Very cool! I think the name of the group you are talking about is actually Daughters of the Republic.
A true Texas fact
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Very cool! I think the name of the group you are talking about is actually Daughters of the Republic.
I would highly recommend making it a priority to get your hands on any/all genealogical data as soon as you can. Records tend to disappear over time. Would be terrific to pass that relevant info down to future generations. Chuck
Amen to that Chuck! I'm a member of SAR through my Dad's side of the family.
My last visit to the Alamo several years ago I was honored to see and read right in front of me Travis' letter. Talk about goose bumps!!!
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The Texas Quote of the Day finds Dr. Stephen L. Hardin describing why attacking San Antonio and the Alamo was such a blunder for Santa Anna:
"Given the strategic importance of the coast, which was obvious to both sides, Santa Anna's drive against Bexar [San Antonio] was a wasteful digression. Bexar was, of course, the political center of Mexican Texas, and His Excellency no doubt wanted to avenge his brother-in-law [Cos], but the difficult march on Bexar and the costly Alamo assault made little sense from a strategic viewpoint. San Antonio stood on the extreme edge of the western frontier. Santa Anna could have kept his army intact and driven up the coastal prairies along the same route that Urrea had earlier taken. Once Goliad had fallen, Santa Anna could have sent a column to Gonzales, which was defenseless. Such a movement would have severed the Alamo's lines of communication with the Texian settlements at little cost, thereby isolating the rebel garrison. Cut off from supplies and reinforcements, Travis would have had to abandon the fort, but he could have retreated only to the north or east where the Mexican lancers would be waiting for him. Had Santa Anna been the strategist that he envisioned himself to be, he would have seen that an assault on the Alamo was pointless. He could have easily neutralized the garrison without decimating his own army."
---- Dr. Stephen L. Hardin in "Texian IIiad," his excellent history of the Texas revolution
"Given the strategic importance of the coast, which was obvious to both sides, Santa Anna's drive against Bexar [San Antonio] was a wasteful digression. Bexar was, of course, the political center of Mexican Texas, and His Excellency no doubt wanted to avenge his brother-in-law [Cos], but the difficult march on Bexar and the costly Alamo assault made little sense from a strategic viewpoint. San Antonio stood on the extreme edge of the western frontier. Santa Anna could have kept his army intact and driven up the coastal prairies along the same route that Urrea had earlier taken. Once Goliad had fallen, Santa Anna could have sent a column to Gonzales, which was defenseless. Such a movement would have severed the Alamo's lines of communication with the Texian settlements at little cost, thereby isolating the rebel garrison. Cut off from supplies and reinforcements, Travis would have had to abandon the fort, but he could have retreated only to the north or east where the Mexican lancers would be waiting for him. Had Santa Anna been the strategist that he envisioned himself to be, he would have seen that an assault on the Alamo was pointless. He could have easily neutralized the garrison without decimating his own army."
---- Dr. Stephen L. Hardin in "Texian IIiad," his excellent history of the Texas revolution
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The rooster that saved Bastrop County
Rooster
by Mike Cox
When news of the Alamo’s fall reached Gonzales, it triggered panic among the Anglo population of Texas.
Sam Houston ordered the town torched in advance of the Mexican Army and the residents fled to the east. Along the way, virtually every other settler joined the flight as Texas began to unravel that late winter of 1836.
Andrew Kent and his wife Elizabeth left the Gonzales area on foot with their nine children. Suffering in a climate that ranged from unseasonably cold to unseasonably wet, ten-year-old Elizabeth and her 16-month-old sister, Phinette, died of exposure. Andrew Jackson Kent, not yet 4, became separated from his family during a stream crossing and was never seen again.
While not an exodus of Biblical proportions, what came to be called the Runaway Scrape has not received the scholarly attention it deserves. Thousands of people hastily left their homes and most of their belongings hoping to outrun Gen. Santa Anna and his troops.
“A few days before we arrived in Gonzales,” Mexican Army Lt. Jose de la Pena wrote in his diary, “Generals Ramirez y Sesman and Tolsa had passed by, and the troops under their command had consumed and taken with them everything they could.”
By March 17, Washington-on-the-Brazos had been deserted. By April 1, all of Texas between the Colorado and Brazos rivers lay virtually depopulated. Left behind were many fresh graves, including two for the Kent children.
The mass withdrawal continued until word spread of Houston’s April 21 defeat of Santa Anna at San Jacinto. Slowly, those who still wanted to give life in Texas a chance turned to the west and went back to what was left of their homes. And that’s when a nameless hero gave his all for Texas.
“Our folks with their neighbors returned to their log houses on the south bank of the Colorado River,” Smithville pioneer Rosa Berry Cole recalled in “Memories of By-Gone Days.” “Some found their houses burned, their crops gone and desolation everywhere, but they were free.”
Fences down and most of the rails burned, settlers had to start from scratch. The Kents discovered that the Mexicans had burned their cabin and slaughtered all their cattle, hogs and chickens. The blood and chop marks on Andrew’s carpentry table showed it had been as a butcher block.
Now, on top of everything else, the returning refugees faced a severe shortage of food and the means to produce it. Men saddled up to look for strayed milk cows while the womenfolk looked for loose chickens.
Mrs. Cole managed to find three hens that had escaped the skillets of the Mexican Army and others living on or near the Colorado in Bastrop County found a few more.
Problem was no one could find a rooster. No rooster, no chicks. No chicks, pretty soon no more setting hens or Sunday fired chicken dinners.
Finally, someone heard that a rooster was for sale upriver in Bastrop. Neighbors passed a hat to raise enough money to buy the needed male of the species and a volunteer rode to make the purchase.
The community rooster may not have fully appreciated his importance in rebuilding Texas, but he enthusiastically embraced the task at hand – and every hen along the river.
As Cole recalled, the busy bird “was taken from house to house, each keeping him a week till he made all the rounds and then back home and start over the same round.”
Before long, thanks to the seemingly undaunted patriotism of that rooster, Bastrop County residents never wanted for eggs or fried chicken.
Whether the rooster died of old age or exhaustion isn’t known, but his legacy kept clucking for a long time along the Colorado.
Rooster
by Mike Cox
When news of the Alamo’s fall reached Gonzales, it triggered panic among the Anglo population of Texas.
Sam Houston ordered the town torched in advance of the Mexican Army and the residents fled to the east. Along the way, virtually every other settler joined the flight as Texas began to unravel that late winter of 1836.
Andrew Kent and his wife Elizabeth left the Gonzales area on foot with their nine children. Suffering in a climate that ranged from unseasonably cold to unseasonably wet, ten-year-old Elizabeth and her 16-month-old sister, Phinette, died of exposure. Andrew Jackson Kent, not yet 4, became separated from his family during a stream crossing and was never seen again.
While not an exodus of Biblical proportions, what came to be called the Runaway Scrape has not received the scholarly attention it deserves. Thousands of people hastily left their homes and most of their belongings hoping to outrun Gen. Santa Anna and his troops.
“A few days before we arrived in Gonzales,” Mexican Army Lt. Jose de la Pena wrote in his diary, “Generals Ramirez y Sesman and Tolsa had passed by, and the troops under their command had consumed and taken with them everything they could.”
By March 17, Washington-on-the-Brazos had been deserted. By April 1, all of Texas between the Colorado and Brazos rivers lay virtually depopulated. Left behind were many fresh graves, including two for the Kent children.
The mass withdrawal continued until word spread of Houston’s April 21 defeat of Santa Anna at San Jacinto. Slowly, those who still wanted to give life in Texas a chance turned to the west and went back to what was left of their homes. And that’s when a nameless hero gave his all for Texas.
“Our folks with their neighbors returned to their log houses on the south bank of the Colorado River,” Smithville pioneer Rosa Berry Cole recalled in “Memories of By-Gone Days.” “Some found their houses burned, their crops gone and desolation everywhere, but they were free.”
Fences down and most of the rails burned, settlers had to start from scratch. The Kents discovered that the Mexicans had burned their cabin and slaughtered all their cattle, hogs and chickens. The blood and chop marks on Andrew’s carpentry table showed it had been as a butcher block.
Now, on top of everything else, the returning refugees faced a severe shortage of food and the means to produce it. Men saddled up to look for strayed milk cows while the womenfolk looked for loose chickens.
Mrs. Cole managed to find three hens that had escaped the skillets of the Mexican Army and others living on or near the Colorado in Bastrop County found a few more.
Problem was no one could find a rooster. No rooster, no chicks. No chicks, pretty soon no more setting hens or Sunday fired chicken dinners.
Finally, someone heard that a rooster was for sale upriver in Bastrop. Neighbors passed a hat to raise enough money to buy the needed male of the species and a volunteer rode to make the purchase.
The community rooster may not have fully appreciated his importance in rebuilding Texas, but he enthusiastically embraced the task at hand – and every hen along the river.
As Cole recalled, the busy bird “was taken from house to house, each keeping him a week till he made all the rounds and then back home and start over the same round.”
Before long, thanks to the seemingly undaunted patriotism of that rooster, Bastrop County residents never wanted for eggs or fried chicken.
Whether the rooster died of old age or exhaustion isn’t known, but his legacy kept clucking for a long time along the Colorado.
Texas Revolution - Battle of Refugio 1836
Colonel James Fannin and his men had improved the fortifications at the old Presidio La Bahía in Goliad and renamed it "Fort Defiance." News of the fate of Texians under Frank W. Johnson at the Battle of San Patricio and James Grant at the Battle of Agua Dulce created confusion rather than stirring the volunteers gathered at Goliad into action. Centralist sympathizers in the area had gathered and raided Victoria earlier in the month. To make matters worse, Fannin learned that some colonists who supported the revolt were in danger from Urrea's advance.
On March 10, he sent William C. Francis on area patrol and sent Amon B. King with a small force and wagons to collect families and escort them back to Goliad. March 11 was spent gathering families and loading carts for the return trip. However, on the 12th, King decided to confront the Centralista forces of Carlos de la Garza and the rancheros who rode with him. The opposition forces proved to be greater than imagined and King asked Fannin to send help.
