The Tragic, Lusty, and Short Romance of Annie Stone and Abraham Rothschild

            

Bessie Moore, AKA Diamond Bessie, nee Annie Stone

      Annie Stone was born in Syracuse, New York, in 1854, the daughter of a successful shoe store owner.  She was a lovely child, with creamy complexion, raven black hair, and ice-blue eyes.  Annie quickly grew into a strikingly beautiful woman with an endless supply of suitors who were more than willing to teach her the facts of life.   She learned well, and at age 15, the promiscuous young beauty became the mistress of a businessman named Moore and changed her name to Bessie Moore, probably to protect her family honor.

      After the short affair with Moore ended, Bessie, well-educated for a woman in that day but no longer welcome at her parent's home, chose to become a prostitute.  She thoroughly enjoyed the work and was well-equipped for it.   The talented teenager practiced her craft in brothels from Cincinnati to New Orleans and her happy, satisfied clients showered her with expensive gifts and diamond jewelry.  She worked in the “Mansion of Joy” in Cincinnati, and wintered in an equally joyous Bourbon Street hotel.  The cool of the Ozarks drew her to Hot Springs, Arkansas, in the summers.

     Abraham Rothschild was born in August of 1854 in Cincinnati, Ohio, the son of Meyer Rothschild, a wealthy diamond merchant.  Abe, a handsome and gregarious young man, began a career as a drummer--travelling salesman--for his father’s company, visiting cities throughout the country selling jewelry.  He loved to travel and enjoyed his work, but soon discovered the pleasures of saloons and brothels, and devoted less and less time to serious activities.  Abraham fell into disfavor with his parents and was considered a drunkard and the family black sheep, which bothered him not a whit.  He liked barrooms and whorehouses and whiskey and women.

Abraham Rothschild, AKA A. Munroe

     Abe and Bessie crossed paths in Hot Springs, Arkansas in 1875.  They may have been acquainted from Bessie’s days at the Mansion of Joy in Cincinnati, but after meeting in Hot Springs, they became travelling companions.  Even though they moved about as man and wife, Abe insisted that Bessie continue to turn tricks to help with expenses and finance his gambling habit.  She seemed to be in love with him and did as he asked.  Both of them began to drink heavily, and, to keep Bessie in line, Abe sometimes found it necessary to physically discipline her.  He was arrested once in Cincinnati for slapping her around in public, but Bessie refused to press charges.

     They may have married during the next two years.  They certainly acted as if they were married, but there is no record of a wedding.  In any case, they travelled to Marshall, Texas, in January of 1877 and registered at the Capitol Hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Abraham Rothschild of Cincinnati.  After two days, the couple boarded the train and travelled eighteen miles to Jefferson, where they registered on January 19^th at the Brooks House Hotel as A. Munroe and wife.  

     Jefferson was a busy center of commerce at the time, and Abe may have intended to sell jewelry to prosperous businessmen in the city, or he may have had something else in mind.  Why he registered in Jefferson under a false name is a matter of conjecture, and there are those who believe Abe’s sole reason for the trip to Jefferson was to rid himself of Bessie.

     Abe had several possible motives.  Bessie may have been pushing him toward marriage, a step he was not willing to take.  She may have claimed to be pregnant which would have created a family scandal at the time.  (She would not have been the first young lady to lie about such a thing.)  On the other hand, Abe could have been bored with Bessie and their relationship, or he may have simply wanted her diamonds, which he could use to finance his gambling.  Whether it was robbery or a more complicated reason, Abe wanted Bessie out of his life.

     Bessie joined Abe at the Rosebud Saloon the next two evenings, drinking, dancing, flashing her collection of diamond jewelry, and displaying her shapely figure in fine satin dresses.  The handsome young couple made quite an impression on the conservative population of Jefferson.  Someone heard Abe refer to his wife as Bessie, and she was immediately dubbed “Diamond Bessie.”

     Shortly before eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, January 21, 1877, Abraham and Bessie had breakfast at Henrique’s restaurant and arranged for a picnic lunch, even though the weather was cold and threatening.  As the couple ate breakfast and waited for their lunch to be packed, Frank Malloy admired Bessie’s large diamond rings and other assets.  He was the last local citizen to see Bessie alive.  Frank watched as Abe carried the picnic basket across the foot bridge over Big Cypress Bayou and the couple disappeared into the fog on the Marshall Road.

     Before three that afternoon, A. Munroe, as he was known, returned to Jefferson and explained that his wife was visiting friends across the bayou, but would return before their scheduled departure on Tuesday morning.  Someone noticed that Abe was wearing two diamonds that had been on Bessie’s fingers.   A cold front moved through town on Monday, and snow, a rarity in Jefferson, covered the ground by Tuesday morning when Abe, with all the couple’s luggage, sneaked aboard the train and left for Cincinnati, alone.

     Snow continued for a week.  The weather cleared, and on February 5^th, a woman gathering firewood in the forest off the Marshall Road discovered the body of a finely dressed, attractive young lady.  The body was seated,  leaning against a tree, partially covered with snow.   Cause of death appeared to be a bullet hole in her right temple.  Authorities in Jefferson knew immediately the corpse must be Diamond Bessie. Because there was no gun at the scene and no jewelry on the body, suicide was ruled out and foul play was suspected.  When it was discovered that A. Munroe did not exist, but Abe Rothschild of Cincinnati and his wife, Bessie had been in Marshall, a warrant was issued for Rothschild’s arrest.

