Part Three of a Series--Buffalo Hump and the Great Linnville Raid.

Plum Creek Comanche Spoilers by Howard Terpning shows warriors after the Linnville raid.

 

 

      Considering the year—1840—and the Puritan ethics of America and Texas at that time, it is not a mystery that Pochanaquarhip, which means “an erection that won’t go down,” was mis-translated by the press.  After all, many women could read, and some of them would surely read about that Comanche’s peculiar condition.  In the eyes of the men who reported the news, it was better that some things not be shared with women-folk, especially vulgar stories about an Indian chief.  So far as anyone knew, no white man suffered from such an affliction, and how it would be looked upon among the female population was a cause for concern.  What if women liked the idea?  A savage, walking around with a petrified member, was just better not talked about in mixed company.  

     The media, not much changed in almost 180 years, decided to protect the public.  They chose to ignore the facts, ignore the Comanche language, and ignore the perpetual woody.  For noble reasons based upon protection of its readers, the press called the chief “Buffalo Hump.”

     Buffalo Hump was described by a German scientist, Ferdinand Roemer, in 1847 as follows:  “The pure unadulterated picture of a North American Indian, who, unlike the rest of his tribe, scorned every form of European dress.  His body naked, a buffalo robe around his loins, brass rings on his arms, a string of beads around his neck, and with his long, coarse black hair hanging down, he sat there with the serious facial expression of a North American Indian which seems to be apathetic to the European.  He attracted our special attention because he had distinguished himself through great daring and bravery in expeditions against the Texas frontier which he had engaged in times past.”

     The description of a Comanche War Chief is likely to be more nearly accurate when it comes from a disinterested third party, such as a European scientist.  It was difficult for a Texan to be objective when describing a cruel and vicious enemy.  Dr. Roemer noted that Buffalo Hump shunned all type of European dress.  This must have included belts and suspenders, which were unnecessary for him.  To protect his loins from exposure, Pochanaquarhip had something to hang that buffalo robe on when he walked around.  As the German scientist inferred, the only thing that hung down was the chief’s coarse black hair and a string of beads around his neck.

     Beginning immediately after the Council House Fight, Buffalo Hump travelled among the Comanche tribes, telling of the murder of their brothers during council under the flag of truce, and asking the tribes to join him in a quest for revenge.  Being well-respected and eloquent, he had no trouble getting volunteers and, by midsummer, was ready to move against the hated Anglos.

     In early August, over 500 mounted warriors, accompanied by at least that many squaws and children, moved out of the Llano Estacado and followed the Guadalupe River Valley from the vicinity of present-day Kerrville into the heart of the Republic of Texas. Pochanaquarhip brought squaws and young people to do the work—a Comanche brave could not be expected to gather firewood, set up camp, or cook meals. 

     The Indians purposely avoided Waterloo (Austin) and San Antonio.  It was foolish to attack cities that had army garrisons and newly formed Texas Ranger Companies for protection.  Buffalo Hump wanted to strike at the soft underbelly of the Republic.  His scouts had been busy for weeks, gathering information and choosing routes.  He eased his warriors around Gonzales and moved toward Victoria.

     Moving over a thousand Indians through 1840 Texas without being discovered was not possible.  A troop of fifteen Rangers struck the trail of the Comanche and followed, but there were too many Indians to attack.  The Rangers stayed close and sent out scouts to warn the citizens and gather help. The warnings didn’t get to Victoria in time.

     On August 6, 1840, the citizens of Victoria were surprised when they looked across Spring Creek and 600 mounted Comanche warriors stared back at them.  The Comanche, having already killed several slaves and farmers working in the nearby fields, charged into town.  Townspeople barricaded themselves inside their homes and fired at the Indians from upstairs windows.  Buffalo Hump’s braves bolted back and forth in the streets, setting fires and killing anyone they caught outside.  Never willing to attack a fortified position, the Comanche soon tired of the sport and withdrew, taking 1,500 horses with them.