King and the Kentucky Mustangs took refuge in the old Nuestra Señora del Refugio Mission at Refugio on March 12. Receiving word, Fannin dispatched William Ward, commanding a group from Peyton S. Wyatt and the Georgia Battalion to assist King. Ward made his stand at the mission and a furious battle ensued. Although successful in breaking up the siege on the 13th, the arrival of Ward at Refugio led to a conflict over command between the two officers. This dispute caused the insurgents to break into several smaller detachments. King left and ventured to attack a nearby ranch, believed to be occupied by Centralistas, killing 8.
As more of Urrea's troops arrived, the fighting with Ward's men continued. The groups held their own on the 14th, repelling four assaults, killing 80 – 100 Mexican troops and wounding 50. The Texians suffered light losses, (about 15), but were now short on ammunition and supplies. King returned from his raid in the evening but could not get to the mission for safety. They had to fight from a tree-line across from it, near the Mission River, where they also inflicted heavy losses upon the Mexican army. Ward sent courier James Humphries to Fannin for orders. Edward Perry returned word from Fannin to fall back to Victoria, where Texian forces were to later regroup.
At night, the groups attempted the escape. The wounded and a few others would remain behind. Their flight seemed successful at first, but there were overwhelming numbers of Mexican troops in wait. Each group was subsequently defeated and its survivors captured by Urrea's troops. After battling for twelve hours and inflicting heavy casualties on their enemies, the last group of fleeing Texians only suffered one killed and four wounded. King and thirty-two men surrendered on the 15th because their remaining powder had become unusable after crossing the river. They were returned as prisoners of war to the Refugio Mission. On March 16, fifteen men were executed; King and the remnants of his company, and several of Ward's men. Juan José Holzinger, a German-Mexican officer, saw fit to save Lewis T. Ayers, Francis Dieterich, Benjamin Odlum and eight men from local families. The remaining fifteen men were spared to serve the Mexican army as artisans (blacksmiths, wheelwrights, mechanics).
Ward and the bulk of his men escaped toward Copano, then turned at Melon Creek and headed for Victoria, where he thought Fannin should be, hearing the gunfire on the Coleto Creek as they moved on. At Victoria, they found no time for rest; it was overrun with Urrea's troops. The group was forced to scatter after a short skirmish with Urrea's cavalry. Staying off the main roads, they moved toward Lavaca Bay, with ten of them eventually escaping. The remainder were captured on March 22 by Urrea, two miles from Dimmit's Landing. Informed of Fannin's surrender, Ward's group was marched back to Victoria, where Holzinger again saved twenty-six men, by conscripting them as laborers for Urrea. Urrea had left Colonel Telesforo Alavez, in charge of Victoria. Señora Francita Alavez intervened with her husband as well, to make sure the captive laborers' lives would be saved. The remainder were sent to Goliad by March 25.
Colonel James Fannin and his men had improved the fortifications at the old Presidio La Bahía in Goliad and renamed it "Fort Defiance." News of the fate of Texians under Frank W. Johnson at the Battle of San Patricio and James Grant at the Battle of Agua Dulce created confusion rather than stirring the volunteers gathered at Goliad into action. Centralist sympathizers in the area had gathered and raided Victoria earlier in the month. To make matters worse, Fannin learned that some colonists who supported the revolt were in danger from Urrea's advance.
On March 10, he sent William C. Francis on area patrol and sent Amon B. King with a small force and wagons to collect families and escort them back to Goliad. March 11 was spent gathering families and loading carts for the return trip. However, on the 12th, King decided to confront the Centralista forces of Carlos de la Garza and the rancheros who rode with him. The opposition forces proved to be greater than imagined and King asked Fannin to send help.
King and the Kentucky Mustangs took refuge in the old Nuestra Señora del Refugio Mission at Refugio on March 12. Receiving word, Fannin dispatched William Ward, commanding a group from Peyton S. Wyatt and the Georgia Battalion to assist King. Ward made his stand at the mission and a furious battle ensued. Although successful in breaking up the siege on the 13th, the arrival of Ward at Refugio led to a conflict over command between the two officers. This dispute caused the insurgents to break into several smaller detachments. King left and ventured to attack a nearby ranch, believed to be occupied by Centralistas, killing 8.
As more of Urrea's troops arrived, the fighting with Ward's men continued. The groups held their own on the 14th, repelling four assaults, killing 80 – 100 Mexican troops and wounding 50. The Texians suffered light losses, (about 15), but were now short on ammunition and supplies. King returned from his raid in the evening but could not get to the mission for safety. They had to fight from a tree-line across from it, near the Mission River, where they also inflicted heavy losses upon the Mexican army. Ward sent courier James Humphries to Fannin for orders. Edward Perry returned word from Fannin to fall back to Victoria, where Texian forces were to later regroup.
At night, the groups attempted the escape. The wounded and a few others would remain behind. Their flight seemed successful at first, but there were overwhelming numbers of Mexican troops in wait. Each group was subsequently defeated and its survivors captured by Urrea's troops. After battling for twelve hours and inflicting heavy casualties on their enemies, the last group of fleeing Texians only suffered one killed and four wounded. King and thirty-two men surrendered on the 15th because their remaining powder had become unusable after crossing the river. They were returned as prisoners of war to the Refugio Mission. On March 16, fifteen men were executed; King and the remnants of his company, and several of Ward's men. Juan José Holzinger, a German-Mexican officer, saw fit to save Lewis T. Ayers, Francis Dieterich, Benjamin Odlum and eight men from local families. The remaining fifteen men were spared to serve the Mexican army as artisans (blacksmiths, wheelwrights, mechanics).
Ward and the bulk of his men escaped toward Copano, then turned at Melon Creek and headed for Victoria, where he thought Fannin should be, hearing the gunfire on the Coleto Creek as they moved on. At Victoria, they found no time for rest; it was overrun with Urrea's troops. The group was forced to scatter after a short skirmish with Urrea's cavalry. Staying off the main roads, they moved toward Lavaca Bay, with ten of them eventually escaping. The remainder were captured on March 22 by Urrea, two miles from Dimmit's Landing. Informed of Fannin's surrender, Ward's group was marched back to Victoria, where Holzinger again saved twenty-six men, by conscripting them as laborers for Urrea. Urrea had left Colonel Telesforo Alavez, in charge of Victoria. Señora Francita Alavez intervened with her husband as well, to make sure the captive laborers' lives would be saved. The remainder were sent to Goliad by March 25.
George Washington Cottle's married his second wife, Nancy Curtis Oliver on 21 Jun 1835 according to Gonzales Co marriage records. They had twin boys born after his death at the Alamo.
Nancy Curtis Oliver Cottle was first married to John Oliver in 1829. She was the daughter of James Curtis, a veteran of the War of 1812 from Tennessee and one of The Old Three Hundred of the Austin Colony. James Curtis (b. 1780), also known as "uncle Jimmie" at age 56 was said to be the oldest man at the Battle of San Jacinto which he is said to have joined to avenge the widowhood of his daughter and the death of his son-in-law Wash Cottle who he never got along with well in real life. General Thomas Rusk related in his anecdotes of the battle:
"On starting out from our camp to enter upon the attack, I saw an old gentleman, by the name of Curtis, carrying two guns. I asked him what was his reason for carrying more than one gun. He answered: 'D---n the Mexicans; they killed my son and son-in-law in the Alamo, and I intend to kill two of them for it, or be killed myself.' I saw the old man again, during the fight, and he told me he had killed his two men, and if he could find Santa Anna, he would cut a razor-strop out of his back."
Other legends say he accompanied each shot at the Mexicans in the battle with the words "Alamo! You killed Wash Cottle." At the end of the battle as Texan officers began to stop the carnage, Curtis was terrorizing a Mexican officer with a knife and yelling "You killed Wash Cottle. Now I’m going to kill you and make a razor strap from your hide." When Col. Wharton pulled the officer up on his horse stating "Men, this Mexican is mine," Curtis raised his rifle and coolly blasted the Mexican officer off the horse. Col. Wharton reacted with rage, Curtis calmly took a drink of whiskey, turned his back and walked away muttering "Remember Wash Cottle." Uncle Jimmie Curtis' fondness to his jug of 1836 homebrew was also the subject of an earlier episode related by Noah Smithwick in The Evolution of a State and in Kemp's biographies of San Jacinto veterans as the Texans were evacuating Bastrop toward San Jacinto in front of Gen. Cos' forces from San Antonio.
Nancy Curtis Oliver Cottle was first married to John Oliver in 1829. She was the daughter of James Curtis, a veteran of the War of 1812 from Tennessee and one of The Old Three Hundred of the Austin Colony. James Curtis (b. 1780), also known as "uncle Jimmie" at age 56 was said to be the oldest man at the Battle of San Jacinto which he is said to have joined to avenge the widowhood of his daughter and the death of his son-in-law Wash Cottle who he never got along with well in real life. General Thomas Rusk related in his anecdotes of the battle:
"On starting out from our camp to enter upon the attack, I saw an old gentleman, by the name of Curtis, carrying two guns. I asked him what was his reason for carrying more than one gun. He answered: 'D---n the Mexicans; they killed my son and son-in-law in the Alamo, and I intend to kill two of them for it, or be killed myself.' I saw the old man again, during the fight, and he told me he had killed his two men, and if he could find Santa Anna, he would cut a razor-strop out of his back."
Other legends say he accompanied each shot at the Mexicans in the battle with the words "Alamo! You killed Wash Cottle." At the end of the battle as Texan officers began to stop the carnage, Curtis was terrorizing a Mexican officer with a knife and yelling "You killed Wash Cottle. Now I’m going to kill you and make a razor strap from your hide." When Col. Wharton pulled the officer up on his horse stating "Men, this Mexican is mine," Curtis raised his rifle and coolly blasted the Mexican officer off the horse. Col. Wharton reacted with rage, Curtis calmly took a drink of whiskey, turned his back and walked away muttering "Remember Wash Cottle." Uncle Jimmie Curtis' fondness to his jug of 1836 homebrew was also the subject of an earlier episode related by Noah Smithwick in The Evolution of a State and in Kemp's biographies of San Jacinto veterans as the Texans were evacuating Bastrop toward San Jacinto in front of Gen. Cos' forces from San Antonio.