     Abraham Rothschild, after his return to Cincinnati, acted strangely.  He increased his drinking and became paranoid, insisting that “someone” was out to get him.  Early one morning, after a particularly grueling, all-night session at a bar down the street from the Mansion of Joy, Abe stepped out into the deserted street and attempted to blow out his brains.  He managed to blow out one eye, but survived.   Sheriff John Vines, of Jefferson, arrived and arrested him as he recuperated in the hospital after the incident.

     The Rothschild family, disgusted with Abraham but anxious to protect the family name, put up a vigorous defense against extradition, but eventually lost the battle.  To the family’s shame, Abraham was taken back to Texas to stand trial for the murder of a common harlot.  The trial would become one of the most sensational of the century, with every prominent attorney and politician in Texas clamoring to get involved on one side or the other.

      Abraham’s wealthy father spared no expense in the defense of his family name.  He hired ten pricey lawyers and paid them lavishly to defend his son.  The team succeeded in getting many delays and a change of venue because sentiments were so strongly against Abe in Jefferson, and the trial was moved.  The case was finally tried in Marshall in early December of 1878.

     After three weeks of testimony, Abraham was found guilty and sentenced to hang.  The defense team earned its money by getting the verdict thrown out and winning a new trial.  The press was incensed and claimed that anyone with a few good friends and a lot of money could get away with murder in Texas. 




This Cypress Siding was nailed in place in 1875, when this building was a synagogue.  There is no record that Abe and Bessie worshipped here, although it was available for them.

     After months of delay, posturing, and motions by both sides, the retrial started in Jefferson on December 14, 1880.  The defense presented a new witness, Miss Isabelle Gouldy, who testified that she had seen Diamond Bessie in the presence of an unidentified man on January 20^th, and again on January 25^th, two days after Abe Rothschild left town.  The coroner testified that the body was not sufficiently decomposed to have been in the woods for fifteen days.   He also noted that Bessie was not pregnant. 

     The prosecution viciously attacked Miss Gouldy’s veracity, implying that she was a prostitute and not to be trusted, and suggesting that her testimony had been bought and paid for with Meyer Rothschild’s money.  They also pointed out that the body had effectively been in a deep freeze for almost two weeks because of the snowstorm.  The jury listened carefully to these arguments and, because the defense had created more than a shadow of doubt to cloud the issues, found the defendant innocent of all charges.

     Abe and his family left town on the first available train and went back to Cincinnati.  After a long and checkered career as a con man, Abe died in 1937, and is buried in a family plot in San Mateo County, California.  Bessie Moore is buried in the Oakwood Cemetery in Jefferson, her gravesite neatly fenced and tended by the industrious ladies of the Jessie Allen Wise Garden Club.  Sheriff John Vines, Frank Malloy, Isabelle Gouldy and several others involved in the trial are buried nearby.

The final resting place of Diamond Bessie, in the Oakwood Cemetery at Jefferson.

     Each year, during Jefferson’s annual “Pilgrimage” celebration, the Jessie Allen Wise Garden Club sponsors several performances of the play, The Murder of Diamond Bessie in the building that, in 1877,  housed the Jewish Synagogue in Jefferson.  

     To this day, the murder of Bessie Moore is listed in the files of the Texas Attorney General’s Office as "unsolved.”

Bob Wills' Day in Turkey and The Pilgrimage in Jefferson

The water tower for the city is in the background.  This farmer plowed up his cotton, for a reason unknown to me, but I bet the government paid him to do oit.

     Last week, I travelled 369 miles due north to meet some old friends and attend the annual Bob Wills Day celebration in Turkey, Texas.  The Bob Wills Committee bought the vacant high school building in Turkey and converted it into a museum, dance hall, gift shop, and dining establishment for use once a year during the celebration.

     The Church of Western Swing, a former church down the street from the high school, celebrates nightly with Western Swing dances where couples two-step into the wee hours.  Breakfast tacos are available at the re-furbished high school cafeteria, along with coffee, pancakes, and sausage.

     The city of Turkey is located about thirty miles north of Matador, Texas, the headquarters of the legendary Matador Ranch, in the so-called Cross-Timbers section of Texas.  The timber part must be elsewhere, because most of the land around Turkey is treeless, with sweet potato or cotton fields covered much of the year by sand dunes.  It is hot, arid, dry, and gritty land.  Outsiders might complain about the twenty-mile-per-hour winds, with gusts to thirty, but the natives don’t notice.

Saturday morning parade with the aforementioned water tower in the background.

     Hugh and I met our friends, Buck Campbell and Ken Black at the festival.  Buck came over from Muleshoe, and Ken drove down from Dallas.  Buck’s son, Scott, lives in a place called Trophy Club, north of the DFW Airport, and his son, Conner, just turned 21, is a student at Texas Tech in Lubbock.  This was Conner’s first Bob Wills, Day celebration.  I imagine there were other families with three generations present, but I doubt if there were many.

     Scott, and the other fifteen members of the delegation from Trophy Club, had restored an ancient riding lawn mower to ride in the Saturday parade and to race in the lawn mower race that afternoon.  Many hours of careful, late-night drinking, planning, and meticulous craftsmanship went into the design and renovation of that machine.  It created quite a stir when unveiled for the first time, its shiny black paint job emblazoned with decals from a variety of sponsors.