     After noon on August 7, the Comanche gathered their spoils and headed toward Linnville, at that time the second largest port in Texas.  They contented themselves by killing a few isolated farm workers and some freight haulers, then spent the night camped on what is now called Placedo Creek, about twelve miles from Linnville. Early on August 8, they went into town.

     Buffalo Hump’s scouts had done a good job.  The town of Linnville was the main port where goods from New Orleans and points east were off-loaded to be freighted overland to San Antonio.  At the time of the raid, over $300,000.00 worth of merchandise, bound for markets in San Antonio and Austin, was stored in the warehouses of Linnville.  The people of Linnville heard that the Indians were coming, but refused to believe it.  Even when Comanche appeared on the outskirts of town, they were thought to be Mexican horse traders.

     Comanche surrounded the town and began to kill people and plunder warehouses.  The local citizens fled to the sea, and stayed out of range on small boats while they watched their homes burn.  Indians raided the storage buildings, delighted with their discoveries.  Squaws and children squealed with pleasure as they gathered goods and tied them on pack mules.  A storehouse of dry goods bound for a San Antonio merchant was discovered and emptied, along with a safe full of silver bullion.  Braves in top hats, carrying parasols, smoking cigars and drinking whiskey, laughed and played like school boys as they rode up and down the streets dragging feather mattresses and bolts of brightly colored cloth behind their ponies.

     All the pack mules in town were loaded with merchandise, all the horses and mules were gathered into one herd, and all other livestock was penned and slaughtered.  When the braves emptied a warehouse, they torched it.  The residents of Linnville watched impotently as their city was systematically sacked and burned. 

     When the Indians crossed the bayou to camp for the night, nothing of value remained.  Fields around town appeared to be covered with new fallen snow, but it was white feathers from mattresses found in the warehouses, slit open, and dragged for sport. Townspeople returned to shore after the Indians left.  During the next few months, the weary citizens relocated to Port Lavaca, three-and-a-half miles south, and Linnville ceased to exist.

     Buffalo Hump and his braves moved out, slowed by 3,000 horses and dozens of unmanageable pack mules loaded with plunder. Texas Rangers gathered, followed, and waited for an opportunity to attack. 

To be continued…..

Part Two of a Series--Hugh McLeod, Pochanaquarhip, and Matilda Lockhart

 

The Council House is behind the wall, to the left of the church.  The San Antonio City Hall occupies this space today.

 In March of 1840, President Mirabeau Lamar sent his new Inspector General of the Texas Army, twenty-six-year-old Lt. Col. Hugh McLeod, to San Antonio.  McLeod was part of a three-man team sent to negotiate the terms of a peace treaty and the return of hostages with the Comanche Nation.  Lamar knew McLeod was not the shiniest penny in the bank, but felt the impatient young colonel was bright enough to make a reasonable deal with a bunch of hungry Indians.  He also knew that if the talks stalled, the impetuous McLeod was likely to fight, which was not, in Lamar’s opinion, all bad.

     On the morning of March 19, 1840, sixty-five Comanche, including twelve chiefs, arrived dressed in their finest ceremonial regalia.  The chiefs were accompanied for this festive occasion by their squaws and children.  The meeting was held in the council house adjacent to the jail where present-day Market Street and Delarosa meet the Main Plaza in downtown San Antonio.  The twelve chiefs sat on the floor, as was their custom, and the Texans sat in chairs on an elevated platform facing and looking down on the Indians, a not surprising white man tactic.  The other Comanche, mostly women and children, remained outside, in back of the building.  Two companies of Texas infantry assembled in front of the building to provide “security.”

     The Comanche brought only one white hostage, sixteen-year-old Matilda Lockhart, and several Mexican children of little interest to the Texans.  Miss Lockhart informed the group that she had seen fifteen captives in the main Indian camp, and she believed the Indians would bring them in, one at a time, after the ransom for her was paid.  From her observations, she thought the Indians wanted to establish a high value for the hostages before they released any of them.