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Texas Quote of the Day:
"The mesquite loves life and will grow almost anywhere. In fact, most West Texans think it prefers the dry red clay or the worst soil God has to offer. It has about its annual bloom a mysterious sense of danger in springing forth prematurely and it is traditional in West Texas that spring isn't safely abroad in the land until the mesquite acknowledges it. The late Frank Grimes, editor of the Abilene Reporter-News, made an annual affair of running his poem, warning those who would disregard the signs of this prophet:
'We see signs of returning spring ----
The redbir'ds back and fie' larks sing,
The ground's plowed up and the creeks run clean,
The onions sprout and the redbud's near;
And yet they's a point worth thinkin' about ----
We note that the old mesquites ain't out!"
----- A.C. Greene, "A Personal Country," 1969
"The mesquite loves life and will grow almost anywhere. In fact, most West Texans think it prefers the dry red clay or the worst soil God has to offer. It has about its annual bloom a mysterious sense of danger in springing forth prematurely and it is traditional in West Texas that spring isn't safely abroad in the land until the mesquite acknowledges it. The late Frank Grimes, editor of the Abilene Reporter-News, made an annual affair of running his poem, warning those who would disregard the signs of this prophet:
'We see signs of returning spring ----
The redbir'ds back and fie' larks sing,
The ground's plowed up and the creeks run clean,
The onions sprout and the redbud's near;
And yet they's a point worth thinkin' about ----
We note that the old mesquites ain't out!"
----- A.C. Greene, "A Personal Country," 1969
True dat! and I also always say "Spring ain't here to the Pecans bud out"!
except mine are Virginia dirt roads! No matter where you're from, you understand this if you grew up country!
And here I thought Illinois was the only state left with all those dirt roads.....
Tim, right next door in Iowa....bet I would get lost a few times, but my favorite memories are along some of those Iowa roads and I didn't even grow up there!!!
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- #1,855
The Texas Quote of the Day is exceptional:
"After leaving Waco [north] the character of the country began to change into a more open prairie, the settlements and farms were further and further apart, and everything bore evidence that we were leaving civilization behind us and approaching the frontier.
I first, at this time [1866] particularly noticed the habit of carrying (''packing" they called it) firearms, new to me then, but soon becoming a familiar sight, and it impressed me as a most useless and dangerous habit, and I have never seen any reason to change my views.
Every man and boy, old and young, rich or poor, at home or abroad, in church, at court, the wedding or the funeral, from the "cradle to the grave," the double-barreled shot gun, or the old-fashioned, brassmounted dragoon pistol, was inevitably carried by them, and it goes without saying that they all knew how to use them, and did so often without very much provocation.
And yet I cannot look back on the practice as an unmixed evil either, for barroom brawling, fist fights and minor difficulties were pretty much unknown in those days. The treatment experienced by a bully or a bravado was "short, sharp and decisive;" if he insulted a woman, "took in" a town, or stole a horse, he was shot off-hand by some one, who thereby rendered society a service, at much less expense and without the uncertainty and delay that often attend the law's slow course.
Of course, in the days I write of, the times were more or less out of joint; the civil law was almost a dead letter; the country was filled with the disbanded armies of the collapsed Confederacy, and many of the men returning to find homes destroyed and family ties broken became reckless, if not lawless.
But closer acquaintance with this class of men taught me that often an honest, a brave and noble heart was beating beneath the rough exterior, and that life and property were safer among them than they sometimes are among the "slick" fellows who wear a "boiled" shirt and live in the settlement. The frontiersman, as I saw him then, is rapidly becoming a feature of the past; he is disappearing before the advance of civilization, like the Indian and the buffalo, and I often wonder in my mind whether or not his more cultivated successor possesses the good quality of real nobility to the same extent.
Soon he will be gone forever, passed away, and in the page of romance alone will be found his counterpart. But he blazed out the pathway of progress; his log cabin and rawhide door, its puncheon floor and stick chimney are gone; he made the present possible."
----- H. H. McConnell, "Five Years a Cavalryman," 1889
"After leaving Waco [north] the character of the country began to change into a more open prairie, the settlements and farms were further and further apart, and everything bore evidence that we were leaving civilization behind us and approaching the frontier.
I first, at this time [1866] particularly noticed the habit of carrying (''packing" they called it) firearms, new to me then, but soon becoming a familiar sight, and it impressed me as a most useless and dangerous habit, and I have never seen any reason to change my views.
Every man and boy, old and young, rich or poor, at home or abroad, in church, at court, the wedding or the funeral, from the "cradle to the grave," the double-barreled shot gun, or the old-fashioned, brassmounted dragoon pistol, was inevitably carried by them, and it goes without saying that they all knew how to use them, and did so often without very much provocation.
And yet I cannot look back on the practice as an unmixed evil either, for barroom brawling, fist fights and minor difficulties were pretty much unknown in those days. The treatment experienced by a bully or a bravado was "short, sharp and decisive;" if he insulted a woman, "took in" a town, or stole a horse, he was shot off-hand by some one, who thereby rendered society a service, at much less expense and without the uncertainty and delay that often attend the law's slow course.
Of course, in the days I write of, the times were more or less out of joint; the civil law was almost a dead letter; the country was filled with the disbanded armies of the collapsed Confederacy, and many of the men returning to find homes destroyed and family ties broken became reckless, if not lawless.
But closer acquaintance with this class of men taught me that often an honest, a brave and noble heart was beating beneath the rough exterior, and that life and property were safer among them than they sometimes are among the "slick" fellows who wear a "boiled" shirt and live in the settlement. The frontiersman, as I saw him then, is rapidly becoming a feature of the past; he is disappearing before the advance of civilization, like the Indian and the buffalo, and I often wonder in my mind whether or not his more cultivated successor possesses the good quality of real nobility to the same extent.
Soon he will be gone forever, passed away, and in the page of romance alone will be found his counterpart. But he blazed out the pathway of progress; his log cabin and rawhide door, its puncheon floor and stick chimney are gone; he made the present possible."
----- H. H. McConnell, "Five Years a Cavalryman," 1889
Massacre at Goliad - March 27, 1836
Santa Anna sent a direct order to the "Officer Commanding the Post of Goliad" to execute the prisoners in his hands. This order was received on March 26 by Col. José Nicolás de la Portilla, whom Urrea had left at Goliad. Two hours later Portilla received another order, this one from Urrea, "to treat the prisoners with consideration, and especially their leader, Fannin," and to employ them in rebuilding the town. But when he wrote this seemingly humane order, Urrea well knew that Portilla would not be able to comply with it, for on March 25, after receiving Santa Anna's letter, Urrea had ordered reinforcements that would have resulted in too large a diminution of the garrison for the prisoners to be employed on public works.
Portilla suffered an unquiet night weighing these conflicting orders, but he concluded that he was bound to obey Santa Anna's order and directed that the prisoners be shot at dawn. At sunrise on Palm Sunday, March 27, 1836, the unwounded Texans were formed into three groups under heavy guard commanded by Capt. Pedro Balderas, Capt. Antonio Ramírez, and first adjutant Agustín Alcérrica (a colonel in the Tres Villas Battalion in April 1836).
The largest group, including what remained of Ward's Georgia Battalion and Capt. Burr H. Duval's company, was marched toward the upper ford of the San Antonio River on the Bexar road. The San Antonio Greys, Mobile Greys,qqv and others were marched along the Victoria road in the direction of the lower ford. Capt. John Shackelford's Red Rovers and Ira J. Westover's regulars were marched southwestwardly along the San Patricio road. The guard, which was to serve also as a firing squad, included the battalions of Tres Villas and Yucatán, dismounted cavalry, and pickets from the Cuautla, Tampico, and Durango regiments.
The prisoners held little suspicion of their fate, for they had been told a variety of stories-they were to gather wood, drive cattle, be marched to Matamoros, or proceed to the port of Copano for passage to New Orleans. Only the day before, Fannin himself, with his adjutant general, Joseph M. Chadwick, had returned from Copano, where, accompanied by Holsinger and other Mexican officers, they had tried to charter the vessel on which William P. Miller's Nashville Battalion had arrived earlier (these men had been captured and imprisoned at Goliad, also). Although this was really an attempt by Urrea to commandeer the ship, the vessel had already departed. Still, Fannin became cheerful and reported to his men that the Mexicans were making arrangements for their departure. The troops sang "Home Sweet Home" on the night of March 26.
At selected spots on each of the three roads, from half to three-fourths of a mile from the presidio, the three groups were halted. The guard on the right of the column of prisoners then countermarched and formed with the guard on the left. At a prearranged moment, or upon a given signal, the guards fired upon the prisoners at a range too close to miss. Nearly all were killed at the first fire. Those not killed were pursued and slaughtered by gunfire, bayonet, or lance. Fannin and some forty (Peña estimated eighty or ninety) wounded Texans unable to march were put to death within the presidio under the direction of Capt. Carolino Huerta of the Tres Villas battalion.
From two groups shot on the river roads, those not instantly killed fled to the woods along the stream, and twenty-four managed to escape. The third group, on the San Patricio road, was farther from cover; only four men from it are known to have escaped. A man-by-man study of Fannin's command indicates that 342 were executed at Goliad on March 27. Only twenty-eight escaped the firing squads, and twenty more were spared as physicians, orderlies, interpreters, or mechanics largely because of the entreaties of Francita Alvarez, a "high bred beauty" whom the Texans called the "Angel of Goliad", and the brave and kindly intervention of Col. Francisco Garay. Many of those who eventually escaped were first recaptured and later managed a second escape. Two physicians, Joseph H. Barnard and John Shackelford, were taken to San Antonio to treat Mexican wounded from the battle of the Alamo; they later escaped.