The Trophy Club beast bears down on the competition at turn five.

     Jody Nix, a virtuoso on the fiddle and practitioner of Western Swing Music from ‘way back headlined the Saturday night dance, as he has for many years.  I have watched Jody grow old at these sessions.  His perfectly groomed hair and moustache are now gray.  His form-fitting western shirt, hand-tooled Ranger belt, and starched Wrangler jeans are all larger and much tighter than in years past.

     I first saw Jody Nix when I was in college.  Buck Campbell and I took dates to the “Brownfield Stomp,” a monthly dance at the VFW Hall in Brownfield.  Hoyle Nix and his band would come up from San Angelo to play, and Buck and I would drive over from Lubbock with our dates.  Jody Nix was about twelve, and, back then, played a sit-down steel guitar for his dad’s band.  He only played on Saturday nights because Hoyle insisted he stay in school.

                                                         *    *    *    *    *

     This last Thursday, Charlotte and I drove to a different world, but stayed in Texas.  A bit over 412 miles northeast of Kerrville, deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas, the city of Jefferson transports us back to the Antebellum South.  We were there for the annual “Pilgrimage,” a festival that celebrates the history of this unique little city.

Bobbie Hardy's plantation house, finished in 2002, but no longer a B & B.  We watched the muster of the Confederate soldiers from this porch.  The 1860 Episcopal Church is directly across the street.

     Jefferson, once the second largest and most prosperous city in Texas, grew as an inland port, shipping bales of cotton down Big Cypress Bayou to the Red River, then on to the Mississippi and Natchez, St. Louis, or New Orleans.  Entire plantations from the Carolinas, Georgia and Alabama, having “farmed out” their soil, relocated here during the 1840s and ‘50s, bringing their possessions, their slaves, their attitudes, and their way of life.  The army Corps of Engineers, in a successful effort to drain the swamp, left Jefferson high and dry before the turn of the century.  With the loss of the port on Big Cypress Bayou, prosperity literally dried up.

     Many plantation homes in the little city were lost to decay, but in the late sixties, when the Bed and Breakfast industry developed in Texas, these homes became popular and desirable places to visit.  Tourism revived the economy of the quaint little town.

     In 1872, during the heyday of Jefferson, a Cincinnati playboy and his lady companion visited Jefferson for about two weeks.  They stayed at the Excelsior Hotel, and Abraham Rothschild, a young diamond merchant, called upon local businessmen, peddling his wares.  At night, he and his “lady” frequented the Rosebud Saloon, where she cut a fine figure, dripping with Abe’s diamonds.  She became known around town as “Diamond Bessie.”

Part of the cast from Diamond Bessie during the parade.  I can pick out the Sheriff, the Defense Attorney, the Judge, and a local "Social Worker" in the red dress.  The old man, seated and waving an American flag, was a Belly-Gunner on a B-17 in World War II.  He was only 5-2, and fit nicely into the pod beneath the plane.

     On a Sunday, Abe and Bessie left for a picnic in the nearby woods.  That afternoon, Abraham returned alone and caught the Monday morning train back to Cincinnati.  Bessie was found, two weeks later, deep in the woods with a bullet in her head.  Abe was arrested in Cincinnati and brought back to Jefferson for trial.

     In the fifties, a play was written about the incident, and has been performed annually during the Pilgrimage for sixty consecutive years.  I was asked to play one of the jury members in this year’s presentation, and jumped at the opportunity.

The arthor, as one of the finest jury members money can buy.

     On Sunday morning, I sat on the front porch of a plantation house similar to “Tara” from “Gone with the Wind,” and watched as three hundred costumed Confederate soldiers re-enacted the original muster in the park across the street. These Jefferson volunteers were marching off to join General Lee’s army.  A letter used in the original ceremony was read from the front steps of the Episcopal Church, the same place it had been read at the start of the Civil War.  The brick church was built in 1860 and is still in use today. 

       I cannot help but compare the two experiences, one week apart, in Texas.  On Saturday, at 10 AM in Jefferson, it was warm and humid.  Pecan, oak, and pine trees towered over the little city, and we wished for the hint of a breeze.  I thought of last Saturday in Turkey and four hundred people sitting in lawn chairs on a former football field, trying to hold their umbrellas in a thirty-mile-a-hour wind, seeking protection from the blowing sand and hot sun.  They braved the elements to sit there and hear Bob Wills’ music, played by old men, the remnants of Bob’s Texas Playboys. 

     Western swing music by Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys brought joy, hope, and laughter to the dirt farmers on the scorched, open prairies of West Texas during the depths of the depression.  At the same time, in run-down homes deep in the East Texas woods, genteel southern ladies served herb tea in China cups and prayed their husbands would find work.  Poor people in little towns built this state.  Rich men helped, but poor people did the work.  With pride, energy, and hard work, they created Texas.  So long as I am able, I will attend their celebrations—I will honor their customs and their memories. 

My Front Porch

 

  Sunrise from the front porch.