     When asked about hostages, Chief Muguara, spokesman for the Comanche, said that he was sure they would all be released, but only after a large ransom was paid for each.  When he finished, he asked, “How do you like that answer?”

     Whether Muguara was being sarcastic or was seriously seeking an opinion, the Texans did not like that answer.  They were furious.  The Comanche had reneged on their promise to free the captives.  Lamar, always expecting treachery from the Indians, had prepared for such an eventuality.  If the Indians failed to produce the captives, the negotiating team had been instructed to imprison the chiefs and hold them to trade for the hostages.  The interpreter was instructed to inform the chiefs that they were under arrest.

     Outside, one of the rifle companies moved around the building to watch the Comanche at the back of the structure.  The other group crowded around the open doors and windows of the council house, to hear the exchanges as they grew more heated.  The glare of the bright sunshine made it difficult to see into the dark interior of the building.

     The translator refused to tell the Indians they were under arrest, knowing there would be a violent reaction.  Lt. Col. Fisher, head of the Texas council team, ordered him to translate the message.  The nervous interpreter edged toward the door, delivered the message, and lunged outside as the Comanche leapt to their feet, slashing with razor-sharp knives at everyone within reach, and pushing for the door.  One of the officers may have given the order, it may have been pre-arranged, or the soldiers may have acted spontaneously, but in any case, the riflemen at the doors and windows fired point blank into the building, hoping to hit Indians.

     The braves, squaws and children outside, hearing the commotion, began to shoot arrows at everyone on the street, while the Texan soldiers began to fire at the Indians.  According to the soldiers, they aimed for the braves and did not shoot at women and children.

     The “battle” lasted only a few minutes.   Lt. Col. McLeod’s official report, issued the next day, accounted for the sixty-five Indians as follows: Thirty-five dead—thirty adult males, including all twelve of the chiefs, three women and two children.  Twenty-seven women and children and two old men were captured and held at Mission San Jose.  One renegade Mexican who came in with the Comanche, slipped away in the confusion.

      The Texans lost seven dead and ten wounded.  Of the seventeen Texas casualties, perhaps a few were actually harmed by Indians.  Most were killed or wounded by friendly fire.

     The Texans, once again demonstrating their ignorance of the Comanche, decided to release one of the women hostages, give her a good horse and provisions, and send her to the Llano Estacado with an ultimatum for the tribe.  The Texans would release the remaining women and children and two old men when the Comanche brought in the fifteen hostages Matilda Lockhart had seen.  A two-week truce would be allowed to give the tribes time to deliver the hostages.

     The Comanche were mourning the loss of the twelve chiefs and other members of their tribe when the squaw delivered the message from the Texans.  Immediately, they began to torture the remaining captives in some of the cruelest, slowest, and most painful methods ever devised.  Matilda Lockhart’s six-year-old sister was reportedly roasted alive over an open fire.  All the hostages were dead within a short time.  Of the original fifteen, three hostages had been adopted by Comanche families and were not harmed as they were considered members of the tribe.  The Comanche made no distinction between native-born and adopted members of the tribe—all were considered Comanche and treated equally.

     Hugh McLeod and Lt. Col. Fisher made their way back to the primitive new capital at Austin to report to President Lamar.  The citizens of San Antonio worried about Comanche retaliation, but within a few weeks, things returned to normal.

     In most descriptions of this event, Matilda Lockhart, who had spent eighteen months in captivity, is said to have been horribly disfigured from abuse by her captors.  Her slender young body was scarred from months of torture with hot coals, rawhide whips, and knives.  Beatings with heavy clubs left evidence of broken bones.  Supposedly, her nose was entirely gone, burned off with hot coals, which left a grotesque hole in the center of her face.  Her appearance reportedly so enraged the Texans that they could not help but take revenge on the twelve chiefs.