After the executions the bodies were burned, the remains left exposed to weather, vultures, and coyotes, until June 3, 1836, when Gen. Thomas J. Rusk gathered the remains and buried them with military honors.
Santa Anna sent a direct order to the "Officer Commanding the Post of Goliad" to execute the prisoners in his hands. This order was received on March 26 by Col. José Nicolás de la Portilla, whom Urrea had left at Goliad. Two hours later Portilla received another order, this one from Urrea, "to treat the prisoners with consideration, and especially their leader, Fannin," and to employ them in rebuilding the town. But when he wrote this seemingly humane order, Urrea well knew that Portilla would not be able to comply with it, for on March 25, after receiving Santa Anna's letter, Urrea had ordered reinforcements that would have resulted in too large a diminution of the garrison for the prisoners to be employed on public works.
Portilla suffered an unquiet night weighing these conflicting orders, but he concluded that he was bound to obey Santa Anna's order and directed that the prisoners be shot at dawn. At sunrise on Palm Sunday, March 27, 1836, the unwounded Texans were formed into three groups under heavy guard commanded by Capt. Pedro Balderas, Capt. Antonio Ramírez, and first adjutant Agustín Alcérrica (a colonel in the Tres Villas Battalion in April 1836).
The largest group, including what remained of Ward's Georgia Battalion and Capt. Burr H. Duval's company, was marched toward the upper ford of the San Antonio River on the Bexar road. The San Antonio Greys, Mobile Greys,qqv and others were marched along the Victoria road in the direction of the lower ford. Capt. John Shackelford's Red Rovers and Ira J. Westover's regulars were marched southwestwardly along the San Patricio road. The guard, which was to serve also as a firing squad, included the battalions of Tres Villas and Yucatán, dismounted cavalry, and pickets from the Cuautla, Tampico, and Durango regiments.
The prisoners held little suspicion of their fate, for they had been told a variety of stories-they were to gather wood, drive cattle, be marched to Matamoros, or proceed to the port of Copano for passage to New Orleans. Only the day before, Fannin himself, with his adjutant general, Joseph M. Chadwick, had returned from Copano, where, accompanied by Holsinger and other Mexican officers, they had tried to charter the vessel on which William P. Miller's Nashville Battalion had arrived earlier (these men had been captured and imprisoned at Goliad, also). Although this was really an attempt by Urrea to commandeer the ship, the vessel had already departed. Still, Fannin became cheerful and reported to his men that the Mexicans were making arrangements for their departure. The troops sang "Home Sweet Home" on the night of March 26.
At selected spots on each of the three roads, from half to three-fourths of a mile from the presidio, the three groups were halted. The guard on the right of the column of prisoners then countermarched and formed with the guard on the left. At a prearranged moment, or upon a given signal, the guards fired upon the prisoners at a range too close to miss. Nearly all were killed at the first fire. Those not killed were pursued and slaughtered by gunfire, bayonet, or lance. Fannin and some forty (Peña estimated eighty or ninety) wounded Texans unable to march were put to death within the presidio under the direction of Capt. Carolino Huerta of the Tres Villas battalion.
From two groups shot on the river roads, those not instantly killed fled to the woods along the stream, and twenty-four managed to escape. The third group, on the San Patricio road, was farther from cover; only four men from it are known to have escaped. A man-by-man study of Fannin's command indicates that 342 were executed at Goliad on March 27. Only twenty-eight escaped the firing squads, and twenty more were spared as physicians, orderlies, interpreters, or mechanics largely because of the entreaties of Francita Alvarez, a "high bred beauty" whom the Texans called the "Angel of Goliad", and the brave and kindly intervention of Col. Francisco Garay. Many of those who eventually escaped were first recaptured and later managed a second escape. Two physicians, Joseph H. Barnard and John Shackelford, were taken to San Antonio to treat Mexican wounded from the battle of the Alamo; they later escaped.
After the executions the bodies were burned, the remains left exposed to weather, vultures, and coyotes, until June 3, 1836, when Gen. Thomas J. Rusk gathered the remains and buried them with military honors.
Warning!! If you start reading this you wont quit!! Long read
Great read about the four that escaped.
Escape of the Four Alabama Red Rovers
Dillard Cooper's Remembrances of the Fannin Massacre From Rangers and Pioneers of Texas by A.J. Sowell 1884 as reprinted from the American Sketch Book 1881. According to James T. DeShields in Tall Men With Long Rifles, Cooper died in extreme poverty in the 1890's in Llano, TX stating "during his later years the pitiful pension of $150.00 a year, provided by the great and opulent state of Texas, barely sufficed to buy food and medicines for the aged hero and his faithful wife. Napoleon was not far wrong when he said 'Republics are ungrateful.'"
......several....cried out for mercy. I remember one, a young man, who had been noted for his piety, but who had afterwards become somewhat demoralized by bad company, falling on his knees, crying aloud to God for mercy, and forgiveness. Others, attempted to plead with their inhuman captors, but their pleadings were in vain.....On my right hand, stood Wilson Simpson, and on my left, Robert Fenner....while some of them were rending the air with their cries of agonized despair, Fenner called out to them, saying: "Don't take on so, boys; if we have to die, let's die like brave men.....At that moment, I glanced over my shoulder and saw the flash of a musket.....
On the morning of the 27th of March, 1836, about daylight, we were awakened by the guards, and marched out in front of the fort, where we were counted and divided into three different detachments; we had been given to understand that we were to be marched to Copano, and from there shipped to New Orleans. The impression, however, had in some way been circulated among us, that we were to be sent out that morning to hunt cattle; though I thought at the time that it could not be so, as it was but a poor way, to hunt cattle on foot.
Our detachment was marched out in double file, each prisoner being guarded by two soldiers, until within about half a mile southwest of the fort, we arrived at a brush fence, built by the Mexicans. We were then placed in single file, and were half way between the guard and the fence, eight feet each way. We were then halted, when the commanding officer came up to the head of the line, and asked if there were any of us who understood Spanish. By this time, there began to dawn upon the minds of us, the truth, that we were to be butchered, and that, I suppose, was the reason that none answered. He then ordered us to turn our backs to the guards. When the order was given not one moved, and then the officer, stepping up to the man at, the head of the column, took him by the shoulders and turned him around.
By this time, despair had seized upon our poor boys, and several of them cried out for mercy. I remember one, a young man, who had been noted for his piety, but who had afterwards become somewhat demoralized by bad company, falling on his knees, crying aloud to God for mercy, and forgiveness. Others, attempted to plead with their inhuman captors, but their pleadings were in vain, for on their faces no gleam of piety was seen for the defenseless men who stood before them. On my right hand, stood Wilson Simpson, and on my left, Robert Fenner. In the midst of the panic of terror which seized our men, and while some of them were rending the air with their cries of agonized despair, Fenner called out to them, saying: "Don't take on so, boys; if we have to die, let's die like brave men."
At that moment, I glanced over my shoulder and saw the flash of a musket; I instantly threw myself forward on the ground, resting on my hands. Robert Fenner must have been instantly killed, for he fell with such force upon me as almost to throw me over as I attempted to rise, which detained me a few moments in my flight, so that Simpson, my companion on the right, got the start of me. As we ran towards an opening in the brush fence, which was almost in front of us, Simpson got through first, and I was immediately after him. I wore, at that time, a small, round cloak, which was fastened with a clasp at the throat. As I ran through the opening, an officer charged upon me, and ran his sword through my cloak, which would have held me, but I caught the clasp with both hands, and tore it apart, and the cloak fell from me. There was an open prairie, about two miles wide, through which I would have to run before I could reach the nearest timber, which was a little southwest of the place from where we started.
I gained on my pursuers, but saw, between me and the timber, three others, who were after Simpson. As I neared the timber, I commenced walking, in order to recover my strength, before I came near them. When he first started, we were all near together, but as Simpson took a direct course across the prairie, I, in order to avoid his pursuers, took a circuitous course. There were two points of timber projecting into the prairie, one of which was nearer to me than the other. I was making for the furthest point, but as Simpson entered the timber, his pursuers halted, and then ran across and cut me off, I then started for the point into which Simpson had entered, but they turned and cut me oft from that. I then stopped running and commenced walking slowly between them and the other point. They, no doubt, thinking I was about to surrender myself, stopped, and I continued to walk within about sixty yards of them, when I suddenly wheeled and ran into the point for which I had first started. They did not attempt to follow me, but just as I was about to enter the timber, they fired, the bullets whistling over my head caused me to draw my head down as I ran.
As soon as I entered the timber, I saw Simpson waiting and beckoning to me. I went towards him, and we ran together for about two miles, when we reached the river. We then stopped and consulted as to the best way of concealing ourselves. I proposed climbing a tree, but he objected, saying that should the Mexicans discover us, we would have no way of making our escape. Before we arrived at any conclusion, we heard some one coming, which frightened us so, that I jumped into the river, while Simpson ran a short distance up it, but seeing me, he also jumped in. The noise proceeded from the bank immediately above the spot where Simpson was, and I could see the place very plainly, and soon discovered that two of our companions had made their escape to this place. They were Zachariah Brooks, and Isaac Hamilton. In the fleshy part of both Hamilton's thighs were wounds, one made by a gun-shot and another by a bayonet.
We all swam the river, and traveling up it a short distance, arrived at a bluff bank, near which was a thick screen of bushes, where we concealed ourselves. The place was about five miles above the fort. We did not dare proceed further that day, as the Mexicans were still searching for us, and Hamilton's wounds had become so painful as to prevent his walking, which obliged us to carry him. We remained there until about 10 o'clock that night, when we started forth, Simpson and myself carrying Hamilton, Brooks, though severely wounded, was yet able to travel. We had to proceed very cautiously and rather slowly.