                                            

     I’m setting on my front porch because that’s what I do—I set, I don’t sit.  I set here in the early morning and have my coffee a lot of days, because this place has pleasant weather most of the time and I can set here in a robe and still be comfortable, especially with a steaming cup of strong coffee.   Sometimes, in the evenings, I set here with a drink of whisky.  Depending upon a lot of things, I sometimes set here at the end of the day with a big glass of  iced tea.

     My front porch is fifty feet long and over eight feet wide.  I have six rocking chairs and a porch swing, plus sixty feet of rail wide enough to set a drink on if you have to stand up because all the seats are full.  I built it this way so I could set out here with my friends or family whenever I wanted.  The porch deck is unfinished, as are a lot of things at my house, because I ran out of money and energy before it all got done, but the house is solid and strong and safe and comfortable to live in.

     I wired the porch for sound when I built it—we didn’t have all the new-fangled wireless speakers back then—I put four stereo speakers up in the rafters so the music filters down in the background and you can hear it but it doesn’t interfere with any conversation going on.  When I’m out here by myself, in the dark of early morning or the shank of the evening, I sometimes crank up the volume and immerse myself in music.  Depending upon my mood, it might be Asleep at the Wheel playing Bob Wills, or Simone Dinnerstein playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations.  Usually it is both, with Norah Jones, Hank Thompson, and Dakota Staton thrown in, all magically mixed by a machine back in the mechanical room.

     My front porch faces east, and the neighbors are far enough away so they can’t hear my music.  At sunrise, I have to go back in the house because the sun is usually so bright it hurts my eyes, but in the evening the sun sets behind the house and lights the distant hills with spectacular color. The view across the valley always includes the limitless sky and is fresh and new every time I look.  I can see Bandera Pass in the far distance and tell stories about Texas Ranger Cap’n Jack Hays, all the while watching the magnificent panorama that plays out in the sky here everyday at dusk.

Company must be coming--all six flags are out!

 

     I have six columns on my front porch, one for each flag that flew over Texas.  When I was running out of money, I had to decide whether or not to finish the porch deck and handrail, or buy the mounting hardware, swivel poles, brackets, and flags.   I bought the flags and I fly them on  holidays and anytime out-of-town visitors come to see us.  I’m glad I chose the flags.  They add history and color and personality to the house and the temporary deck and handrails work just fine.

     Among the trees in front of the porch, I planted three arrows my friend R.G. Box made for me.  They are thirty feet tall and sticking into the ground at an angle, as if a great big Indian shot them at the house from the hill across the valley.  If that Indian had four arrows, I'd be in deep trouble.  Box also made me a sign that says, “Watch out for great big Indians.”

  I don't believe there is an ordinance against arrows in our little town.  Just to be safe, I didn't ask.

 

     My front porch is the best place ever to enjoy a thunderstorm.  Most of the weather here comes from the north or west, and the house shields the porch from those directions.  I can sit there during a raging storm, hear the rain or hail beating on the tin roof, and experience the violent side of nature without getting the least bit wet.

     When friends or family come over and the weather is nice, we just naturally gravitate to the front porch.  We talk and drink beer, wine, tea, or something stronger—I don’t discriminate—I’ll drink anything my guests bring.  We talk and laugh and just enjoy each other.  Sometimes it’s after supper with the immediate family and we listen to the grandkids’ adventures at school.  Sometimes it’s extended family from out of town and we catch up on each other’s lives, triumphs, and disappointments.  Sometimes it’s an old friend and in the words of Wayne Ratisseau, "we sip some mash and talk some trash." 

     I sometimes feel we have too few young friends, but that is not really true.  We have a number of friends in their thirties or forties that we have known since they were babies and we have vicariously enjoyed their lives and consider their children our own.  We are complimented that these young people take the time to drop by when they’re in town, and we hurry out to set on the front porch with them whenever they visit.

The storm passed over and headed toward Bandera.

     Any of these uses justifies the time and effort I spent designing and building my front porch, but, as an added benefit, I get to set out there all by myself and hatch ideas like a mother hen.  I can turn a story over and over in my mind, before I write a word.  I can think about that silly yankee who got so angry at me in the HEB, or the pretentious young doctor trying to expand his practice, or the time I misplaced my pickup.  I can dream of big arrows and great big Indians.  I can remember my life, the mistakes I made and the things I did right.  I can wonder what ever happened to that special girl in high school, and I can imagine my life had I made different choices.

     I can swell with pride as I remember accomplishments, or shed warm tears as I remember disappointments.  No one will know except me, alone, here on my front porch.

       This front porch is my place.  I dreamed it.  I built it.

The Road to Texas--The Natchez Trace

The Modern Natchez Trace parkway as it appears on a warm day in October.

     In the 1820’s and 30’s, when hundreds of American families were migrating to Texas to take advantage of the liberal colonization policies offered by Mexico, there were few roads in that direction.  Dense forests, sparse population, swamps, and hostile Indians surrounded Texas and made it very difficult to simply go there. 

     Nashville, Tennessee, was accessible and from there, the Natchez Trace offered a convenient, relatively safe wagon route to Natchez on the Mississippi River.  Once in Natchez, the travelers could choose to float down the Mississippi to New Orleans, and then take a ship to Galveston, Velasco, or Indianola, ports on the Texas Coast.  A slower, but less expensive choice from Natchez was to go cross-country to Natchitoches, Louisiana, then overland and enter Texas at the sister city of Nacogdoches.  Both these routes grew popular and well travelled, and early Texans knew them well.