     Matilda is mentioned in Lt. Col. McLeod’s report of the incident, written the day after the battle.  McLeod acknowledged her obvious intelligence, but said nothing about any sign of abuse.  It was common knowledge that she had been repeatedly raped, as were all female captives, but no contemporary report says anything about scars, burns, or other evidence of torture.  The newspaper reporters described everything about the “battle” in great detail, but no mention was made of a sixteen-year-old girl with a missing nose. Matilda’s sister-in-law, in a letter to her mother, reported on Matilda’s condition, but mentioned no disfigurement.

     The first mention of abuse occurred more than fifty years later.  In 1890, Mary Maverick wrote that Matilda had been abused, was terribly scarred, and her nose was badly burned.  Texas writers and the press quickly jumped on the story and expanded it.  At the time, Texas’ image was suffering at the hands of the Victorian press, both on the East Coast and abroad.  A tortured, abused, and disfigured sixteen-year-old girl may have helped give the Texans an excuse for their brutal treatment of the Comanche.

     Out on the Llano Estacado, Chief Pochanaquarhip, known to the Anglos as Buffalo Hump, was planning reprisal.  The sacred council laws had been violated.  The hated whites had murdered chiefs under a flag of truce.  Pochanaquarhip was arroused.   He was not one to go soft when faced with adversity.  He quietly planned and gathered braves, supplies, and horses for his revenge.  The Texans were well advised to worry—Pochanaquarhip in the Penataka dialect means “ an erection that won’t go down.”  Buffalo Hump was destined to become a legend in his own time.

     Stay tuned…..We're gonna have some fun with this....

Number One of a series on three great Texans---Hugh McLeod, Mirabeau B. Lamar and Chief Pochanaquarhip, better known as Buffalo Hump.

Depiction by Donald M. Yena ot the Battle of the Neches, where Chief Bowl was killed.

     Hugh McLeod led a charmed life.  He grew up in Georgia and graduated from West Point at age twenty-one in 1835.  He struggled a bit academically, but he was a polished public speaker, amiable, jolly, and well-liked, and no one mentioned that he was last in his class at the Military Academy.  After the red-headed and freckled McLeod delivered a fiery and persuasive speech at a Texas rally, Johanna Troutman chose him to carry her Lone Star flag to Texas with the Georgia volunteers.

     Because he was so enamored with the Texas cause and the outlook for a career in the U.S. Army appeared bleak, the stocky young officer decided to resign his commission as a second lieutenant and cast his lot with the Georgia boys going to Texas.  His resignation paperwork was delayed, so he entrusted the Troutman flag to Col. William Wood, and reported to Fort Jessup, Louisiana, for mustering out.  That paperwork snafu saved his life.  The entire Georgia battalion, including Col. Wood, was marched out and shot at Goliad, after surrendering with another Georgia boy, the former slave trader and inept commander, Col. James Fannin.

     Following his release from the U. S. Army, McLeod hurried to join Houston’s forces at San Jacinto, but arrived after the battle and proceeded to Galveston.   There he joined his boyhood idol, Mirabeau Lamar, and the interim governor of Texas, David Burnet.  Lamar, Secretary of War in the temporary government, found a place in the Texas army for young McLeod.  Eight days after the Battle of San Jacinto, the twenty-two year-old second lieutenant, whose only military experience involved almost flunking out at West Point and serving about six months in a peacetime army, was appointed a major and assigned to the command staff of the Texas Army.

     McLeod looked on Lamar with blind hero worship, and Lamar, flattered, looked out for the young man.  When Lamar became president of the Republic in December of 1838, the twenty-four year-old McLeod was Adjutant General of the Texas Army.  Lamar’s attitude toward Native Americans was diametrically opposed to that of Sam Houston, and the new president immediately set about to remove all Indians from the republic.  McLeod helped evict the peaceful Caddos and Kickapoos, and Lamar sent him to meet with the Cherokees in 1839. 