Fort La Bahia being southeast of us, and the point we were making for, was about where Goliad now stands. We proceeded, in a circuitous route in a northeasterly direction. We approached within a short distance of the fort, and could not at first account for the numerous fires we saw blazing. We were not long in doubt, for the sickening smell that was borne towards us by the south wind, informed us too well that they were burning the bodies of our companions. And, here, I will state what Mrs. Cash, who was kept a prisoner, stated afterwards; that some of our men were thrown into the flames and burned alive. We passed the fort safely, and reached a spring, where we rested from our journey and from whence we proceeded on our travels.
But the night was foggy, and becoming bewildered, it was not long before we found ourselves at the spring from which we started. We again started out, and again found ourselves at the same place; but we had too much at stake to sink into despondency. So once more took our wounded companion, thinking we could not miss the right direction this time; but, at last when day began to break, to our great consternation, we found we had been traveling around the same spot, and were for the third time back at the identical spring from which we had at first set forth. It was now impossible to proceed further that day, as we dared not travel during the day, knowing we should be discovered by the Mexicans. We therefore concealed ourselves by the side of a slight elevation, amidst a thick undergrowth of bushes.
By this time, we began to grow very hungry, and I remembered an elm bush that grew at the entrance of the timber where we were concealed, which formed an excellent commissary for us, and from the branches of which we partook, until nearly every limb was entirely stripped. About 9 o'clock that morning, we heard the heavy tramp of the Mexican army on the march; and they not long after that passed within a stone's throw of our place of concealment. It seems indeed, that we were guided by an over-ruling providence in not being able to proceed further that night, for as we were not expecting the Mexican army so soon, we would probably have been overtaken and discovered by them, perhaps in some prairie, where we could not have escaped.
We remained in our hiding place the rest of the day, and resumed our journey after dark, still carrying our wounded companion. Whenever the enemy passed us, we had to conceal ourselves; and we laid several days in ponds of mud and water, with nothing but our heads exposed to view. When in the vicinity of Lavaca, we again got ahead of the Mexicans; and, after traveling all night, we discovered, very early in the morning of the ninth day, a house within a few hundred yards of the river. We approached it, and found the inhabitants had fled. When we entered the house, we discovered a quantity of corn, some chickens, and a good many eggs lying about in different places. Our stomachs were weak and revolted at the idea of eating them raw, so we looked about for some means of striking a fire, first searching for a rock, but failing to find one, we took an old chisel and ground it on a grindstone for about two hours, but could never succeed in getting the sparks to catch. We then concluded to return and try the eggs raw.
We had taken one, and Simpson was putting on his shoes, which he had taken off to rest his feet, which were raw and bleeding, and had just got one on when he remarked: "Boys, we would be in a tight place if the Mexicans were to come upon us now." So saying, he walked to the window, when to his horror, there was the whole Mexican army not more than a mile and a half off, and fifteen or twenty horsemen coming at full speed within a hundred yards of us. We took up our wounded man and ran to the timber, which was not far off, Simpson leaving his shoe behind him. We got into the timber and concealed ourselves between the logs of two trees, the tops of which having fallen together, and being very thickly covered with leaves and moss, formed an almost impenetrable screen above and around us. We had scarcely hidden ourselves from view, when the Mexicans came swarming around us, shouting and hallooing through the woods, but did not find us. We heard them from time to time, all throughout the day and next night. The next morning, just before day, the noise of the Mexicans ceased, and we concluded they had left. Simpson then asked me to go with him to get his shoe, as it would be difficult for him to travel without it, and I consented to do so. We went out to the edge of the timber and stopped some time to take observations before proceeding further. Seeing nothing of the Mexicans, we proceeded to the house, found the shoe, and possessing ourselves of a couple of ears of corn, and a bottle of water, we returned to our companions. We had no doubt that the Mexicans had gone, so we sat down and drank the water and ate an ear of corn, when Brooks asked Simpson to go with him to the house, saying he would get a chicken, and we could eat it raw. They started, and had hardly got to the edge of the timber when I heard the sound of horses’ feet, and directly afterwards the Mexicans were to be seen in every direction. I was sure they had captured Simpson and Brooks. Soon I heard something in the brush near us, but did not know whether it was the boys or Mexicans, but it turned out to be the boys, who crept undercover, and, in a few minutes, four Mexicans came riding by, passing within a few feet of where we were lying, with our faces to the ground.
After going into the woods a short distance they turned and passed out again, but it was not long after when six of them came riding quite close, three on each side of us, and leaning down and peering into our hiding place. It seemed to me they could have heard us, for my own heart seemed to raise me almost from the ground by its throbbings. I felt more frightened than I ever had been before; for at the time of the massacre, everything had come on me so suddenly that my nerves had no time to become unstrung as they now were. The Mexicans passed and repassed us, through the day, so we dared not move from our hiding place. A guard was placed around us the following night, the main body having, no doubt, gone on, and left a detachment to search for us. I think they must have had some idea of our being some of Fannin's men, or they would scarcely have gone to that trouble. About 10 o'clock that night we held a consultation, and I told my companions it would not do to remain there any longer, as the Mexicans were aware of our place of concealment, and would surely discover us the next day. We all decided then to leave, and they requested me to lead the way out. I told them we would have to crawl through the timber and a short piece of prairie, until we crossed the road near which the Mexicans were posted; that they must be careful to remove every leaf and stick in the path, and to hold their feet up, only crawling on their hands and knees, as the least noise would betray us to the enemy.
I was somewhat acquainted with the locality; for we were now not far from Texana, and I had some times hunted along these woods. Thus I led the way. Hamilton's wounds were so painful that we could move only slowly, and we must have been two hours crawling about 200 yards. When we at length passed the timber and reached the road, I stopped to make a careful survey of the situation. I could see the Mexicans placed along the road, about a hundred yards on each side of us. The moon was shining, but had sunk towards the west, which threw the shadow of a point of timber across the road, and concealed us from view. It would have been hard to discover us from the color of our clothes, as the earthy element with which they were mixed had entirely hidden the original fabric. We continued to crawl, until we reached a sufficient distance not to be discovered, when we rose up and walked. Although Hamilton had, with a great deal of pain, managed to crawl, yet it was impossible for him to walk, and his wounds had by this time become so much irritated and inflamed that he could scarcely bear to be carried. We traveled that night only a short distance, and hid ourselves in a thicket near a pond of water. Brooks had been trying to persuade me to leave Hamilton; but, although our progress was impeded by having to carry him, I could not entertain the idea for a moment. I indignantly refused, but still he would seize every opportunity to urge it upon me. He said it would be impossible for us to escape, burdened as we were with Hamilton. I could only acknowledge the truth of this, for it was a desperate case with us. The foe was around us in every direction. Brooks, finding that I was not to be persuaded, then attempted to influence Simpson.
On the tenth day out, they took the bottle and went to the pond nearby, for water. As they were returning, (I suppose Brooks did not know he was so near the place they left us), both Hamilton and myself heard Brooks urging Simpson to leave him. He told him if we remained with Hamilton, we would certainly lose our lives; but there was some slight chance of escaping, if we left him, and that Hamilton's wounds had become so much worse that he was bound to die, unless he could have rest; and, as we were doing him no good, and ourselves a great deal of injury by carrying him, it was, our duty to leave him. Now Brooks had never carried him a step; Simpson and myself having done that; yet Brooks was the first who had ever proposed leaving him; and, although there was a great deal of truth in what he was saying, yet I felt quite angry with him, as I heard him trying to persuade Simpson. Hamilton did not say a word to them when they came in, but sat with his face buried in his hands a long time.
At length, he looked up, and said: "Boys, Brooks has told you the truth; I cannot travel any further, and if you stay with me, all will be killed. Go and leave me, boys; if I have rest I may recover, and if I ever should get off safe, you shall hear from me again." He spoke so reasonably, and we were so thoroughly convinced of the truth of what he said, after a brief consultation, we decided to depart without him. Hamilton had known Brooks in Alabama; he called him to him, and gave him a gold watch and $40 in gold, telling him to give it to his mother. We then bade Hamilton farewell, all of us shedding tears as we parted, but when we turned to go, my resolution failed me, and I could not find it in my heart to leave him. I said: "Boys, don't let us leave him." But Simpson and Brooks said that we could do neither him nor ourselves any good by remaining, and that they were determined to go. I told them I would remain with him, and do the best I could for him. So they started off without me; but Hamilton insisted so much that I should leave him, that I again bade him farewell, and followed and soon overtook the others. The reason that we started off in the day, was that it was raining quite hard, and we thought there would not be much danger in traveling, but we had not gone more than half way through the next prairie. when the weather cleared up, and we saw the whole Mexican army encamped at Texana, about two miles off; but they did not discover us, and we succeeded in reaching the timber on the Navidad. In the evening we walked out to a slight eminence which overlooked the prairie, to reconnoiter. While gazing across the prairie, we could see three men on horseback, but so indistinct were they that we could not at first tell whether they were Americans or Mexicans. As they approached, we hid in the undergrowth; and as they passed, we saw that they were Mexican couriers returning to the command.
At eight we again started forth, and coming out on the prairie, we discovered a road, which we concluded had been made by the refugees in their retreat from the enemy. During all this time we had nothing to eat but leaves and herbs, and the two ears of corn that we got at the house on Lavaca river. On the twelfth day, we reached the Colorado, at Mercer's crossing. As we were very tired, we sat down on the bank to rest a little, before attempting to swim over. While sitting there, a dog on the opposite side of the river began to bark. When we heard that well-known sound, our very souls thrilled with joy, and that was the first time since the awful day of the massacre that a smile had ever illuminated our faces. We looked at each other, and then burst into a great big laugh. We were all good swimmers, but I some times took the cramp while swimming, so we concluded to cross on a log. We procured a dead mulberry pole, and hanging on to it, one at each end, and one in the middle, we crossed over to the land of freedom, and a land where we found plenty to eat. After recruiting a little, we procured horses, with the intention of joining Houston's army; but before we reached there, San Jacinto had been fought and won.