     I cannot remember when I became aware of the Natchez Trace, but I first saw one end of it in 1973 at the Belle Meade Plantation on West End Boulevard in Nashville.  I knew it had been a main route for immigrants from the Ohio River Valley.  They hung out the “Gone to Texas” signs and headed west to pledge allegiance to Mexico, join the Catholic Church, and claim their near-free homestead land.   I didn’t know the Trace (as some trails were called in those days) started in Nashville.    

     James Michener wrote about a twelve-year-old boy walking to Texas from Baltimore on the Natchez Trace, so I believed for many years the Trace started in Baltimore.  I should have paid more attention.  In 1801, Thomas Jefferson, perhaps anticipating the Louisiana Purchase, sent the U.S. Army to clear a mail route from Nashville to the Mississippi River.   Jefferson wanted a reliable road to the “southwest.”  The army simply widened, marked, and improved ancient Indian trails that led to Natchez, Mississippi.  By 1809, the entire route was wide enough to accommodate wagon traffic in either direction.

      The Trace starts in Nashville, Tennessee, clips off the northwest corner of Alabama, heads diagonally across Mississippi and terminates in Natchez, a distance of just under 450 miles.  It follows the high ground in the forest between the rivers on a ridgeline trail that was used by Native Americans for hundreds of years.

A map of the original Natchez Trace.  The current Parkway skirts the cities.

     “Kaintucks,” the name given a rough, semi-civilized group of backwoods farmers in Kentucky and Ohio, used the Trace to get back home after delivering their crops and livestock to market in Mississippi.  These enterprising men built river barges, loaded their stock and produce, and floated down-river to willing buyers waiting in Natchez.  Because the barges would not float upstream, the Kaintucks either sold or traded them for wagons.  The more industrious dismantled the barges and sold the lumber.

      The Kaintucks, flush with cash, made their way back home overland on the Natchez Trace.  By 1810, over 10,000 Kaintucks made this journey, along with hundreds of pilgrims heading west.   Dozens of inns and hostels (called “stands”) sprang up along the Trace.  Highwaymen, thieves and cutthroats camped in the adjacent woods and preyed on weak or unwary travelers.

     Merchants, plantation owners, and genteel society members of Natchez built mansions on the hills above the river, but the docks and warehouses were located in what was known as “Natchez Under the Hill.”  In this wicked underbelly of the city, a hotbed of saloons, dance halls, whorehouses, and gambling dens competed for the opportunity to fleece the unsophisticated farmers carrying in their moneybelts the proceeds from a year’s work.  Then, as now, these “victimless” crimes were mostly ignored and lawless activity flourished “under the hill.”

     The Natchez Trace enjoyed a colorful, but relatively brief, existence.  In 1820, then-General Andrew Jackson completed the Jackson Military Road from Nashville to New Orleans.  The new road was east of the Trace, through the Alabama swamps and about two hundred miles shorter than going by way of Natchez.  West of the Trace, steam-powered riverboats began to ply the Mississippi and Memphis became the center of commerce upriver from New Orleans.  Traffic began to fade on the Trace.  The Kaintucks preferred the river route home, and, after the 1830s, most colonists headed west by different routes.

     The Trace is memorialized by a paved, two-lane road that parallels the original trail and is called the Natchez Trace Parkway.   Established by the National Park Service in 1938, construction on the Parkway was completed in 2005.  The speed limit is fifty miles per hour, commercial vehicles or trucks are not allowed, and frequent rests stops and historical markers abound.  Gas stations, convenience stores, and commercial activity, including signs, are banned from the parkway. 

     I first rode the parkway in 1996, on a motorcycle trip with three friends.  We visited the Vicksburg Battleground early one morning, then rode east and picked up the Trace about twenty miles west of Jackson.  We rode northeast about 200 miles and dropped off at Tupelo, on our way to barbeque and blues on Beale Street in Memphis.  

      We had travelled across two states and over 600 miles on public highways and freeways, buffeted by windy backwash from eighteen wheelers every mile of the way.  We searched among the billboards on either side of the road for the next exit sign, where we could get gas or take a leak.  We often were forced to ride, white-knuckled, over ninety miles-an-hour just to get past a truck and out of the turbulence the big semis create.  We filled our lungs with diesel and gasoline fumes, dodged unaware drivers as they changed lanes indiscriminately, and concentrated on the road ahead for loose pieces of debris that will wreck a motorcycle.  I can tell you, the joy and freedom of motorcycle touring does not come easy.

     By contrast, with my motorcycle at fifty miles-per-hour on the Natchez Trace Parkway, I could hear the birds singing and I could smell the flowers. Pristine lakes dot the countryside, and thick green forests crowd the roadway.  Lush manicured grass grows next to the pavement and no weed dares raise its ugly head.  Frequent rest areas with picnic tables break up the ride, and spotlessly clean restrooms are strategically placed to ensure comfort.  All points of interest are well-marked with uniform National Park Service signs, each clear, concise, and fresh-painted.  If there is a downside, the route is almost too sanitary.

