ascertained, as we anticipated, that they were with the old warriors in the rear of their encampment. A portion of our force, accordingly, made a wide circuit, and falling stealthily upon that point succeeded in saving harmless two of the captives, the other being stabbed to death by an Indian before making his escape. As I approached with another detachment of my comrades from a different direction, a buckshot struck me near the elbow, passing up the arm to the shoulder blade, where it yet remains. It was my bridle arm, causing me to drop the rein, and in consequence, my horse unexpectedly bore me directly into their midst. Perceiving my perilous situation, the Rangers rushed after me without awaiting the word of command. A scene of terrible confusion followed, which terminated finally in a complete victory in our favor and the recovery of all the property stolen at the sack of Lindville.
My six months’ term of service under Cameron now expired, and bidding him adieu, I journeyed to San Antonio, and from thence to Seguin on the Guadaloupe, where I had taken up my residence. Afterwards I marched with Cameron to Mier, but not under his command. He was, indeed, a remarkable personage, as true a friend of Texas as any who have ever fought her battles or yielded up their lives in her defense, and I cannot forbear alluding briefly, in this connection, to his subsequent career and melancholy fate.
In the famous attack on Mier, in 1842, he was taken prisoner, and was one of those unfortunate men who, in violation of solemn articles of capitulation, were marched in irons on that long and weary journey towards the dungeons of Mexico, the account of which constitutes one of the saddest chapters in all history. After surviving the desperate attack upon the guards at Salado, and drawing a “white bean” at the bloody decimation of the captives on their rearrest, the Dictator of Mexico could not rest content while one who had proved himself such an indomitable foe was permitted to exist. Green, in his history of the expedition against Mier gives the following description of the closing scene of his life: “About eight o’clock at night,” he says, “a menial murderer, with a pair of epaulets upon his shoulders, and a guard of mounted men under broad-brimmed hats, arrived with orders from the tyrant Santa Anna, to shoot the bold and beloved Captain Ewin Cameron. He was unchained from his partner, Colonel William F. Wilson, and with his interpreter, Alfred Thurmond, taken out of prison and kept under a separate guard until morning, when he was