It was more than a year before I ever heard anything of Hamilton. He remained in the same place where we left him nine days, sometimes lying in the pond of water, which assuaged the pain of his wounds. At the end of that time he was so much improved that he essayed to walk to Texana, and succeeded in doing so. He said the best eating he ever had in his life, was when he first entered Texana, and ate the meat from the rawhides the Mexicans had left. The next morning he took a skiff, and made his way down to Dimmitt's landing. He had scarcely reached there when he was taken prisoner by a Mexican soldier. Not long after, other soldiers came in, and tying Hamilton on a mule, started for camp. He suffered so much from his wounds that he fainted several times, on the way. Whenever this occurred, they would untie him, lay him on the ground, and throw water into his face until he revived, when they would again mount him on the mule and proceed on their way. Hamilton remained in their hands for some time and gradually grew well of his wounds. There was a Mexican who waited on him, who seemed much attached to him, and Hamilton was led to place much confidence in him. One morning, this Mexican told him that if he wanted to live another day, he must make his escape that night, as he had learned that he and two other prisoners were to be shot before morning. Hamilton then arranged a plan for the escape of himself and two of his companions, which was a success, after many trials and tribulations.
Great read about the four that escaped.
Escape of the Four Alabama Red Rovers
Dillard Cooper's Remembrances of the Fannin Massacre From Rangers and Pioneers of Texas by A.J. Sowell 1884 as reprinted from the American Sketch Book 1881. According to James T. DeShields in Tall Men With Long Rifles, Cooper died in extreme poverty in the 1890's in Llano, TX stating "during his later years the pitiful pension of $150.00 a year, provided by the great and opulent state of Texas, barely sufficed to buy food and medicines for the aged hero and his faithful wife. Napoleon was not far wrong when he said 'Republics are ungrateful.'"
......several....cried out for mercy. I remember one, a young man, who had been noted for his piety, but who had afterwards become somewhat demoralized by bad company, falling on his knees, crying aloud to God for mercy, and forgiveness. Others, attempted to plead with their inhuman captors, but their pleadings were in vain.....On my right hand, stood Wilson Simpson, and on my left, Robert Fenner....while some of them were rending the air with their cries of agonized despair, Fenner called out to them, saying: "Don't take on so, boys; if we have to die, let's die like brave men.....At that moment, I glanced over my shoulder and saw the flash of a musket.....
On the morning of the 27th of March, 1836, about daylight, we were awakened by the guards, and marched out in front of the fort, where we were counted and divided into three different detachments; we had been given to understand that we were to be marched to Copano, and from there shipped to New Orleans. The impression, however, had in some way been circulated among us, that we were to be sent out that morning to hunt cattle; though I thought at the time that it could not be so, as it was but a poor way, to hunt cattle on foot.
Our detachment was marched out in double file, each prisoner being guarded by two soldiers, until within about half a mile southwest of the fort, we arrived at a brush fence, built by the Mexicans. We were then placed in single file, and were half way between the guard and the fence, eight feet each way. We were then halted, when the commanding officer came up to the head of the line, and asked if there were any of us who understood Spanish. By this time, there began to dawn upon the minds of us, the truth, that we were to be butchered, and that, I suppose, was the reason that none answered. He then ordered us to turn our backs to the guards. When the order was given not one moved, and then the officer, stepping up to the man at, the head of the column, took him by the shoulders and turned him around.
By this time, despair had seized upon our poor boys, and several of them cried out for mercy. I remember one, a young man, who had been noted for his piety, but who had afterwards become somewhat demoralized by bad company, falling on his knees, crying aloud to God for mercy, and forgiveness. Others, attempted to plead with their inhuman captors, but their pleadings were in vain, for on their faces no gleam of piety was seen for the defenseless men who stood before them. On my right hand, stood Wilson Simpson, and on my left, Robert Fenner. In the midst of the panic of terror which seized our men, and while some of them were rending the air with their cries of agonized despair, Fenner called out to them, saying: "Don't take on so, boys; if we have to die, let's die like brave men."
At that moment, I glanced over my shoulder and saw the flash of a musket; I instantly threw myself forward on the ground, resting on my hands. Robert Fenner must have been instantly killed, for he fell with such force upon me as almost to throw me over as I attempted to rise, which detained me a few moments in my flight, so that Simpson, my companion on the right, got the start of me. As we ran towards an opening in the brush fence, which was almost in front of us, Simpson got through first, and I was immediately after him. I wore, at that time, a small, round cloak, which was fastened with a clasp at the throat. As I ran through the opening, an officer charged upon me, and ran his sword through my cloak, which would have held me, but I caught the clasp with both hands, and tore it apart, and the cloak fell from me. There was an open prairie, about two miles wide, through which I would have to run before I could reach the nearest timber, which was a little southwest of the place from where we started.
I gained on my pursuers, but saw, between me and the timber, three others, who were after Simpson. As I neared the timber, I commenced walking, in order to recover my strength, before I came near them. When he first started, we were all near together, but as Simpson took a direct course across the prairie, I, in order to avoid his pursuers, took a circuitous course. There were two points of timber projecting into the prairie, one of which was nearer to me than the other. I was making for the furthest point, but as Simpson entered the timber, his pursuers halted, and then ran across and cut me off, I then started for the point into which Simpson had entered, but they turned and cut me oft from that. I then stopped running and commenced walking slowly between them and the other point. They, no doubt, thinking I was about to surrender myself, stopped, and I continued to walk within about sixty yards of them, when I suddenly wheeled and ran into the point for which I had first started. They did not attempt to follow me, but just as I was about to enter the timber, they fired, the bullets whistling over my head caused me to draw my head down as I ran.
As soon as I entered the timber, I saw Simpson waiting and beckoning to me. I went towards him, and we ran together for about two miles, when we reached the river. We then stopped and consulted as to the best way of concealing ourselves. I proposed climbing a tree, but he objected, saying that should the Mexicans discover us, we would have no way of making our escape. Before we arrived at any conclusion, we heard some one coming, which frightened us so, that I jumped into the river, while Simpson ran a short distance up it, but seeing me, he also jumped in. The noise proceeded from the bank immediately above the spot where Simpson was, and I could see the place very plainly, and soon discovered that two of our companions had made their escape to this place. They were Zachariah Brooks, and Isaac Hamilton. In the fleshy part of both Hamilton's thighs were wounds, one made by a gun-shot and another by a bayonet.
We all swam the river, and traveling up it a short distance, arrived at a bluff bank, near which was a thick screen of bushes, where we concealed ourselves. The place was about five miles above the fort. We did not dare proceed further that day, as the Mexicans were still searching for us, and Hamilton's wounds had become so painful as to prevent his walking, which obliged us to carry him. We remained there until about 10 o'clock that night, when we started forth, Simpson and myself carrying Hamilton, Brooks, though severely wounded, was yet able to travel. We had to proceed very cautiously and rather slowly.
Fort La Bahia being southeast of us, and the point we were making for, was about where Goliad now stands. We proceeded, in a circuitous route in a northeasterly direction. We approached within a short distance of the fort, and could not at first account for the numerous fires we saw blazing. We were not long in doubt, for the sickening smell that was borne towards us by the south wind, informed us too well that they were burning the bodies of our companions. And, here, I will state what Mrs. Cash, who was kept a prisoner, stated afterwards; that some of our men were thrown into the flames and burned alive. We passed the fort safely, and reached a spring, where we rested from our journey and from whence we proceeded on our travels.
But the night was foggy, and becoming bewildered, it was not long before we found ourselves at the spring from which we started. We again started out, and again found ourselves at the same place; but we had too much at stake to sink into despondency. So once more took our wounded companion, thinking we could not miss the right direction this time; but, at last when day began to break, to our great consternation, we found we had been traveling around the same spot, and were for the third time back at the identical spring from which we had at first set forth. It was now impossible to proceed further that day, as we dared not travel during the day, knowing we should be discovered by the Mexicans. We therefore concealed ourselves by the side of a slight elevation, amidst a thick undergrowth of bushes.
By this time, we began to grow very hungry, and I remembered an elm bush that grew at the entrance of the timber where we were concealed, which formed an excellent commissary for us, and from the branches of which we partook, until nearly every limb was entirely stripped. About 9 o'clock that morning, we heard the heavy tramp of the Mexican army on the march; and they not long after that passed within a stone's throw of our place of concealment. It seems indeed, that we were guided by an over-ruling providence in not being able to proceed further that night, for as we were not expecting the Mexican army so soon, we would probably have been overtaken and discovered by them, perhaps in some prairie, where we could not have escaped.
We remained in our hiding place the rest of the day, and resumed our journey after dark, still carrying our wounded companion. Whenever the enemy passed us, we had to conceal ourselves; and we laid several days in ponds of mud and water, with nothing but our heads exposed to view. When in the vicinity of Lavaca, we again got ahead of the Mexicans; and, after traveling all night, we discovered, very early in the morning of the ninth day, a house within a few hundred yards of the river. We approached it, and found the inhabitants had fled. When we entered the house, we discovered a quantity of corn, some chickens, and a good many eggs lying about in different places. Our stomachs were weak and revolted at the idea of eating them raw, so we looked about for some means of striking a fire, first searching for a rock, but failing to find one, we took an old chisel and ground it on a grindstone for about two hours, but could never succeed in getting the sparks to catch. We then concluded to return and try the eggs raw.