     In 2008, my wife and I drove the Natchez Trace Parkway, from its inception on West End Boulevard in Nashville to its terminus at the Mississippi River in Natchez.  We stayed in one of the magnificent plantation homes on the hill above the river, and had dinner at a white tablecloth restaurant in a trendy section of town called “Under the Hill.”  Everything about the experience, from the bright-eyed little cutie who served us to the “Kaintuck Strip” sirloin we ate, was entirely pleasant.

     I am not the first in my family to travel the Natchez Trace. In 1828, my great-great grandfather, James McLaughlin, left Nashville and headed for Texas.  I cannot help but wonder, after over a month on the Trace, if he paused to relax “Under the Hill” in Natchez.   If so, could he have been served by our little cutie’s bright-eyed great, great grandmother?

A view of the original Trace, cut through the woods by countless wagon wheels and horse's hooves.

 

The Death of Davy Crockett and Other Reasons to Visit Disneyland



Davy Crockett's final monents as depicted in story and song---dawn on March 6, 1836

 

     Everyone knows that Davy Crockett died in the courtyard of the Alamo, swinging his Kentucky long rifle like a club, surrounded by sixteen dead Mexicans.  That’s basically the story Joe, William B. Travis’ slave, told after he was spared by Santa Anna.  Susannah Dickinson, the teenage mother who was also spared, said she saw Crockett’s body on the floor at the door of the chapel.  Not enough difference to quibble about.  Enter Walt Disney, who un-earthed the story,  identified the market, wrote a catchy ditty, and cornered the market for coon-skin caps.

     In 1837, Ramon Martinez Caro, Santa Anna’s personal secretary during the Texas campaign, published his memoirs which contained an interesting paragraph mentioning Davy Crockett.  According to Caro, after the battle, General Castrillon brought five prisoners to Santa Anna and asked him to spare them, saying he had guaranteed their safety.  One of the prisoners was identified as the famous ex-congressman, David Crockett.  Santa Anna, incensed that his “no quarter” instructions had been ignored, ordered the immediate execution of the entire group, and turned his back.  The five were fallen upon by soldiers and murdered on the spot.

     In June of 1836, a letter reportedly written by William H. Attree, was published in the New York Courier and Enquirer, telling essentially the same story.  The story was picked up and published in several newspapers of the time, among them the Frankfort Commonwealth of Kentucky.  Attree was an eastern reporter of some note, who was visiting Galveston Island in the weeks immediately following the Texas Revolution.  He attributed the story to a Mexican officer being held in a prisoner of war camp there.

      In 1960, a graduate student working on his thesis discovered a letter from one Sergeant George Dolson to his brother, written in July of 1836 and published in a Detroit newspaper in September of that year.  Sergeant Dolson was a Texas army interpreter at Camp Travis, a prisoner of war camp on Galveston Island, and interviewed Mexican prisoners being held there.  He related a story of the death of Crockett, told him by an unnamed Mexican officer who supposedly witnessed the event.   In Dolson’s version, General Castrillon brings six prisoners to Santa Anna, but outside that detail, the stories are identical.

     The eastern reporter and Sergeant Dolson may have interviewed the same Mexican officer, or two different officers may have recounted the same event.   According to all reports, there were dozens of witnesses.  When added to these stories, the account given by twenty-eight year old Jose Enrique De La Pena, written in his diary during the battle for Texas in 1836, makes a compelling case.  Lt. De La Pena tells the same story, except in his version, Castrillon delivers seven prisoners to Santa Anna, not five or six.

     De La Pena came to Texas with Santa Anna’s army and distinguished himself in combat at the Alamo.  He kept a daily journal through the whole Texas Revolution and was truthful, but less than kind, about his military superiors..  He blamed Santa Anna for the debacle at San Jacinto and Filasola for the disastrous retreat across the muddy Gulf Coast.  He accused Sesma and Gaona of everything from avarice to cowardice.   

      De La Pena, fiercely proud of his Mexican heritage, mistrusted foreign generals, mercenaries hired to shore up the leadership of Mexico’s army.  He praised every action of General Urrea, one of the few Mexican generals in the army, and constantly found fault with Filasola, an Italian.  

     His journal may have been published in 1838 or 1839, but, if so, was likely quashed by officials high in the Mexican government.  In 1955, a hundred and seventeen years later, De La Pena’s diary was published in Mexico at the height of the Davy Crockett frenzy created by Walt Disney.  While much of the two-hundred-page document was accepted as fact, the two paragraphs concerning Crockett’s demise were considered questionable.  For this reason, the whole work was brushed aside by many historians.    

      When De La Pena’s journal was translated into English by Carmen Perry in 1975, all hell broke loose among serious students of Texas History.  One side held that Crockett died fighting in the battle and any other tale is akin to blasphemy.  Another group believed that the manner of Crockett’s death was not important, because it was honorable—a nod to Hillary Clinton’s “What difference does it make?” defense.

     The original story, based upon two “eyewitness” accounts, leaves ample room for doubt.  Joe, Travis’s slave, was known to tell whatever story he felt his audience wanted to hear, and he disappeared (ran away) not long after the war.  Susannah Dickinson’s recollections grew more vivid and outlandish as time passed while she sank deeper into alcoholism and debauchery.  

      Doubt was cast on the De La Pena narrative because he was mistaken in his account of the death of Travis.  He told of a handsome, blond Texian officer that he assumed was Travis,  killed while bravely rallying his troops on the south wall.  According to Joe, the dark-haired Travis was killed on the north wall by a random shot to the head in the first moments of the battle.