     Lamar decided to reclaim the land Houston had promised to deed the Cherokees for their help in the Texas Revolution.  In July of 1839, he sent McLeod and others to council with the Indians, who were peacefully farming their land in east Texas, north of Nacogdoches.  The interested “others” included Lamar’s vice president, David Burnet.  That same land had been ceded to him by a Mexican Land Grant, he sold it to an eastern syndicate, Houston gave it to the Cherokees, and Burnet saw an opportunity to get it back.  

Cherokee Chief "The Bowl"--Houston's friend.   After The Bowl was killed, Hugh McLeod presented Sam Houston with the old chief's distintive hat as a form of ridicule--Houston was considered an "Indian Lover."

 

     After three days of peaceful talks, the Texans lost patience and attacked.  The two-day Battle of the Neches resulted in the death of Houston’s old friend, Chief “Bowl.”  Hugh McLeod was slightly wounded in the battle and the Cherokee were driven across the Red River into what was then Arkansas Territory.

     President Lamar, pleased that the “Cherokee Problem” was resolved, turned his attention to the “Comanche Problem,” a much more complicated and dangerous situation.  Raiding parties of Comanche swooped in from the Llano Estacado, tortured, raped, and killed settlers, kidnapped children, burned settlements, and stole horses with impunity.  After the raids, the Comanche disappeared back into the trackless high plains, where no white man would go.

     An opportunity to resolve the problem presented itself in January of 1840, when a band of  Comanche sent delegates to San Antonio to try and arrange peace with the whites.  After long years of war, an especially hard winter, and a deadly epidemic of smallpox, this small group felt that peace might be a better course of action.  They arranged for a council to be held in March.

     The leaders of the Republic of Texas did not understand the Comanche.  The Comanche Nation existed as a group of individual tribes, living, hunting, raiding, moving, and dying on a piecemeal basis, with no central control or government.  The nation was made up of at least twelve distinct tribes, broken into as many as thirty-five separate bands.   Each band chose its own leaders, made its own rules, lived where it wished, and did as it pleased.  They warred with everyone except other Comanche.  Sam Houston may have understood all this, but his advice was not welcome in Lamar’s administration.  Because of their many differences, the two leaders could not stand each other.

      Some eight or ten bands of Comanche were involved in the peace initiative, but dozens of bands refused to hold council with the dishonest Anglos.  Council was a sacred thing to the Comanche and not to be entered into lightly.  Delegates from the starving groups truthfully told the powers in San Antonio that all the prisoners they held would be released, borders would be established and honored, and none of their band would break the truce.  They did not, and could not, speak for the other tribes, but the elated Texans thought this meant the entire Comanche Nation would lay down its arms, release hostages, and go back to peaceful existence out on the high plains, away from settled areas.  The Texans believed President Lamar’s “show no mercy” policy with the Indians was working. 

Mirabeau B. Lamar, the second President of the Republic of Texas and lifelong enemy of Sam Houston.

     Two prominent chiefs of the Comanche, Peta Nocona of the Noconas and Buffalo Hump of the Penatakas, refused to council with the whites and refused to release any hostages. Peta Nocona married a captive, Cynthia Ann Parker.   They may have been married at that time—she would have been fourteen and had been with his tribe for over four years.  Their son, Quanah Parker, born over five years later, became one of the most famous chiefs of the Comanche.  Buffalo Hump was especially vocal in his opposition to the meeting, and predicted dire consequences.  Both these respected chiefs were well acquainted with the treachery of the whites, and felt it was foolhardy to attempt any dealings with them.

     To be continued…..


      (My friend, Jimmy Wallace, asked that I do something about Buffalo Hump.  Jimmy is a serious student of Texas History and a full time resident of San Antonio, where so much of it happened.  I do not, at this time, know how many episodes this series will be, but all of them are dedicated to Jimmy Wallace.)

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.