We had taken one, and Simpson was putting on his shoes, which he had taken off to rest his feet, which were raw and bleeding, and had just got one on when he remarked: "Boys, we would be in a tight place if the Mexicans were to come upon us now." So saying, he walked to the window, when to his horror, there was the whole Mexican army not more than a mile and a half off, and fifteen or twenty horsemen coming at full speed within a hundred yards of us. We took up our wounded man and ran to the timber, which was not far off, Simpson leaving his shoe behind him. We got into the timber and concealed ourselves between the logs of two trees, the tops of which having fallen together, and being very thickly covered with leaves and moss, formed an almost impenetrable screen above and around us. We had scarcely hidden ourselves from view, when the Mexicans came swarming around us, shouting and hallooing through the woods, but did not find us. We heard them from time to time, all throughout the day and next night. The next morning, just before day, the noise of the Mexicans ceased, and we concluded they had left. Simpson then asked me to go with him to get his shoe, as it would be difficult for him to travel without it, and I consented to do so. We went out to the edge of the timber and stopped some time to take observations before proceeding further. Seeing nothing of the Mexicans, we proceeded to the house, found the shoe, and possessing ourselves of a couple of ears of corn, and a bottle of water, we returned to our companions. We had no doubt that the Mexicans had gone, so we sat down and drank the water and ate an ear of corn, when Brooks asked Simpson to go with him to the house, saying he would get a chicken, and we could eat it raw. They started, and had hardly got to the edge of the timber when I heard the sound of horses’ feet, and directly afterwards the Mexicans were to be seen in every direction. I was sure they had captured Simpson and Brooks. Soon I heard something in the brush near us, but did not know whether it was the boys or Mexicans, but it turned out to be the boys, who crept undercover, and, in a few minutes, four Mexicans came riding by, passing within a few feet of where we were lying, with our faces to the ground.
After going into the woods a short distance they turned and passed out again, but it was not long after when six of them came riding quite close, three on each side of us, and leaning down and peering into our hiding place. It seemed to me they could have heard us, for my own heart seemed to raise me almost from the ground by its throbbings. I felt more frightened than I ever had been before; for at the time of the massacre, everything had come on me so suddenly that my nerves had no time to become unstrung as they now were. The Mexicans passed and repassed us, through the day, so we dared not move from our hiding place. A guard was placed around us the following night, the main body having, no doubt, gone on, and left a detachment to search for us. I think they must have had some idea of our being some of Fannin's men, or they would scarcely have gone to that trouble. About 10 o'clock that night we held a consultation, and I told my companions it would not do to remain there any longer, as the Mexicans were aware of our place of concealment, and would surely discover us the next day. We all decided then to leave, and they requested me to lead the way out. I told them we would have to crawl through the timber and a short piece of prairie, until we crossed the road near which the Mexicans were posted; that they must be careful to remove every leaf and stick in the path, and to hold their feet up, only crawling on their hands and knees, as the least noise would betray us to the enemy.
I was somewhat acquainted with the locality; for we were now not far from Texana, and I had some times hunted along these woods. Thus I led the way. Hamilton's wounds were so painful that we could move only slowly, and we must have been two hours crawling about 200 yards. When we at length passed the timber and reached the road, I stopped to make a careful survey of the situation. I could see the Mexicans placed along the road, about a hundred yards on each side of us. The moon was shining, but had sunk towards the west, which threw the shadow of a point of timber across the road, and concealed us from view. It would have been hard to discover us from the color of our clothes, as the earthy element with which they were mixed had entirely hidden the original fabric. We continued to crawl, until we reached a sufficient distance not to be discovered, when we rose up and walked. Although Hamilton had, with a great deal of pain, managed to crawl, yet it was impossible for him to walk, and his wounds had by this time become so much irritated and inflamed that he could scarcely bear to be carried. We traveled that night only a short distance, and hid ourselves in a thicket near a pond of water. Brooks had been trying to persuade me to leave Hamilton; but, although our progress was impeded by having to carry him, I could not entertain the idea for a moment. I indignantly refused, but still he would seize every opportunity to urge it upon me. He said it would be impossible for us to escape, burdened as we were with Hamilton. I could only acknowledge the truth of this, for it was a desperate case with us. The foe was around us in every direction. Brooks, finding that I was not to be persuaded, then attempted to influence Simpson.
On the tenth day out, they took the bottle and went to the pond nearby, for water. As they were returning, (I suppose Brooks did not know he was so near the place they left us), both Hamilton and myself heard Brooks urging Simpson to leave him. He told him if we remained with Hamilton, we would certainly lose our lives; but there was some slight chance of escaping, if we left him, and that Hamilton's wounds had become so much worse that he was bound to die, unless he could have rest; and, as we were doing him no good, and ourselves a great deal of injury by carrying him, it was, our duty to leave him. Now Brooks had never carried him a step; Simpson and myself having done that; yet Brooks was the first who had ever proposed leaving him; and, although there was a great deal of truth in what he was saying, yet I felt quite angry with him, as I heard him trying to persuade Simpson. Hamilton did not say a word to them when they came in, but sat with his face buried in his hands a long time.
At length, he looked up, and said: "Boys, Brooks has told you the truth; I cannot travel any further, and if you stay with me, all will be killed. Go and leave me, boys; if I have rest I may recover, and if I ever should get off safe, you shall hear from me again." He spoke so reasonably, and we were so thoroughly convinced of the truth of what he said, after a brief consultation, we decided to depart without him. Hamilton had known Brooks in Alabama; he called him to him, and gave him a gold watch and $40 in gold, telling him to give it to his mother. We then bade Hamilton farewell, all of us shedding tears as we parted, but when we turned to go, my resolution failed me, and I could not find it in my heart to leave him. I said: "Boys, don't let us leave him." But Simpson and Brooks said that we could do neither him nor ourselves any good by remaining, and that they were determined to go. I told them I would remain with him, and do the best I could for him. So they started off without me; but Hamilton insisted so much that I should leave him, that I again bade him farewell, and followed and soon overtook the others. The reason that we started off in the day, was that it was raining quite hard, and we thought there would not be much danger in traveling, but we had not gone more than half way through the next prairie. when the weather cleared up, and we saw the whole Mexican army encamped at Texana, about two miles off; but they did not discover us, and we succeeded in reaching the timber on the Navidad. In the evening we walked out to a slight eminence which overlooked the prairie, to reconnoiter. While gazing across the prairie, we could see three men on horseback, but so indistinct were they that we could not at first tell whether they were Americans or Mexicans. As they approached, we hid in the undergrowth; and as they passed, we saw that they were Mexican couriers returning to the command.
At eight we again started forth, and coming out on the prairie, we discovered a road, which we concluded had been made by the refugees in their retreat from the enemy. During all this time we had nothing to eat but leaves and herbs, and the two ears of corn that we got at the house on Lavaca river. On the twelfth day, we reached the Colorado, at Mercer's crossing. As we were very tired, we sat down on the bank to rest a little, before attempting to swim over. While sitting there, a dog on the opposite side of the river began to bark. When we heard that well-known sound, our very souls thrilled with joy, and that was the first time since the awful day of the massacre that a smile had ever illuminated our faces. We looked at each other, and then burst into a great big laugh. We were all good swimmers, but I some times took the cramp while swimming, so we concluded to cross on a log. We procured a dead mulberry pole, and hanging on to it, one at each end, and one in the middle, we crossed over to the land of freedom, and a land where we found plenty to eat. After recruiting a little, we procured horses, with the intention of joining Houston's army; but before we reached there, San Jacinto had been fought and won.
It was more than a year before I ever heard anything of Hamilton. He remained in the same place where we left him nine days, sometimes lying in the pond of water, which assuaged the pain of his wounds. At the end of that time he was so much improved that he essayed to walk to Texana, and succeeded in doing so. He said the best eating he ever had in his life, was when he first entered Texana, and ate the meat from the rawhides the Mexicans had left. The next morning he took a skiff, and made his way down to Dimmitt's landing. He had scarcely reached there when he was taken prisoner by a Mexican soldier. Not long after, other soldiers came in, and tying Hamilton on a mule, started for camp. He suffered so much from his wounds that he fainted several times, on the way. Whenever this occurred, they would untie him, lay him on the ground, and throw water into his face until he revived, when they would again mount him on the mule and proceed on their way. Hamilton remained in their hands for some time and gradually grew well of his wounds. There was a Mexican who waited on him, who seemed much attached to him, and Hamilton was led to place much confidence in him. One morning, this Mexican told him that if he wanted to live another day, he must make his escape that night, as he had learned that he and two other prisoners were to be shot before morning. Hamilton then arranged a plan for the escape of himself and two of his companions, which was a success, after many trials and tribulations.