      The debate over De La Pena’s diary continues to rage. Detractors claim it is a forgery, but cannot say who forged it, or why, or even when it was done.  The high rag content paper used in the document was tested and found to have been made in Lisbon between 1825 and 1832.  Historians agree that this Lisbon paper was used by the army in Mexico in 1836, and De La Pena had access to it.

     Mature, level-headed, intelligent scholars are at odds over what happened to Davy Crockett.  Four different accounts, from at least three different eye-witness sources, tell essentially the same story.  Learned individuals frantically search for details that differ, or accuse long-dead writers of making up bald-faced lies for less than apparent reasons, or claim forgery on hundred-year-old paper.  Carmen Perry was castigated by some of her peers for simply translating De La Pena’s work.  When the paper from the diary was proven genuine, the opposition quickly assumed the position that even if the diary was authentic, there was no reason to believe it was accurate.  Historians want to be precise.  Sometimes.

      De La Pena wrote a rough draft, his diary, with entries faithfully scribbled every day during his sojourn in Texas.  When he returned to Mexico, he revised and expanded his notes and provided conclusions for many of the questions he raised.  His announced intention to publish this work in 1838 was not met with universal enthusiasm.  After spending some time in prison, he was mysteriously murdered one night on a dark street in Mexico City.  Historians think it was 1841, but, to be precise, it might have happened in 1842.

A Lubbock Boy's Carriage ride in New York City

  

A cabriolet similar to the one Charlotte and I rode through Central Park--different horse, different driver, but Springtime in New York.

                                                                                    

     Charlotte and I walked in the warm spring sunshine across Fifth Avenue from the Plaza toward the lone Hansom Cab waiting at the curb on East 59^th Street.  Charlotte had spent the day behind the Red Door at the Elizabeth Arden Salon and looked fantastic in a form-fitting silk dress.  I finished my meeting early so we could ride a horse-drawn carriage through Central Park before we went to dinner.  After her full treatment at the spa—mud bath, massage, make-up, the works—I wanted to show off the knock-out-good-looking mother of my children.

     “Say there, young feller, how much for a ride around Central Park?  We’re tourists up here and want to see ever’ thang we can.  You charge by the mile or by the hour?”  I asked, with my best Texas drawl.  I discovered that Texans were given preferential treatment by most New Yorkers. Either they liked our accents or thought we were all very rich.

     “We charge by time, fifteen dollars for every fifteen minutes or portion thereof, or fifty dollars per hour.  I can get you through the park in thirty minutes,” the twenty-something, clean-cut young man answered with his memorized spiel.  He was a good-looking kid, wearing starched khaki trousers, white oxford-cloth button-down shirt open at the neck, spit-shined cordovan penny loafers and a completely out-of-place old, thick, dark green top hat.

     “Hell son, I didn’t want to buy that horse and wagon, just rent it for a while.  You reckon we could work out a better deal—what if I rented that rig for, say, two hours?” 

      Charlotte flashed a frown at me.  She hated it when I haggled.  It embarrassed her--she thought it degrading.

      The young man was sharp—he saw through my poor-boy act and knew we were going to make a deal.  He grinned.  “Oh, I can’t do that, sir.  It’s a hundred dollars for two hours and the company won’t let me charge any less.  I can do this—I get off at six-thirty, and I usually lose a little time waiting for a fare, so I’ll drive you around the city until then for a hundred bucks.  By the way, my name is Ronnie Fletcher, and the horse is named Dick.  He-he.  Funny name for a horse.”  He stuck out his hand, knowing if I shook it we had a deal.  I laughed and we shook hands.

     “I’m Jim McLaughlin, Ronnie, just call me Mac.   Meet my wife, Charlotte.”  I turned to her.  “Jump in, Sugar.  Ron here is gonna show us the town.  He’s all heart.  Gave us a big discount.”

       Ronnie laughed as I helped Charlotte into the forward-facing seat and climbed in next to her.  He climbed up to the driver’s platform and grinned again as I looked at my watch.  It was four-twenty-two.  The best I could tell, the generous young man was giving us eight free minutes.

     The carriage was technically not a Hansom Cab, but a one horse, four-wheeled cabriolet now common in New York City, painted white too long ago, with a high driver’s seat up high in front and two red vinyl passenger seats facing each other in the lower back section.  The dappled gray horse, Dick, was old, well-groomed, and apparently well-fed, with sleepy, but intelligent, eyes.  He welcomed us by taking a two-gallon leak on the pavement.

    “Are you from Texas?” Ron asked, as he leaned down toward us from his elevated seat.  “I’ll be going to Texas tomorrow.”

     “As a matter of fact, we’re from Houston.  Why you going to Texas, Ronnie?”

     “I have a job down there, with Texas Instruments, in Sugarland.  I graduated from New York University at 11:00 this morning, and start to work in Texas on Monday.  I have to pack the rest of my things tonight after work.  I’m working this one last shift because I need the money.”

     “Hell, this calls for a celebration.  If you can find a liquor store, I’ll buy the Champagne.  It’s not like they can fire you for drinking on the job at this late date.”

     Ronnie clucked at the horse and tugged the reins.  Dick did a u-turn, threading his way back across Fifth Avenue, between the Plaza and Central Park.  When I raised an eyebrow, Ron leaned down and winked.  “The cops don’t bother us much—they think we’re quaint.”  

     Dick didn’t need any help—stopped at the red light and clopped forward when it turned green.   Ronnie leaned down again.  In a conspiratory tone, he said, “I’ve already been celebrating with some friends since graduation.  I know a liquor store right around the corner on Avenue of the Americas.  We’ll stop there.”

     Ole Dick halted the carriage in front of the store and I went inside, bought two bottles of cold Champagne and a package of plastic cups.  I popped the cork on one of the bottles, passed around the cups, poured the bubbly, and we toasted Texas Instruments.

     As we rode through Central Park, Ronnie turned around to face us and let Ole Dick worry about the traffic.  “Ole Dick don’t need my help, unless we’re going somewhere off the beaten path.  I call him Big Dick, he-he.  Funny name for a horse. He knows the city better than I do.  If I don’t watch him, he’ll just naturally head back to the stables.  He’s ready to quit and get to the feed bag any time.”

     We toasted New York University. We toasted Texas. We toasted Sam Houston. We toasted the Tavern on the Green as we passed.  We toasted the Dakota, where John Lennon was shot.  We toasted Yoko Ono.  We stopped and bought more Champagne.  We toasted John Hinckley.  I pointed out that Hinckley shot Reagan, not Lennon, but no one cared.   We toasted Jody Foster.

     It was dark when we passed the Shubert Theater on 44th, and I noticed it was almost seven o’clock.  “You think we ought to head to the house, Ronnie-Boy?  You want to join Charlotte and me for dinner?  We’d love to have you.  We’re going to a little place on 55^th street called L‘escargot.  Charlotte likes to eat snails.”

     “Oh my no, it’s late.  I better get back to the stable.”  Ronnie, slurring his speech, had slowed down considerably from his earlier pace.  He seemed to be in a stupor.  He faced forward now and was not talking much.  We headed toward Fifth Avenue, but traffic was heavy and Ole Dick stopped behind a row of cars waiting to turn left.

     As we waited, I said something to Charlotte and looked up in time to see Ronnie keel over sideways and fall off the high seat down into the street.  His green top hat crumpled under his head as it hit the pavement.  He sprawled there, in the middle of the street, out cold.

     I jumped out of the carriage and knelt beside Ronnie.  A burley fellow in a leather jacket and a yellow cab hat appeared and squatted next to us.  With a Flatbush accent straight from the movies, he said, “Did youse see dat sumbitch?  He did a high dive from way up dere.  Youse see dat sumbitch?  Is he all rite?  Damn. Youse tink he had a heart attack or sumthin?” 

    “Naw, he didn’t have a heart attack.  He’s just drunk.  I don’t think he broke anything.”  I checked Ronnie’s limbs as I spoke.  The hat protected his head when he landed, and so far as I could tell, he didn’t have a scratch.

     “Dat ‘splains it.  If he’d a been sober, he’d a broke his damn fool neck.  Drunks are just natchally loose.  Damn. Did youse see dat sumbitch?  Did a timber job from way up dere.”    

     I shook Ronnie and he opened his eyes, blinked momentarily, and shut them.  “Come on Ron, let us help you up—are you ok?  Break anything?”

    The Brooklyn cabbie helped me get Ronnie to his feet and guide him to the carriage.  Ron stumbled into the vinyl seat, next to the empty champagne bottles, and slumped down.  His eyes opened and he looked up with a crooked grin.  “I think I ought to get at least a 9.7 for that dive,” he said and closed his eyes.  Ronnie was fine.

     Charlotte was not in her seat.  After a moment of panic, I saw her, standing prettily next to Ole Dick, holding the bridle.  She took care of the horse while we attended Ronnie.

     “How youse gonna get dat horse back home?  What’s gonna happen to dat guy?  Youse tink he’s gonna be ok?”  The cabbie, a gruff New Yorker, was sympathetic and  genuinely concerned.  Except for the accent, he could have been from West Texas.

     “Ever thangs gonna be fine.  I’ll drive the horse back to the hotel and Charlotte will take care of Ronnie.  Thanks for the help.  You reckon you ought to shut the door on your cab before someone knocks it off?”

      The cabbie suddenly realized his cab was idling with the front door wide open in the middle of 44^th street.  I climbed up to the driver’s platform and Charlotte eased into the seat next to Ronnie.  When she settled, I popped the reins and Dick started toward the Plaza.

     Ole Dick eased up to the curb on 59^th street, almost exactly where he’d answered nature’s call earlier.  I shook Ronnie as Charlotte stepped out of the carriage.  Ronnie was snoring and not about to wake up.  I folded two hundred dollar bills around one of my business cards and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.  “You ok, Ron?  I put some money in your pocket—you ok?”

     Ronnie stirred, patted his shirt pocket, returned to the fetal position and resumed snoring.  I slapped Ole Dick, he-he, on the butt and he clomped off toward the wagon yard.

    Charlotte and I walked the four blocks to L‘escargot and enjoyed icy cold Plymouth Gin Martinis and escargot sizzling in garlic butter, then a hunk of tenderloin smothered in Marchand de Vin sauce.  I just love New York.

View of Centrak Park looking north over the buildings from about 55th Street