When I worked in the beer business one of my best friends was an old man that had worked as a brewery rep for Pearl for many years. He told me this story then, it's a great story and one that fits very well in the beer business. Tony
Emma Koehler holds the first bottle of Pearl beer to come off the line after Prohibition was rescinded, 1933. It's an awesome photograph that is made more awesome by Emma's story, which should be made into a Hollywood movie. Per Joe Holley's excellent "Native Texan" column in the Houston Chronicle: "It was Emma Koehler who managed to keep Pearl open during Prohibition, 1919-1933, when almost every other brewery in the state went under. It's an appropriate name in honor of a formidable woman, although it could have been called the Three Emmas. With apologies to the late Paul Harvey, you have to know the rest of the juicy story to understand why. The Pearl Brewing Co. started here in 1883 under a different name and began producing bottles and wooden kegs of Pearl beer in 1886. Otto Koehler took over as president in 1902. Under his leadership, the business thrived, and he and his wife Emma built a three-story stone mansion on a hill in the Laurel Heights section a few blocks west of the brewery. In about 1910, Emma Koehler was injured in an auto accident, and her husband hired a live-in nurse to see after her. The nurse's name also was Emma. Emma Dumpke, known as "Emmi," was in her late 20s, brunette and petite. Not long after joining the household, she accompanied the Koehler family to Europe on an extended stay. Sometime later, a friend of hers - also a nurse, also named Emma - came by the Koehler home to have coffee. Emma Hedda Burgemeister, in her mid-30s, was blonde, gray-eyed and 5 feet 10 inches tall. Emma Dumpke - let's call her Emma II - told her friend about "the intimate relations" (quoting the San Antonio Light) that existed between her and the master of the house. At some point during the affair, the German-born beer baron and business mogul, one of the richest men in the Southwest, bought Emma II a little house across the river on Hunstock Street, just off South Presa. Koehler paid the expenses and gave Emma II $125 a month in spending money. Emma III - the tall blonde - soon moved in, as well. Koehler paid her $50 a month and deeded the house to both Emmas. He dropped by once a week or so at night, for two or three hours. This arrangement lasted until Dumpke (Emma II) informed Koehler that she planned to be married. Shortly before she became Emma Dumpke Daschiel, Koehler proposed to Emma III. She turned him down, she said later, because "Mrs. Koehler was a sick woman, and I would not leave her behind sick and helpless." On Nov. 12, 1914, at a little after 4 in the afternoon, Otto Koehler - age 59 and married for 22 years - left the brewery in his buggy and drove to the cottage on Hunstock Street. The Emmas were both at home. Within a few minutes of walking through the front door, Koehler was dead from bullets to the neck, face and heart. The shots were fired by one of the Emmas. According to detailed reporting in the San Antonio Light, Koehler on that fateful afternoon had brushed past Emma II in the living room and had headed straight to the bedroom, where he found Emma III lying on a bed with a cloth covering her eyes. He reportedly tried to kiss her, a quarrel erupted and Emma III shot him with a .32 revolver. The Koehler family told the Light that there had been a dispute over a bill that nurse Burgemeister (Emma III) had submitted for Emma Koehler's care. Otto Koehler drove to the house to settle the matter, and when he and Emma III started arguing, she got frightened and went for her gun. When police arrived at the cottage, they found Emma II in the living room with neighbors and Koehler's body sprawled on the living room floor. They also found two pistols and a case knife. Emma III was sitting on the floor with her head in the lap "of an old man," apparently a neighbor. Her left wrist was bleeding, from what she said was a self-inflicted knife wound. "I'm sorry, but I had to kill him," she told police. A grand jury no-billed Emma II but charged Emma III with murder. She decided about that time that wounded World War I soldiers needed her nursing skills, so she decamped to Europe. Surprisingly, she came back to San Antonio three years later to stand trial. Her lawyer was former Texas Gov. T.M. Campbell. "It was a sordid story which the unfortunate woman had to tell, but one which held the jury and the courtroom, packed to the utmost with spectators, breathless," the Light reported on Saturday, Jan. 19, 1918. "Miss Burgemeister wore a dress of dark material and a fur hat and muff, her face was covered with a veil." Emma III told the jury that she killed Koehler in self-defense and to protect the honor of her friend, Emma II. "Did you shoot him on the floor after he was dead?" the district attorney asked her. "I don't know," she said. "I only know I shot him as he raised the pistol. I thought he would get me again, and I shot him again. Then I raised the pistol to my head and pulled the trigger." "How many times?" "I don't know," Emma III said. "Your aim was better at Mr. Koehler than at yourself," the district attorney wryly observed. On Jan. 22, 1918, the all-male jury found Emma III not guilty. In 1919, she traveled to New Orleans, where she married a member of the jury. The newlyweds returned to San Antonio to live in the little house on Hunstock. Emma Koehler stayed in her own house, as well. She may have been "sick and helpless" at some point, but, as Elizabeth Fauerso of Pearl points out, "she was a very strong person, by all accounts. She was very smart and very strategic." Taking firm control of the company, she kept it going during Prohibition by brewing near-beer and operating various businesses. Pearl got into making ice, bottling soft drinks, advertising, even auto repair. Koehler, who was just as resourceful during the Depression, retired after almost 26 years as head of Texas' largest brewery, but she remained a formidable presence in the company until her death in 1943. The irony, of course, is that she might never have gotten her chance if two other Emmas, a century ago this month, had stuck to their nursing. Fauerso told me last week that Pearl is not quite sure how to tell the whole story when The Emma opens, although the hotel bar, she said, might feature a new drink. It'll be called "The Three Emmas." Its slogan will be, "It'll kill ya." http://www.houstonchronicle.com/new...arl-Brewery-rest-of-a-juicy-story-5923317.php
Emma Koehler holds the first bottle of Pearl beer to come off the line after Prohibition was rescinded, 1933. It's an awesome photograph that is made more awesome by Emma's story, which should be made into a Hollywood movie. Per Joe Holley's excellent "Native Texan" column in the Houston Chronicle: "It was Emma Koehler who managed to keep Pearl open during Prohibition, 1919-1933, when almost every other brewery in the state went under. It's an appropriate name in honor of a formidable woman, although it could have been called the Three Emmas. With apologies to the late Paul Harvey, you have to know the rest of the juicy story to understand why. The Pearl Brewing Co. started here in 1883 under a different name and began producing bottles and wooden kegs of Pearl beer in 1886. Otto Koehler took over as president in 1902. Under his leadership, the business thrived, and he and his wife Emma built a three-story stone mansion on a hill in the Laurel Heights section a few blocks west of the brewery. In about 1910, Emma Koehler was injured in an auto accident, and her husband hired a live-in nurse to see after her. The nurse's name also was Emma. Emma Dumpke, known as "Emmi," was in her late 20s, brunette and petite. Not long after joining the household, she accompanied the Koehler family to Europe on an extended stay. Sometime later, a friend of hers - also a nurse, also named Emma - came by the Koehler home to have coffee. Emma Hedda Burgemeister, in her mid-30s, was blonde, gray-eyed and 5 feet 10 inches tall. Emma Dumpke - let's call her Emma II - told her friend about "the intimate relations" (quoting the San Antonio Light) that existed between her and the master of the house. At some point during the affair, the German-born beer baron and business mogul, one of the richest men in the Southwest, bought Emma II a little house across the river on Hunstock Street, just off South Presa. Koehler paid the expenses and gave Emma II $125 a month in spending money. Emma III - the tall blonde - soon moved in, as well. Koehler paid her $50 a month and deeded the house to both Emmas. He dropped by once a week or so at night, for two or three hours. This arrangement lasted until Dumpke (Emma II) informed Koehler that she planned to be married. Shortly before she became Emma Dumpke Daschiel, Koehler proposed to Emma III. She turned him down, she said later, because "Mrs. Koehler was a sick woman, and I would not leave her behind sick and helpless." On Nov. 12, 1914, at a little after 4 in the afternoon, Otto Koehler - age 59 and married for 22 years - left the brewery in his buggy and drove to the cottage on Hunstock Street. The Emmas were both at home. Within a few minutes of walking through the front door, Koehler was dead from bullets to the neck, face and heart. The shots were fired by one of the Emmas. According to detailed reporting in the San Antonio Light, Koehler on that fateful afternoon had brushed past Emma II in the living room and had headed straight to the bedroom, where he found Emma III lying on a bed with a cloth covering her eyes. He reportedly tried to kiss her, a quarrel erupted and Emma III shot him with a .32 revolver. The Koehler family told the Light that there had been a dispute over a bill that nurse Burgemeister (Emma III) had submitted for Emma Koehler's care. Otto Koehler drove to the house to settle the matter, and when he and Emma III started arguing, she got frightened and went for her gun. When police arrived at the cottage, they found Emma II in the living room with neighbors and Koehler's body sprawled on the living room floor. They also found two pistols and a case knife. Emma III was sitting on the floor with her head in the lap "of an old man," apparently a neighbor. Her left wrist was bleeding, from what she said was a self-inflicted knife wound. "I'm sorry, but I had to kill him," she told police. A grand jury no-billed Emma II but charged Emma III with murder. She decided about that time that wounded World War I soldiers needed her nursing skills, so she decamped to Europe. Surprisingly, she came back to San Antonio three years later to stand trial. Her lawyer was former Texas Gov. T.M. Campbell. "It was a sordid story which the unfortunate woman had to tell, but one which held the jury and the courtroom, packed to the utmost with spectators, breathless," the Light reported on Saturday, Jan. 19, 1918. "Miss Burgemeister wore a dress of dark material and a fur hat and muff, her face was covered with a veil." Emma III told the jury that she killed Koehler in self-defense and to protect the honor of her friend, Emma II. "Did you shoot him on the floor after he was dead?" the district attorney asked her. "I don't know," she said. "I only know I shot him as he raised the pistol. I thought he would get me again, and I shot him again. Then I raised the pistol to my head and pulled the trigger." "How many times?" "I don't know," Emma III said. "Your aim was better at Mr. Koehler than at yourself," the district attorney wryly observed. On Jan. 22, 1918, the all-male jury found Emma III not guilty. In 1919, she traveled to New Orleans, where she married a member of the jury. The newlyweds returned to San Antonio to live in the little house on Hunstock. Emma Koehler stayed in her own house, as well. She may have been "sick and helpless" at some point, but, as Elizabeth Fauerso of Pearl points out, "she was a very strong person, by all accounts. She was very smart and very strategic." Taking firm control of the company, she kept it going during Prohibition by brewing near-beer and operating various businesses. Pearl got into making ice, bottling soft drinks, advertising, even auto repair. Koehler, who was just as resourceful during the Depression, retired after almost 26 years as head of Texas' largest brewery, but she remained a formidable presence in the company until her death in 1943. The irony, of course, is that she might never have gotten her chance if two other Emmas, a century ago this month, had stuck to their nursing. Fauerso told me last week that Pearl is not quite sure how to tell the whole story when The Emma opens, although the hotel bar, she said, might feature a new drink. It'll be called "The Three Emmas." Its slogan will be, "It'll kill ya." http://www.houstonchronicle.com/new...arl-Brewery-rest-of-a-juicy-story-5923317.php
- Thread Starter Thread Starter
- #1,859
The Texas Quote of the Day:
"We camped one night on a pretty grass plot. After midnight there was a Texas "shower," and soon there was six inches of water in our tents, and I made my first military mental note: when you see a green spot in Texas, ask why before you camp there."
----- Colonel Percy M. Ashburn, 1914
"We camped one night on a pretty grass plot. After midnight there was a Texas "shower," and soon there was six inches of water in our tents, and I made my first military mental note: when you see a green spot in Texas, ask why before you camp there."
----- Colonel Percy M. Ashburn, 1914
My sister experienced that at lake Brownwood when I was a kid. Her sleeping bag tried to float out the tent........